29. Drew

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Andrew

What. The. Fuck.

I stare at the text Claire forwarded me:

FWD: MOIRA: Stay away from my son. I haven't found what I am looking for just yet, but when I do, Drew will regret the day he met you.

Then, her message:

"Please tell your mother I have left your house and will start working on an annulment or divorce as soon as possible. She doesn't need to threaten me anymore. Tell her to leave me alone, please."

I jump out of bed, throw on some clothes, and storm to my car. It takes less than ten minutes to get to my mother's house. I pound on her front door. She thinks she can send a text like that to Claire in the middle of the night and still get a full night's sleep? She wants problems? Fine. I'll bring them to her front door.

I keep banging—louder, longer.

Her butler, Gerald, opens the door.

"Oh, Mr. St. Claire. Is everything alright? Was your mother expecting you?"

I feel bad for waking Gerald—he's served our family well—but this has been a long time coming.

"Sorry, Gerald. She's not expecting me, but either she comes down or I go up. Please let her know I'm here."

He hesitates. "Drew, do you think this is a good idea—"

"I don't mean to be rude, Gerald, but this is none of your business. Please get my mother—or I will go up myself."

Gerald nods and disappears. A few minutes later, he returns looking defeated.

"She said to come back later. At a more respectable hour."

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I shake my head and march up the stairs. When I reach her room, I open the door without knocking.

She's standing by the window, probably expecting to watch me drive away. She turns, startled.

"Andrew St. Claire! How dare you come to my room at this hour!"

I let out a cold chuckle.

"How dare I? How dare I?"

I step closer.

"Mother, tell me—did you not send my wife a text less than thirty minutes ago?"

She laughs. "Oh, is that what this is about? That bitch has you wrapped around her little finger, doesn't she?"

I keep walking toward her.

"The only bitch in this entire situation is you. You and Becca. I warned you, Mother. I warned you that if you kept pushing, I would make your life much, much harder. So go ahead. Prepare yourself—because I'm about to make good on that promise."

She meets me toe-to-toe, unfazed. "Do your worst, Andrew," she sneers.

I take a step back toward the door.

"Gerald!" I call out.

He appears in the doorway almost instantly.

"Yes, Mr. St. Claire?"

"Later this morning, I need you and the staff to pack up all of my mother's personal belongings—clothing, jewelry, everything. Nothing from the family estate, though. The St. Claire jewels stay here."

My mother's mouth falls open. She tries to speak but can't.

"Oh, did you forget?" I ask. "When you got married, there was that pesky little clause—the estate stays with blood-born St. Claires. And since your daddy blew through your family fortune, that leaves mine. I believe you're on a monthly allowance? Ten thousand a month? That should be enough for a decent place. You may have to downsize a bit, no more maids or butlers, you may have to consider buying clothes at places you can afford on your new budget, goodbye country club... or you can sell your shares in the company. That'll keep you living a little closer to what you're used to—but it still won't be the same."

Her face is red now, veins bulging in her neck. She rushes toward me and raises a hand to slap me—only for me to catch her wrist mid-air.

"uh uh uh... Don't make this worse Moira. I'm giving you one week to pack your shit and get off my property. If not, I'll have the police remove you. Consider this your eviction notice."

I turn to leave, then pause.

"Oh—and contact Claire again, and this will all look like child's play, mother."

I storm down the stairs and out of the house.

As I slide into my car, I text Claire:

"You will do no such thing. I'm handling my mother. Thank you for telling me. I love you, Claire."

As I pull away, I catch a glimpse of my mother running outside, screaming something.

I don't stop.

I don't care.

I drive away.