Chapter 3 - The Gathering Storm in the Dining Room
Downstairs, the atmosphere in the grand dining room was beginning to curdle.
Victoria had instructed the household cook to prepare a lavish three-course meal to celebrate Liam’s upcoming fourth birthday—a birthday celebration that conveniently ignored the fact that my son, Leo, born on the exact same date four years prior, had never once received a cake or a toy from his grandmother.
Dominic sat at the head of the long mahogany table, nursing a glass of twenty-year-old scotch. Despite his outward display of arrogance, an uneasy itch lingered at the back of his mind. He kept glancing toward the grand staircase, listening for any sound of weeping, shouting, or packing.
Nothing.
Just absolute, deafening silence from the third floor.
“Where is she?” Dominic muttered, loosening his silk tie a fraction. “She’s been up there for nearly forty minutes. No tears. No screaming. It’s... unnerving.”
Brooke laughed, cutting a piece of roasted duck with exaggerated elegance. She leaned across the table, her diamond earrings catching the warm chandelier light. “Oh, relax, Dom. You’re acting like a ghost is haunting you. She’s probably up there unpacking her cheap clothes and realizing that her life here is over. She knows she can't afford a lawyer, she has no access to our accounts, and if she tries to make a fuss, we’ll just tell the courts she abandoned her family for two years in Asia. The judge will rule her an unfit mother in five minutes.”
Victoria nodded in sharp agreement, spooning gravy onto Liam’s plate while the little boy poked at his food with a silver fork. “Brooke is entirely right. Your trouble with Clara has always been that you gave her too much leeway. A woman needs to be kept in her place. Now, eat your dinner, and stop jumping at shadows.”
Dominic nodded slowly, taking another sip of his scotch. The alcohol burned pleasantly down his throat, washing away the lingering unease. He was right. What could a neglected, exhausted mother do against a man who controlled a thirty-million-dollar tech empire and owned half the local judiciary?
Before Dominic could reply, a sharp, metallic sound echoed through the foyer.
Clang.
It wasn't the sound of a butler opening the door. It was the heavy, unmistakable slam of the estate’s outer wrought-iron security gates swinging wide open against the stone pillars.
Victoria frowned, pausing her fork mid-air. “Did you order a delivery, Dominic? I told the staff no packages on Tuesday evenings.”
Dominic didn't answer. He stood up slowly from the head of the table, his eyes fixed on the arched doorway leading into the grand foyer.
Through the massive floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking the front circular driveway, the headlights of three sleek, black government-issue SUVs cut through the evening fog, sweeping across the manicured lawns and casting harsh, geometric shadows against the white pillars.
Car doors opened in unison.
Heavy, synchronized footsteps crunched against the gravel driveway.
Dominic’s breath hitched in his throat. “That... that’s not a delivery.”
Before he could take a step toward the foyer, the heavy double doors of the front entrance didn't just open—they were pushed wide by two towering private security operatives in dark suits, followed by Marcus Vance carrying a thick, leather-bound metal briefcase.
And right behind them, stepping down the grand staircase into the foyer with the poise of an empress, was me.
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I had changed out of my travel clothes. I wore a tailored, midnight-blue silk pantsuit that caught the chandelier light like obsidian. My hair was pulled back into a severe, elegant chignon, and my lips carried a calm, devastating smile.
“Welcome to the house, Marcus,” I said clearly, my voice ringing out across the cavernous foyer and straight into the dining room. “I’m glad you made it through traffic.”
