Chapter 8: The Price of a Soul**
That evening in the penthouse, Eleanor poured herself a crystal tumbler of Scotch. Her hands were noticeably shaking. The penthouse, once a symbol of her absolute reign, felt increasingly like a luxurious mausoleum.
Julian Ross sat across from her, reviewing financial spreadsheets.
“We’ve bought off three character witnesses who will testify that Clara was emotionally unstable during Arthur’s illness,” Ross stated casually. “The judge assigned to the bench is Judge Hastings. His reelection campaign received significant contributions from our real estate PAC. It’s a guaranteed win.”
Eleanor stared out the panoramic window at the shimmering city below. “Why didn't she take the money, Julian? Half a million dollars is a fortune to people like her.”
“Some people are stubbornly irrational, Eleanor.”
“Arthur was the same way,” Eleanor whispered, her voice cracking slightly before she quickly masked it with cold indifference. “He would rather live in that miserable suburban cottage than take his rightful place as CEO. He thought love was an antidote to reality.”
“Well,” Ross chuckled darkly, “reality is coming for his widow on Friday morning.”
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Eleanor looked down at a silver-framed photograph on her desk—Arthur as an eight-year-old boy, wearing a stiff school uniform, his eyes distant and unsmiling. A fleeting pang of regret struck her chest, but she crushed it beneath her lifelong armor of pride.
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