Fulton paced the room. His hands were shaking.
"You are ungrateful. We raised you!"
"You isolated me and sold me," Blake corrected.
"The IRS offers fifteen percent to whistleblowers," she added casually.
"Do the math, Connie. That's more than the trust fund."
Connie grabbed Fulton's arm. Her nails dug into his suit jacket.
"Give it to her," she whispered loudly. "We can't afford an audit right now."
Fulton glared at Blake with pure hatred.
"Fine. But you are cut off from the family."
"Disowned. No inheritance. No name," Fulton spit.
"Draft the transfer," Blake commanded.
Fulton called his private banker on speakerphone. His voice trembled with suppressed rage.
Blake dictated the account number. A generic secure account she had set up in her mind years ago.
She watched the confirmation on Fulton's iPad.
Ten million dollars transferred out of the family pool.
"It's done. Now get out," Fulton said.
"Not yet. I need the patent deeds," Blake said.
"Mother's inventions. The biometric sensors."
"Those belong to Foley Corp!" Fulton argued.
"They belong to the creator. Give me the physical deeds."
Fulton walked to the wall safe behind a painting of a hunt. He punched in the code.
He threw a leather folder at her. It slid across the table.
Blake caught it. She checked the contents. The schematics were there.
"Pleasure doing business," she smirked.
"You are dead to us," Connie said.
"I was dead the moment you married him," Blake replied.
A notification pinged on Blake's phone-the one she had recovered from Lee.
The money had cleared.
She stood up, clutching the folder.
"One last thing," she said, stopping at the door.
"Tell Carissa I said 'Happy Honeymoon'."
