Margaret Stanhope stood at the doors that opened onto the veranda, Her aristocratic features set into an icy mask as she watched her butler pass a tray of drinks to her grandchildren who had just returned for the summer holidays from their various private schools.
Beyond the veranda, In the lush valley below, The city of ridgemont, pennsylvania, Was clearly visible with its winding, Tree-lined Streets; Manicured Park; Quaint shopping area; And, Off to the right, The rolling hills of Ridgemont was a sprawling cluster of red brick buildings that comprised Stanhope industries, Which was responsible, Either directly or indirectly, For the economic prosperity of most of ridgemont's families.
Like most small communities, Ridgemont had a well-established social hierarchy, And the Stanhope family was as firmly ensconced at the pinnacle of that social structure as the Stanhope mansion was entrenched upon Ridgemont's highest bluff.
Today, However, Margaret Stanhope's mind was not on the view from her veranda or the loftly social standing she had possessed since birth and improved with her marriage;
It was on the staggering blow she was about to deliver to her three loathsome grandchildren.
The youngest boy, Alex, who was sixteen, saw her watching him and reluctantly took iced tea instead of champagne from the butler's silver tray.
He and his sister were just Alike, Margaret thought contemptuously as she studied the pair.
They were both spoiled, Spineless, Promiscuous, And irresponsible; They drank too much, Spent too much, And played too much; They were overindulged brats who knew nothing of self-discipline.
But all that was about to stop.
Her gaze followed the butler as he offered the tray to Elizabeth, Who was wearing a skin-tight yellow sundress with a plunging neckline.
When Elizabeth saw her grandmother watching, The seventeen-year-old threw a haughty, Challenging look at her and, In a typical gesture of infantile defiance, She helped herself to two glasses of champagne.
Margaret Stanhope watched her but said nothing.
The girl was practically the image of her mother—a shallow, Oversexed, Frivolous lush who had died eight years ago when the sports car Margaret's son was driving went out of control on an icy patch of highway, Killing his wife and himself and orphaning their four young children.
The police report indicated that they had both been intoxicated and their car had been travelling in excess of one hundred miles per hour.
Six months ago, Heedless of his advancing age and bad weather, Margaret's own husband had died while flying his plane to Cozumel, Supposedly to go fishing.
The twenty-five-year-old fashion model who was also in that plane must have been along to bait his hook, She thought with uncharacteristic crudity and frigid disinterest.
The fatal accidents were eloquent illustrations of the lechery and carelessness that had characterized the lives of all the Stanhope men for generations.
Every arrogant, Reckless, Handsome one of them had lived each day of their lives as if they were indescribable and accountable to no one.
As a result, Margaret had spent a lifetime clinging to her ravaged dignity and self-control while her profligate husband squandered a fortune on his vices and taught his grandson to live exactly as he lived.
Last year, While she slept upstairs, He had brought prostitutes into this very house, and he and the boys had shared them
All of them except Justin. Her beloved Justin...
Gentle, Intelligent, And industrious, Justin had been the only one of her three grandsons to resemble the men on Margaret's side of the family, And she had loved him with every fiber of her being.
And now, Justin was dead, While his brother Zachary was alive and healthy, Taunting her with his very vitality.
Turning her head, She watched him stride swiftly up the stone steps that led to the veranda in answer to her summons, And the explosion of hatred that raged through her at the sight of the tall, Dark-haired eighteen-year-old was almost past bearing.
Her fingers tightened on the glass in her hand, And she fought down the wild urge to hurl it at his tanned face, To rake her nails down it.
Zachary benedict Stanhope III, Who had been named after Margaret's husband, Looked exactly like his namesake at the same age, But that wasn't why she loathed him.
She had a much better reason for that, And Zachary knew exactly what that reason was.
In a few minutes, However, He was finally going to pay for what he had done—not enough, of course.
She couldn't exact full retribution for that, And she despised her helplessness almost as much as she despised him.
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