When I knocked on the wooden front door, Beatrice opened it with a triumphant, smug smile playing on her lips. “I see you finally came to your senses,” she said smoothly, leaning against the doorframe. “The monthly payment is due, so bring the check inside.”
“I am not here to pay you a single cent, Beatrice,” I stated clearly, standing tall on the porch.
Her smug smile thinned instantly into a sharp, bitter scowl. “Then I will pick up my telephone right now and call your three children,” she threatened, stepping closer to the screen door. “I will describe every single detail of how their father built his wealth on my brother’s total destruction.”
“You are welcome to call them if you wish,” I replied neutrally.
“You really think they will still respect his memory after hearing what he did?” she sneered.
“I will not pretend my husband was an innocent man,” I said firmly, meeting her gaze without flinching. “Charles deeply wronged your brother Christopher, he stole the company funds, and he lied to me for nearly forty years.”
Beatrice lifted her chin stubbornly, expecting me to break down under the pressure.
“But you took a legitimate personal tragedy and turned it into an ongoing commercial business,” I continued coldly. “Twenty-seven years of extortion is more than enough. You have collected far more money than Charles ever took from the firm.”
