Chapter 4 - The Arrival on the CliffsBy 7:00 PM, the fog had rolled in thickly over the Malibu coastline, casting a pale, ghostly veil across the sharp cliffs and the modern glass architecture of my estate.
The heavy iron security gates at the end of the private drive swung open automatically as a black Mercedes-Benz Maybach—rented from a local executive fleet—navigated the winding coastal road and pulled up to the grand front entrance.
I stood in the expansive, minimalist foyer, illuminated by a glowing architectural chandelier, wearing a sleek black dress that commanded the space without trying too hard. Behind me stood two private security specialists in quiet, dark suits.
The front door chimed.
I didn't move. I simply gestured toward the door with a flick of my hand.
One of the security guards pulled the massive oak door open.
There stood Constance Hollis.
She looked like a ghost of her former self. Her expensive Chanel coat was rumpled, her hair—usually coiffed to aristocratic perfection—was slightly disheveled by the ocean wind, and her eyes were red-rimmed and hollow. Gone was the smug, untouchable matriarch who had sat in the Beacon Hill townhouse sliding divorce papers across the table.
She took a shaky step across the threshold, her gaze locking onto me standing in the center of the foyer.
For a long, agonizing moment, neither of us spoke. The sound of the waves crashing against the rocks far below filled the heavy silence between us.
Then, slowly, deliberately, Constance did something I never, in a million years, expected to witness.
The proud, unyielding Constance Hollis let out a ragged breath, her knees wobbling beneath her, and sank completely down onto the marble floor, pressing her palms against the stone as if preparing to bow.
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I didn't flinch. I didn't rush forward to help her up. I simply looked down at her with a cool, detached gaze.
“Julia,” Constance choked out, her voice cracking with raw, unfiltered desperation. “Please... I am begging you. Save us.”
