Chapter 2 - The Mocking Feast
At 1:30 PM, the atmosphere inside Prime 112, an exclusive upscale steakhouse in White Plains, was loud, opulent, and filled with the clinking of crystal glasses.
Daniel Lemaire leaned back in his plush leather booth, swirling a glass of two-hundred-dollar Cabernet Sauvignon. He was a tall, handsome man in his late thirties with styled dark hair, a tailored Italian suit, and the effortless air of confidence that comes from living off someone else’s immense wealth.
Across the table sat his younger sister, Vanessa. She was wearing a new designer silk blouse—bought on Daniel’s joint credit card three days prior—and was happily cutting into a rare filet mignon.
"Honestly, Daniel," Vanessa said between bites, letting out a musical, mocking laugh, "the look on her face when that coffee hit her! I thought she was going to faint right there on the rug. She looked like a drowned rat!"
Daniel smirked, taking a slow sip of his wine. "She was getting out of line, Vanessa. She’s been acting distant for months, hiding her laptop every time I walk into her studio. She actually had the nerve to tell me that forty thousand dollars was 'too much' for your salon lease down in SoHo. As if it's her money to decide."
"Unbelievable," Vanessa scoffed, rolling her eyes dramatic. "Your father-in-law left millions! Millions! And she acts like spending forty grand to help her husband’s only sister is a crime. She’s so selfish. It’s a good thing you put your foot down. A woman like Claire needs to be reminded who runs the household."
"She’ll be back by dinner," Daniel said with absolute conviction. He sliced a piece of steak, looking thoroughly satisfied with himself. "She has nowhere else to go. Her father is dead, her mother passed years ago, and she doesn't have any real friends left in the city because I cut off those fake university parasites she used to hang out with. By six o'clock, she'll come crawling into the living room, crying, apologizing, and handing over the card."
"And if she doesn't?" Vanessa asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Then I take her car keys, freeze her personal allowance transfer, and let her sit in that house without a single dollar until she learns how to behave," Daniel purred, a dark, arrogant glint in his eye. "I've spent eight years molding Claire into the perfect wife. She’s timid. She hates conflict. She’d rather burn her own hand than cause a scene in public."
"To family," Vanessa said, raising her champagne glass. "And to my new salon in SoHo!"
"To family," Daniel chimed, clinking his glass against hers.
They finished their lavish lunch, taking their time, ordering dessert and expensive digestifs. When the bill arrived—totalling over six hundred dollars—Daniel casually pulled out his gold debit card linked to the joint operational account he shared with Claire.
He handed it to the waiter with a patronizing nod. "Put it on this."
Three minutes later, the waiter returned. His expression was no longer warm and deferential; it was stiff, formal, and noticeably cold.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Luján," the waiter said, holding out the card. "The transaction was declined."
Daniel frowned, his brow furrowing in annoyance. "Declined? That’s impossible. Try it again. There’s over eighty thousand dollars in that checking account."
"I tried it twice, sir," the waiter replied smoothly. "The system error code indicates an Institutional Fraud Freeze. The bank requires you to contact their legal compliance department."
Vanessa gasped softly. "Daniel? What’s going on?"
Daniel felt a sudden, sharp prickle of irritation behind his neck. He pulled out his secondary credit card—a black card issued under his corporate name at Grupo Nébula's regional branch. "Use this one."
"Declined as well, sir," the waiter reported five seconds later. "All cards under your name appear to be blocked."
"This is ridiculous!" Daniel snapped, standing up from the booth and grabbing his leather coat. "Their automated system must be having a server glitch. I’ll pay cash." He threw seven hundred-dollar bills onto the table from his wallet—the last liquid cash he had on his person—and grabbed his car keys.
"Let's go home," Daniel growled to Vanessa, his mood instantly souring. "Claire must have entered the wrong PIN when she was trying to transfer funds this morning and locked the server. When I get home, I’m going to make sure she calls the bank manager personally to fix this mess."
"She is so incompetent!" Vanessa whined, clutching her designer handbag as they rushed out to Daniel’s luxury Porsche SUV in the valet lot. "She’s ruining my entire afternoon!"
They roared down the highway toward Westchester, Daniel pressing his foot hard against the accelerator. His anger was boiling over. He visualized grabbing Claire by her arm, dragging her to his home office, and forcing her to sit in front of the computer until every card was reactivated.
At 3:15 PM, the Porsche pulled into the long, brick-paved driveway of their private estate.
Daniel immediately noticed something strange.
The front porch lights were turned on, even though it was broad daylight. The heavy front door was unlocked, resting open by a fraction of an inch.
"Did that idiot leave the door wide open after crying her way out?" Vanessa sneered, stepping out of the passenger side. "She’s completely lost her mind."
Daniel stormed up the front steps, shoving the heavy oak door open with his palm. "Claire!" he roared into the quiet house, his voice echoing off the foyer walls. "Claire! Get down here right now!"
No answer.
"Claire!" he yelled again, walking furiously into the living room. "If you’re hiding in your studio playing the victim, I swear to God—"
He stepped into the kitchen.
He stopped dead in his tracks.
May you like
The kitchen was silent. The spilled coffee still lay dried on the white floor. The overturned chair rested on its side.
And sitting on the marble kitchen island, bathed in the sharp afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows, was the heavy platinum diamond wedding ring, resting directly beside a navy-blue legal folder.
