Chapter 4: Cassandra's Offer
She didn't wait long.
By eleven that morning, Cassandra was at the front gate.
I watched her on the security monitor — standing at the intercom in a cream-colored coat, her hair perfect, her expression arranged into something that was meant to look like concern.
I pressed the intercom button.
"We have nothing to discuss, Cassandra."
"Robert, please.
Just five minutes.
I'm not here to fight."
"I know why you're here."
"Then you know I just want to fix this.
For Michael's sake.
For the family."
I almost didn't open it.
But I wanted to hear what she would say.
I wanted to know exactly how she planned to explain away what was on that flash drive.
I buzzed her in.
She came through the front door composed and careful, like someone who had rehearsed the walk from the gate.
She looked around the entryway — at the house she had expected to inherit a piece of — and then she looked at me.
"Where's Ellen?"
"Upstairs.
You'll say what you came to say to me."
She nodded.
Clasped her hands in front of her.
"I owe you an apology," she said.
"What happened at the venue — I was overwhelmed.
The stress of the day, everything that was expected of me — I reacted badly.
I know that."
"You sl*pped my wife."
A small pause.
"I did.
And I'm ashamed of that.
Truly."
"And Michael?"
The pause was longer this time.
"Michael was trying to manage the situation.
It looked worse than it was."
"She was on the floor, Cassandra."
"She lost her balance—"
"He put his hands on her.
I watched it on a screen the size of this wall." I didn't raise my voice.
"Don't tell me what I saw."
Her composure slipped — just slightly.
A tightening around the eyes.
"Robert.
I understand you're angry.
But what you're doing — pulling Michael's access, the car, the office — do you understand what that does to us?
We have a mortgage application in process.
We have obligations.
You can't just—"
"I can.
And I have."
"You're punishing your son over one bad moment—"
"I'm responding to what he did.
There's a difference."
She changed tactics.
Her voice dropped, softened.
"What would it take?
To pause this.
Just pause it, while Michael and I work through things properly.
Counseling, if that's what you want.
A formal apology to Ellen, in writing, whatever she needs." She took one step closer.
"We can fix this, Robert.
But not if you burn everything down first."
I looked at her for a moment.
"You came here to negotiate."
"I came here to save my marriage."
"Your marriage isn't what's in danger."
She blinked.
"What does that mean?"
"It means the footage exists.
It means I have a copy.
It means what Michael did to his mother is documented, and the people I've spoken to this week have all seen it."
The color shifted in her face.
"You showed it to people?"
"My attorney.
My accountant.
The trust administrator." I paused.
"My corporate counsel."
"You had no right—"
"I had every right.
Ellen is my wife.
What happened to her is relevant to every financial arrangement that runs through my name.
Including the ones Michael benefits from."
She stared at me.
Then something changed in her expression.
The softness left entirely.
"You want to destroy him," she said.
"That's what this actually is."
"No.
I want him to understand that what he did had a cost.
He seems to believe it didn't."
"And what about what I want?" Her voice had an edge now.
"What about what I need?
I didn't marry into this family to be cut off because of one argument—"
"You sl*pped a sixty-three-year-old woman and watched your husband throw her against a wall.
Then you went back to your reception." I opened the front door.
"That's not one argument.
That's who you are when you think no one is watching."
She didn't move immediately.
"This isn't over," she said.
"I know."
She walked out.
I closed the door.
Upstairs, I heard Ellen's footsteps cross the bedroom floor.
She had been listening.
I didn't call up to her.
I went to my desk, opened my laptop, and found the email my attorney had sent that morning.
There was an attachment — a preliminary review of Michael's employment contract, the one I had signed on his behalf four years ago.
I read the termination clause twice.
Then my phone rang.
A number I didn't recognize.
I answered.
"Mr.
Whitaker?" A woman's voice.
Calm and professional.
"My name is Patricia Hale.
I'm an attorney.
I've been retained by your son.
I'd like to schedule a time to speak with you directly."
May you like
Michael had already hired a lawyer.
He'd done it before noon.
