The Call They Laughed At
Isabella closed the folder, breathing through the burn in her throat.
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll sign. But first I need to make a call.”
Martha laughed, sharp and delighted. “To who? Your daddy so he can pick you up in a rusted pickup? Tell him to park on the street—I don’t want oil stains on my driveway.”
Isabella didn’t answer. She dialed. Two rings.
“Dad,” she said softly. “It’s time. They’re doing it right now.”
She hung up and looked at them, calm as ice.
“He says he’s already here.”
They smirked—because in their world, “already here” meant a broken truck and a man in stained work boots.
Then the sound hit the front gates.
Not a cough of an old engine.
A deep, expensive roar—V12—followed by two escort vehicles braking in perfect sync.
Arthur straightened, offended by the noise alone. “What the hell is that?”
The butler rushed in, pale. “Sir… there’s private security at the entrance. And a gentleman who insists on coming in.”
“Throw the riffraff out,” Martha snapped.
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