He Threw His Pregnant Wife Out on Christmas Eve for His Mistress – A Private Helicopter Landed for Her in Minutes.

The Arrival

She looked up at the sky, saw nothing but darkness and snow. But the sound grew louder, closer, more distinct: helicopter blades. Charlotte squinted into the darkness, tried to see through the curtain of falling snow.

Lights appeared: red and white and blinking, getting closer, getting lower. Then headlights on the road, three sets approaching fast. Charlotte watched in disbelief as three black SUVs turned on to the private road that led to Derek’s estate. They stopped at the gate. Doors opened. Men in dark suits stepped out.

But Charlotte barely noticed them, because behind the SUVs the helicopter was descending lower and lower. Its Searchlight cut through the snow like a blade. The roar of its engines drowned out everything else. It passed over the gate, over Charlotte’s head. She could feel the wind from its blades, could smell the fuel.

It touched down on Derek’s perfectly manicured front lawn. The snow swirled up in a white tornado. The grass underneath was probably destroyed. Charlotte found that she did not care at all.

The helicopter door opened. Light spilled out into the darkness. A figure emerged: tall, broad shouldered, moving with purpose and controlled fury. Theodore Ashford, her brother. In a custom suit that probably cost more than Derek’s car. His face was carved from granite.

From Ashes We Rise

Behind him, Charlotte caught a glimpse of something on the helicopter’s side, illuminated by the interior lights. A crest, a symbol: the Ashford family crest. A shield with a Phoenix rising from flames, underneath the family motto in Latin: From ashes we rise. Charlotte had not seen that crest displayed publicly in 20 years. Not since her grandmother decided the family should maintain a lower profile. Not since they stopped appearing in society pages and started operating from the shadows.

Theodore strode toward her. He stripped off his overcoat as he walked. By the time he reached her, he was wrapping it around her shoulders. Warmth, finally warmth. Charlotte almost sobbed with relief.

“Charlotte,” Theodore’s voice was controlled, professional, but she could hear the fury simmering underneath, the rage he was barely containing. “Are you hurt? Is the baby?”. “We are fine. We are both fine,”.

She was crying again. When had she started? She could not remember. “Theodore, what are you doing here? You were supposed to be in Tokyo. You were supposed to be in meetings all day,”.

“I was on my way home for Christmas. I was over Maine when grandmother called,”. He gripped her shoulders, looked into her eyes, searched for injuries, for damage, for anything wrong. “She tracked my flight. Rerouted the helicopter. I was closer than anyone else. Grandmother did this. Grandmother does everything,” Theodore almost smiled, almost. “Now tell me what happened. Tell me everything,”.

Before Charlotte could answer, a new voice cut through the noise of the helicopter. “What the hell is going on here?”.

Googling Your Wife

Charlotte turned. Derek Weston was running across the lawn. Still in his expensive sweater and tailored pants, still wearing the watch Charlotte had given him. Vanessa trailed behind him, now wrapped in a coat over Charlotte’s robe.

Derek stopped 10 feet from the helicopter. His face was white, not from cold. From shock, from the sudden realization that something had gone very, very wrong with his carefully laid plans. “Who are you?” he demanded. His voice cracked slightly. “What is this? That helicopter is on my property. I am calling the police. I am calling the police,”.

Theodore’s voice was soft, dangerous, the voice of a man who destroyed empires for a living. “By all means, call them. I am sure they would be very interested in hearing how you threw your pregnant wife into a snowstorm on Christmas Eve,”.

“That is—she was leaving voluntarily. She chose to leave. This is my house, and I have every right to—”. “Your house?” Theodore stepped toward Derek slowly, deliberately, like a predator approaching prey. “I do not think so,”.

“That is my wife you are talking to,” Derek tried to puff up, tried to assert dominance. It was almost pathetic. “I demand to know who you are and what you are doing on my property,”.

Theodore smiled. It was not a friendly smile; it was the smile of a shark. “Your wife? She will not be your wife for much longer,”. He gestured toward Charlotte. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Theodore Asheford, and this is my sister, Charlotte Elizabeth Asheford,”.

“Whose great grandfather built the building your pathetic little fund occupies. Whose grandmother owns controlling interest in four companies you are currently begging to invest in your fund. Whose family has been on the Fortune 500 list for longer than your family has been in this country,”.

Derek’s mouth opened, closed, opened again. No sound came out. “Ashford,” the word finally emerged as a whisper, choked and strangled. “That is—that is not possible. Charlotte works at a non profit. She drives a Honda. Her grandmother lives in a cottage. She told me,”.

“She told you her grandmother lives in a cottage?” Theodore’s smile widened. “She does. The Ashford Cottage, built in 1892. 12,000 square feet. 30 acres of oceanfront property. Staff of 23. Currently valued at approximately $47 million,”.

He stepped even closer to Derek, close enough to touch. ***”You really should have done your research, Derek. You really should have googled your wife before you threw her into the snow,”***.