“I am a Bennett,” Noah corrected him, standing up from his chair and towering over the table with calm, aristocratic grace.
“I carry the blood of the woman who scrubbed blood from hospital tile so I could learn calculus from secondhand paperbacks,” Noah declared.
“I earned my place at Harvard with my own mind, not with your grandfather’s blood money or your stolen millions,” he added.
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“Noah, please, let me make this right; let me transfer the five million dollars directly into your personal account tonight,” Vincent begged.
Noah looked down at the billionaire, his dark eyes filled with a pity so profound it cut deeper than any blade.
“Keep your money, Mr. Moretti,” Noah said, turning toward the double exit doors.
“Because the one thing your wealth could never purchase is the eighteen years you spent raising a lie while I grew up without you.”
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PART 6: The Broken Patriarch
