Chapter 1
The day my mother was publicly shamed as “the mistress,” I slammed the Whitmore Signet Ring into my father’s face.
On my flight home from London to Eastbourne City, a headline lit up my phone:
#Billionaire’s Son Defends His Mother, Beats Up “The Mistress.‘#
In the video, my mother, Eleanor Whitmore, wore a plain linen dress. Several men surrounded her, shoving and striking her.
They yanked at her clothes and hurled insults, calling her a shameless homewrecker.
Her eyes were red as she tried to defend herself, but the crowd only laughed.
A woman I didn’t recognize stood behind them, wrapped in a custom couture gown. Her tone was sweet, but every word cut deep.
“Alright, I know you’re just looking out for me,” she said, “but we don’t need to waste any more attention on someone so ungrateful.”
Guests gathered around her, offering birthday wishes and gushing over her generosity.
“This–now this is the kind of poise a real Mrs. Whitmore should have! Some people really ought to find a mirror.”
“A mistress calling herself Mrs. Whitmore? Please. The entire Whitmore estate came as her dowry. There’s not an ounce of high–society grace on that woman.”
At the words Mrs. Whitmore, my grip on my phone tightened and my reflection in the screen was cold and sharp.
I’d only been gone three years. Since when did I have another “mother“?
By the time the video ended, my chest was burning.
The moment I stepped off the plane, I called my eldest brother, Damien Whitmore–busy signal.
Then my second brother, Colton. My third, Preston. No answer.
Finally, my fourth brother, Landon, picked up. His tone was already irritated.
“Serena, what the hell is your problem? Today’s Mom’s birthday. We’re busy. Stop calling.”
“Which mom?” I asked.
He snapped back, “What, did college fry your brain? Who else would it be?” Then he hung up.
The way he acted, I almost wondered if the video had been AI–generated by someone deliberately trying to stir up trouble in our family.
After all, the woman in the clip looked nothing like the mother I remembered.
Everyone knew the Whitmore fortune came from my mother’s dowry.
My father, Graham Whitmore–if you wanted to be polite–had been married into the family on my grandfather’s say–so. If you didn’t, he was just a man who’d married up, a gold–digger in a tailored suit.
Every scrap of prestige he enjoyed had been bought with her name, so he’d always treated her word as law.
There was no way he’d stand by while she was humiliated into the timid, careful woman I’d just seen in that video.
I drew a deep breath, forcing my fury down, and set out to confront the truth for myself–at that very banquet hall.
When my cab pulled up to the Lancaster Grand Ballroom, another girl stepped out at the same time.
She gave me a slow once–over, her smirk dripping with contempt.
“Are you here for my mother’s birthday party too? Hate to break it to you, but the Whitmores have this place booked. Since when do they let just any stray cat or dog wander in?”
Her gown was straight off the runway, and a massive oval–cut diamond necklace glittered at her throat.
Chapter 1
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Her gaze swept over my T–shirt and jeans with open disdain.
Thinking I might be in the wrong place, I asked if this was the Whitmore family
event in Eastbourne City.
She tilted her chin and laughed. “So you do know. Careful–my dad could erase your family from the city overnight.”
I pulled up a photo of my father. “Who’s this?”
and be
the next mistro
Forget it. My dad loves my
She glanced at the screen. “My dad. Oh–I get it. You’re hoping to catch his eye mom to death. The last woman who tried ended up begging for mercy in minutes.”
A theory started forming in my mind.
I played the video for her. She laughed so hard she nearly cried.
“You already know? And you still showed up? Pathetic.”
She leaned in like she was offering friendly advice. “That woman in the video? Claims she’s my her out in the middle of nowhere.”
dad’s real wife.
s dumped
dad
gag. As if
“But she crawled back with a broken leg, insisting my dad give her daughter back. Please–just looking at hers my he’d ever have a kid with her.”
My fists curled tight with those words.
So in the three years I’d been away, my mother had been treated like this.
And her own sons–her flesh and blood–had stood by.
moment I came home.
And these people dared?
I shoved past the girl, ignoring her protests, and pushed into the ballroom.
What I saw seared itself into my memory.
My mother was on her knees before the crowd, held down by my brothers, forced to wipe another woman’s designer heels with a napkin.
Chapter 1
