TWENTY-EIGHT HUNDRED DOLLARS: The Price of Standing Her Ground

The single word cut through the ambient chatter, hollowing out the room.

Eleanor blinked slowly, as if she had heard a strange, unfamiliar noise. "I beg your pardon?"

"My condo is not being transferred to you," I said, holding her gaze. "You will not move into it. You will not receive access to it. And I will not pay you twenty-eight hundred dollars every month."

The artificial warmth instantly vanished from Eleanor's face. "You would deny an older woman a safe place to live?"

"You own three homes, Eleanor," I replied flatly. "Two in Napa and a beach house in Monterey."

A few relatives shifted uncomfortably in their high-backed chairs. Eleanor’s jaw tightened into a rigid line.

Charles leaned forward, his heavy hands resting on the edge of the table. "This family has supported you since the day Adrian brought you into it, Claire."

"No," I replied, my voice chillingly calm. "This family has tolerated me because you assumed my income and my assets would eventually become yours."

BANG!

Adrian slammed his open palm against the table. The silverware jumped. Wine trembled violently inside the glasses.

"How dare you speak to my parents that way?" he spat, his face flushing crimson.

I turned my head toward him. "They just divided up my property in front of me," I said, keeping my tone perfectly controlled. "And you said nothing."

"My mother needs that condo!"

"Then buy her one."

His expression hardened into something ugly and unrecognizable. "You are my wife!"

"I am not your family’s bank account."

The dining room became painfully, suffocatingly still.

Adrian pushed his chair backward. The heavy wooden legs scraped violently against the hardwood floor. "You’re humiliating me in front of everyone!"

I held his furious gaze. "No, Adrian. You’re doing that all by yourself."

Something inside him snapped. The fragile veneer of the polished, high-society gentleman shattered completely. His hand closed tightly around the heavy, custom-imported porcelain dinner plate in front of him.

For one brief second, I saw exactly what he intended to do. His shoulder turned. His fingers tightened. His eyes filled with an animalistic rage.