Chapter 3 - The Family Dinner AmbushForty-eight hours later, Sunday dinner arrived with the terrifying punctuality of a Swiss clock.
For generations, Sunday dinner at the family estate was an untouchable tradition. This week, it was hosted by Aunt Helen—Marissa’s mother. The dining room table was laden with roasted ham, silver platters, and polite conversation.
Owen sat beside Clara, his leg bouncing nervously under the mahogany table. He had spent the last two days alternating between furious denials, desperate begging, and icy threats about what would happen if she "ruined family harmony." He thought he had managed to contain her. He thought she was still weighing her options.
Marissa sat across the table, wearing a pale yellow sweater, laughing effortlessly as she passed a bowl of potatoes to her uncle.
"Pass the rolls, sweetie," Marissa smiled, looking directly at Clara with eyes so innocent they belonged in a church painting.
Clara didn't pass the rolls. Instead, she set her fork down with a sharp clink that silenced the immediate vicinity of the table.
"You look radiant today, Marissa," Clara said, her voice carrying clearly across the quiet room. "Must be all that fresh air running back and forth between your apartment and my husband's downtown office."
The room stopped breathing.
Aunt Helen froze, a serving spoon hovering mid-air. Uncle Richard lowered his napkin slowly.
Marissa’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second before she recovered, laughing defensively. "Clara, what on earth are you talking about? Are you feeling okay?"
"Never better," Clara replied smoothly. She reached into her handbag, pulled out a thick manila envelope, and slid it across the polished wood until it rested directly against Marissa’s water glass. "In that envelope, you'll find three years of hotel receipts, text transcripts, and a very interesting record of the joint checking account Owen set up under a dummy LLC to pay for your rent in the West Village."
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Owen went completely gray. He half-rose from his chair. "Clara, stop this right now—"
"Sit down, Owen," a deep, booming voice commanded from the head of the table. It was Uncle Richard, his face darkening with a rage that commanded absolute silence. "Let your wife finish."
