Chapter 8 - The Shadow at the Gates
By Monday morning, the storm broke in the public arena.
I was in the kitchen at six-thirty, attempting to make pancakes from a recipe on my phone—an endeavor that was going catastrophically wrong, considering I hadn’t operated a spatula in fifteen years. Hazel was sitting at the marble kitchen island, quietly correcting my technique.
“You’re flipping them too early,” she observed, pointing a slender finger at the smoking non-stick skillet. “You have to wait until the bubbles pop and stay open. Mommy says if you flip before the bubbles set, the middle stays mushy.”
“Is that right?” I grumbled, scraping a blackened circle off the pan into the disposal. “Your mother is an architect, Hazel. This is breakfast, not structural engineering.”
“Cooking is chemistry,” Hazel said calmly, taking a sip of orange juice. “Chemistry is just small engineering.”
A laugh came from the hallway.
Sloan walked into the kitchen, wearing a pair of soft gray yoga pants and an oversized navy sweater. Her color was noticeably better, though she still walked with a measured, deliberate pace. Her shaved hair was beginning to show a soft shadow of regrowth, framing her face in a way that made her look fierce, artistic, and entirely captivating.
“She’s right, you know,” Sloan said, leaning against the counter and smiling at the disaster area around my stove. “You always were terrible in the kitchen, Griffin. You once burned pasta water in college.”
“I didn't burn the water,” I countered, stepping aside and offering her the spatula with a mock bow. “I evaporated it while reviewing commercial real estate law. There’s a distinct legal difference.”
Before Sloan could answer, the elevator doors at the end of the foyer chimed.
Marcus stepped out. He was dressed in a dark tactical suit, his jaw tight, his expression entirely stripped of humor. He held an iPad in his hand and a stack of printed tabloids.
I set the frying pan off the burner immediately. “Girls, take your juice into the playroom. Go check on Iris.”
Hazel looked between Marcus and me, her intelligent eyes narrowing, but she obeyed without a word, sliding off the stool and heading down the hallway.
“What is it?” I asked, stepping toward Marcus. Sloan followed closely, her relaxed demeanor vanishing into sharp anxiety.
Marcus laid the newspapers on the marble island.
The headline of the *Seattle Daily Chronicle* was emblazoned in three-inch bold letters across the front page:
**BILLIONAIRE’S SECRET BASTARDS: THE FIVE-MILLION-DOLLAR SHAKEDOWN.**
Beneath the headline was an old photograph of Sloan from ten years ago, paired with a grainy, telephoto shot of her being discharged in a wheelchair outside Harborview, Hazel and Iris walking beside her.
The accompanying article was a masterpiece of character assassination. It claimed that Sloan Callaway, a former intern dismissed for corporate theft a decade ago, had resurfaced with two children, alleging they were Griffin Drake’s heirs in a desperate bid to extort the Drake family trust following the collapse of her private business.
The source cited throughout the article was an “anonymous senior family representative.”
Evelyn.
Sloan’s breath hitched. She picked up the newspaper, her fingers trembling violently as she read the words. “*‘Extortionist... unverified paternity... fabricated medical emergency designed to elicit public sympathy...’*”
She dropped the paper as if it were coated in arsenic. She swayed, her hand flying to her temple as the stress triggered a spike of pain through her healing skull.
I caught her by the waist, steadying her against my chest. “Marcus, who authorized this print?”
“The paper is owned by a subsidiary of Vanguard Media—one of your mother’s oldest social allies,” Marcus reported grimly. “They ran it without reaching out to our corporate communications office for comment. The board is in an uproar, Griffin. Vanguard stock analysts are calling for an emergency shareholder meeting at eleven o'clock to vote on an interim CEO, citing ‘unstable personal governance and risk to corporate assets.’”
“They want a coup,” I muttered, my voice dangerously calm.
“They’re going to take everything from you,” Sloan whispered, turning in my arms, her eyes wide with mounting terror. “Griffin, this is what she does! She’s going to use the press to drag the girls through the mud! The school, their friends—everyone will call them bastards! I have to take them away. We have to leave Seattle—”
“Stop it!” I grabbed her by both shoulders, firm enough to command her focus, gentle enough not to hurt her. “Look at me, Sloan. Look at me!”
She stopped, her breath catching in her throat.
“Ten years ago, you ran because you were twenty-two, alone, and terrified,” I said, holding her gaze with absolute, unbreakable certainty. “You are not alone anymore. And I am not a twenty-nine-year-old boy fighting for his father’s approval. This is my city. This is my company. And these are my children.”
I turned to Marcus. “Call a press conference. Ten o'clock. The main auditorium at Drake Global headquarters.”
“What are you going to say?” Marcus asked.
“I’m not going to say anything,” I answered, a cold, predatory smile spreading across my face. “I’m going to show them.”
I looked down at Sloan. “Get dressed. Wear something sharp. You’re coming with me.”
“Griffin, I look like a surgical patient,” she protested, gesturing to her shaved temple and the fading bruises on her cheek.
May you like
“You look like a mother who survived a war to protect my daughters,” I said, leaning down and kissing her forehead. “You look like the bravest woman in this country. And it’s time this city learned who you really are.”
***
