Chapter 8 - Patricia’s Shattered Throne
By Monday afternoon, news of the spectacular collapse of Vance Industries and the seizure of the Charlottesville estate had spread through the local elite like wildfire.
Patricia Vance arrived at the corporate offices in a blind panic, her expensive designer handbag clutched tightly in her manicured hands, her face flushed with righteous fury. She expected to walk in and bully her way past the front desk, demanding to see her son and put me in my place.
Instead, she found the lobby doors locked, notices of asset forfeiture posted on the glass, and county bailiffs boxing up office equipment.
When she saw me standing near the elevator banks reviewing final acquisition transfer documents with Arthur, she lost whatever shred of dignity she had left.
“Lauren!” Patricia shrieked, marching across the marble floor, her heels clicking furiously. “What is the meaning of this absolute outrage?! The police are at the house! They’re inventorying our furniture! They told us we have twenty-four hours to vacate the premises!”
I slowly turned around, looking down at my mother-in-law with an expression of supreme, unbothered detachment.
“Not your premises, Patricia,” I corrected her calmly. “My premises. And twenty-four hours is actually quite generous considering you’ve been living rent-free on my corporate dime for the last three years.”
Patricia’s jaw trembled. For the first time in her life, the untouchable matriarch realized she had no power, no leverage, and no shield.
“You... you can’t do this to us!” she stammered, tears of pure rage springing to her eyes. “We are the Vance family! We built this town! You’re just a nobody! A parasite who latched onto my son!”
“Your son was a fraud, Patricia,” I replied coldly, stepping closer to her until she was forced to look straight up into my eyes. “And you were his chief enabler. You taught him that women were second-class citizens, that love was conditional on wealth, and that cruelty was a sign of strength. Well, look around. Your empire of paper and lies has burned to the ground.”
She raised her hand, intending to strike me across the face—the ultimate, desperate resort of a bully cornered.
Before her fingers could even graze the air, one of the private security officers stepped directly between us, catching Patricia’s wrist in a firm, unyielding grip.
May you like
Patricia gasped, stumbling backward.
“Don't ever try that again,” I whispered, my voice like ice. “Pack your bags, Patricia. The real world is waiting for you. And trust me—you aren't going to like it down here.”
