No Longer Anyone’s Accessory Chapter 11
Day twenty in London.
Ursula’s assault escalated.
Nadia called. Her voice was urgent and tight.
“Corinne. Ursula went to your parents’ house in San Jose again. This time she didn’t come alone. Brought seven or eight relatives. They drove a whole convoy in from back home in Kentucky.”
“They showed up at the door again?”
“This time they didn’t stop at the lawn. They went straight up onto the porch and started pounding on the door. Your dad wouldn’t open it, so she just stood there and screamed.”
Nadia put her phone on speaker and played a clip the doorbell camera had captured.
Ursula’s voice was sharp enough to cut through walls —
“Whitfield family! Come out here and say something! Tell that daughter of yours to straighten up! She stole my son’s money and ran! The mortgage payment’s about to bounce!”
A man’s voice beside her chimed in: “That’s right! What did our Trevor ever do wrong by her! She doesn’t have a shred of family values in her.”
Another woman’s voice backed her up: “I’m telling you, these overeducated California women — not one of them can be trusted. She married into the Wexler family for the money, plain and simple.”
My mom’s voice came through the recording. Shaking, but fighting to stay composed.
“Get off my property right now. I’m calling 911.”
“Go ahead and call! You think I’m scared of you? The things your daughter’s done, you think they’d stand the light of day?”
Then my dad’s voice. Hoarse. Frail. Barely a year out from heart bypass surgery.
“Enough! Has the Wexler family put a single cent into this household in three years? My daughter supported your son for three whole years! Who exactly stole from who? Pull the bank statements and let’s have a look!”
Ursula’s voice shot up another octave in an instant.
“That is a lie! My son makes $900,000 a year! Your daughter makes what, chump change? And you’re saying she supported him? Your whole family’s brains are broken!”
“Watch your mouth, or else —”
Before my dad could finish, the recording dissolved into a mess of chaotic noise. Someone was shoving.
Then my mom screamed.
The recording cut off.
My fingers, gripping the phone, were shaking.
“What happened after that?”
“The second your mom called, I rushed over. One of Ursula’s Kentucky cousins — he put his hands on your dad and shoved him. Your dad lost his balance and the back of his head hit the doorframe. Split his forehead open. It wasn’t deep, but —”
“He just had heart bypass surgery.”
“I know. I took him to the Stanford ER. The doctor says he’s okay for now. His blood pressure spiked.”
“What about San Jose PD?”
“They responded. But Ursula and her whole crew cleared out clean right before the squad car pulled up. The security cameras caught all of it.”
“Send me the video.”
“Already copied.”
“Send it to Corbin Sloane.”
“Sending now. Corinne —”
“I’m fine.”
I hung up. I set my phone on the desk and laid my hands flat on my thighs.
My fingers were trembling.
Not from fear.
Not from heartbreak.
It was rage.
A boiling fury that burned straight up from the bone.
I grabbed my phone and emailed Corbin.
“Mr. Sloane.”
“Here.”
“Ursula Wexler brought people to my family’s home today. They physically shoved my father. He sustained a head injury. He has a history of heart disease. The doorbell camera footage is on its way to you.”
“Received. This constitutes criminal trespass and battery. I’ll file for an emergency protective order immediately and, at the same time, coordinate with San Jose PD to press criminal charges.”
“File it.”
“Already in motion. Ms. Whitfield — one more thing came to light today.”
“Go ahead.”
“Kiara Delacroix. Over the past six months, Trevor used his supplementary card — the one under your name, on your card — to buy her gifts totaling over a hundred twenty thousand dollars. Two Hermès Birkin bags, the kind you can’t even get on the waitlist, each one worth a year’s rent. A diamond-studded Rolex. Multiple high-end dinners in Napa Valley.”
A hundred twenty thousand.
That exact number.
The money desperately needed for my father’s surgery.
The money to save my father’s life — he said it couldn’t be touched.
The money to buy another woman a Birkin, charged to my credit card.
“Save everything.”
“Already saved. Ms. Whitfield, California may be a no-fault divorce state, but with deliberate dissipation of community assets on this scale, the judge will absolutely hammer him in the division ruling.”
“I don’t just want him to get less.”
“Meaning?”
“I want him to get nothing.”
