Chapter 4 - The Emergency Meeting
The phone rang at 6:45 the next morning. It was a sharp, demanding sound that pierced the quiet of our bedroom. Wesley answered it on the first ring. He didn't say hello. He just listened.
"We'll be there," Wesley said, his voice completely flat. He hung up and looked at me. "My father," he said. "He wants us at the estate. Ten a.m. sharp." "Did he say anything else?" I asked, pulling the blanket up around my shoulders. "No. Just that he's calling an emergency family meeting."
By 9:45 a.m., we were pulling through the wrought-iron gates of the Pembroke estate. The weather had turned gray and overcast overnight. The bright, cheerful atmosphere from yesterday was entirely gone. The enormous stone mansion loomed at the end of the driveway like a fortress.
When we stepped inside, the silence was deafening. There were no caterers. There were no guests. There was only the heavy, oppressive weight of impending doom.
The butler, Harrison, met us in the foyer. He didn't smile, but he gave me a brief, respectful nod. "Mr. Pembroke is waiting in the main study," Harrison murmured. "Mrs. Pembroke and your siblings are already there."
Wesley held my hand. His grip was strong and reassuring. I had June strapped to my chest in the baby carrier again. I wasn't going to leave her with a sitter. If Arthur Pembroke wanted to discuss what happened to my daughter, my daughter was going to be in the room.
We walked down the long, mahogany-paneled hallway. The door to the study was slightly ajar. We pushed it open.
The room was vast, lined with thousands of leather-bound books. A massive fireplace crackled at one end. In the center of the room, sitting perfectly upright on a velvet sofa, was Margaret. She looked flawless, as always. A sharp navy suit. Perfect hair. Her other two children, Wesley's older brother and sister, sat nearby, looking nervous and confused.
Margaret saw us enter. A smug, victorious smile spread across her face. She clearly thought she had won. She thought Wesley had come to apologize for my "dramatic" exit yesterday. She thought Arthur had called this meeting to reprimand us for insulting her.
"Well," Margaret sighed dramatically. "I suppose you've come to apologize. Honestly, Wesley, allowing your wife to cause such a scene at a family gathering..."
"Quiet," a voice boomed from the corner of the room. Arthur Pembroke stepped out from the shadows near the window. He was a tall, imposing man in his late sixties, dressed in a tailored gray suit. His face was carved from granite. His eyes, usually calm and calculating, were burning with a quiet, terrifying rage.
He didn't look at Wesley. He didn't look at me. His gaze was locked entirely on his wife.
Margaret's smile faltered. "Arthur, darling, what is this about?" she asked, her voice dropping a fraction of an octave. "Why on earth did you call the children here this early?"
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Arthur picked up a small remote control from his mahogany desk. He pointed it at the large flat-screen television mounted above the fireplace. "I called them here," Arthur said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, "so they could witness exactly who their mother is."
He pressed a button. The television screen flickered to life.
