The silence in the boardroom didn't last long. Estela's face darkened, the wrinkles around her mouth deepening as she pressed her lips together. She lifted her cane and brought it down hard against the hardwood floor.
Thwack.
"Frances," Estela said, her voice low and dangerous. "This is not a joke."
On the screen, Baron leaned forward, his earlier fake concern replaced by a cold irritation. He stopped adjusting his cufflinks. "Darling," he said, the endearment sounding like a threat. "I know you've been through a lot, but don't be childish. Not now."
Frances ignored him. She ignored the pounding of her own heart, the way her stomach twisted into a knot. She turned her chair slightly, looking away from the screen and toward the trustees and lawyers seated around the table.
She spoke clearly, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "According to the prenuptial agreement signed by Mr. Baron Burnett and myself seven years ago, Exhibit B, Article 4, our marriage is, in essence, a business contract formed to merge Salinas Industries and the Burnett Group."
A ripple of shock went through the room. A few of the older trustees shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Some of the junior members exchanged surprised glances. It was an open secret, but one never spoken aloud in polite company.
Frances continued, her gaze sweeping over them. "The agreement states that neither party is obligated to interfere with the other's personal life, and our personal trusts operate independently. There is no factual basis for a marriage between us."
Baron's face on the screen turned a mottled red. This was their private arrangement, the dirty little secret that allowed him to play the devoted husband in public while living his own life in private. And she was laying it bare in front of the entire board.
"Therefore," Frances said, her voice hardening, "I have no legal, nor moral, obligation to adopt any 'distant relative' that Mr. Burnett's charity decides to sponsor."
She put extra emphasis on the words 'distant relative'. She let her gaze linger on Jagger for a fraction of a second.
Jagger flinched. A flash of panic crossed his face before he quickly lowered his head, his shoulders hunching. He looked small, fragile, like a kicked puppy.
"Nonsense!" Estela snapped, slamming her hand on the table. "Jagger is a key beneficiary of the family charity foundation. Adopting him was a joint decision!"
"It was," Frances corrected, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Before I discovered that there is severe fraud in this 'key beneficiary's' background materials."
The room erupted. Gasps and murmurs filled the air. The lawyers started flipping through their folders, looking for answers they didn't have.
Before Estela could shout another denial, Frances turned her head slightly, giving a brief nod to Phoebe, who stood by the door.
Phoebe stepped forward, carrying a stack of manila folders. She moved quickly around the table, placing one in front of every board member.
"I admit," Frances said, waiting until everyone had a file, "the Burnett family needs an heir. However, I do not believe Mr. Jagger is the right candidate."
She paused, letting the silence build. She could feel Baron's glare burning through the screen, but she didn't look at him.
"Therefore," she said, her voice ringing with authority, "I have prepared an alternative candidate."
The board members opened the folders. On the first page was a face they had never seen before. A young man with dark, serious eyes. Under his name, Arvel Galvan, the details were sparse.
Seventeen years old. Public high school student. Top grades. Parents were blue-collar workers. No criminal record. No history of disciplinary issues.
It was plain. Unremarkable. Completely transparent. The exact opposite of the glossy, overly dramatic backstory attached to Jagger's file.
Estela stared at the photo, her hand trembling-not with age, but with rage. "Where did you find this street rat?" she hissed.
"He is a young man who truly needs help, and who knows how to be grateful," Frances replied evenly.
On the screen, Baron exploded. His face twisted, not in rage, but in a mask of deep, theatrical pain. He addressed the room, his voice heavy with sorrow. "Gentlemen, please... forgive my wife. The trauma from her accident... it's clearly affecting her judgment." He then turned his gaze to the camera, his eyes pleading. "Darling," he said, his voice dropping to a low, condescending coo, "we can discuss this privately. Don't make a scene."
It was the first time he had so publicly framed her as unstable. The mask of the caring husband was still in place, but now it was being used as a weapon.
Frances looked at the screen. And she smiled. It was a cold, unfamiliar expression on her face, one that didn't reach her eyes.
"I am simply fulfilling my duty as Mrs. Burnett," she said. "Selecting an heir for this family who has a clean background and proper character."
The implication hung in the air, heavy and damning. Jagger was dirty. Jagger lacked character.
An older trustee, a man who had served the family for decades, cleared his throat. "Estela," he said slowly, "if there are issues with Jagger's background, we need to investigate them thoroughly."
The tide was turning. The board members were looking at Jagger with new eyes-eyes filled with suspicion rather than pity.
Estela saw it happening. She saw her control slipping. She took a deep breath, her chest rising and falling slowly. When she looked at Frances again, her eyes were sharp, calculating.
"Very well," Estela said, her voice dangerously calm. "Since you have questions about Jagger's background, let's examine them. Let's see exactly what this 'fraud' you speak of actually is."
