The dinner table at the Sterling estate didn’t seat people; it seated grudges.
"I’m not here for the business," Claire said, her voice steady. "I’m here for the truth. I found Mom’s letters, Dad. The ones from 1994. The ones addressed to Julian." Incest Story
Arthur’s knife scraped against the china—a sharp, violent sound. He finally looked up, his eyes like flint. "Julian was a ghost, Claire. And ghosts don't have a seat at this table." The dinner table at the Sterling estate didn’t
The air in the room curdled. Claire looked at her brother, seeing the trap he was inadvertently setting. She hadn't come home for the company. She had come home because their mother’s private journals, found in a dusty attic in Paris, suggested that Arthur wasn’t the self-made titan he claimed to be—and that Elias might not be his biological son. I found Mom’s letters, Dad
Elias looked between them, the world he had spent thirty years trying to fit into suddenly feeling like a house of cards. He realized then that his father’s coldness wasn't just discipline; it was distance—the distance of a man who looked at his son and saw a rival’s face. "Is it true?" Elias whispered.