“Son—”
“But she was never a Prescott.”
Marcus’s voice broke.
“She was just some kid you agreed to raise for a land deal, and you made me hate her for it.”
“I didn’t make you—”
“You did.”
Marcus’ composure finally shattered.
“Every time I mocked her, you laughed. Every time I excluded her, you approved. I thought I was being a good son, but I was just—I was just a weapon.”
Clarissa was crying now, mascara streaming down her carefully contoured cheeks.
“Mom.”
She turned to Helena.
“Did you know about this?”
Helena’s silence was answer enough.
“You told me Sabrina was jealous of us, that she hated me because I had what she wanted. But she never wanted anything except—”
Clarissa’s voice broke.
“Except to be part of the family.”
“Clarissa, darling, it’s more complicated than—”
“No, it’s not.”
Clarissa pulled away from Helena’s outstretched hand.
“It’s really not complicated at all. You’re horrible people, and you raised me to be horrible, too.”
She grabbed her purse and headed for the door.
“Where are you going?”
Helena called after her.
“To find my sister.”
The door slammed behind her, leaving a silence so complete you could hear the ice melting in the abandoned champagne glasses.
But Margaret wasn’t finished. I learned later that she’d been waiting decades for this moment—not out of malice, but out of a guilt that had never quite faded. She’d known Eleanor, loved her like a sister, and she’d watched helpless as Victor slowly crushed the light out of her.
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