Chapter 2 - The Sound of Breaking GlassJulian dropped to his knees as if invisible anchors had suddenly dragged him to the hardwood floor. His luxury watch clattered against the baseboard, the crystal face fracturing with a sharp, brittle crack.
“No,” Julian choked out, his hands clawing uselessly at the air as his eyes remained locked on the smiling face of his mother in the framed portrait. “No, no, no. That’s—this is a sick joke. Elena, stop playing games! Tell me this is some pathetic attempt to guilt me into staying!”
Chloe shrieked, stumbling backward against the entryway wall and nearly dropping the infant in her arms. The baby let out a piercing, high-pitched cry that vibrated through the quiet, candlelit room.
“Julian! Get us out of this freak show!” Chloe screamed, her face contorting with panic and disgust. “She’s a psycho! She set up a shrine just to scare us into giving her more money! Look at her—she’s not even crying!”
I turned slowly from the altar, the smoke from the three burning incense sticks curling upward into the heavy air. My expression was entirely flat, devoid of the panic or rage they expected.
“It is no joke, Julian,” I said, my voice cutting through the baby’s wails like a scalpel. “Your mother passed away one hundred days ago today. At 3:14 in the morning. While you were boarding a first-class flight from Toronto to New York with your new family.”
Julian shook his head violently, backing away on his hands and knees until his spine hit the sofa. “She had high blood pressure, sure, but she was stable! You said she was stable the last time we spoke!”
“The last time you spoke to me was two years and seven months ago,” I reminded him, stepping closer. “When you told me that my calls were interfering with your career momentum and blocked my number. You didn’t ask about her health once. You didn’t ask how I was paying for her groceries, her rent, or her nurses when my own freelance work hit a wall.”
“You’re lying!” Julian roared, scrambling to his feet. His face was flushed a violent shade of purple, veins bulging at his temples. He lunged toward me, his hand raised as if to strike, but stopped short when he saw the heavy glass vase sitting on the console table. Instead, he swept his arm across it, sending the flowers, water, and vase crashing into a thousand glittering shards across the floor.
“You malicious, manipulative bitch!” Julian snarled, spitting the words. “You let her die just so you could pull this stunt? You wanted the house! You wanted my money!”
“The house?” I laughed—a cold, humorless sound that made Chloe clutch the baby tighter to her chest. “Julian, look around you. Look at the living room. Look at the kitchen.”
He blinked, his chest heaving as he finally forced himself to look past the altar.
For the first time, he noticed the walls. The warm beige paint was faded, and in the corners where the roof leaked during the heavy winter storms, ugly brown water stains spread like maps of ruin. The expensive leather sofa we had bought together years ago was gone, replaced by a sagging, thrift-store fabric couch held together by safety pins. The high-end kitchen appliances were stripped away; in their place stood a rusted mini-fridge and a two-burner hot plate.
“Where… where is everything?” Julian whispered, his bravado instantly evaporating. “Where is the flat-screen TV? Where are the Persian rugs? Where are the savings accounts I left in the joint fund?”
“Your joint fund?” I tilted my head, smiling faintly. “Julian, the moment you stopped sending money in month five, the bank repossessed our credit lines. When your mother’s first major stroke hit, the hospital bills were twelve thousand dollars a week. I sold the TV. I sold the rugs. I sold my jewelry, my car, and every single piece of furniture of value in this house to buy her oxygen tanks and prescription drugs.”
I walked over to the coffee table, picked up a thick, weathered cardboard box filled with manila folders, and dropped it heavily onto the floor right at his feet. Papers spilled out, revealing hospital admission forms, past-due utility notices, eviction warnings, and collection agency letters.
“And the house?” I added softly. “You told Chloe this house belonged to your mother, and therefore you had full control over it. Did you forget, Julian, that three years ago, when your business venture in Canada was failing, you begged your mother to refinance the mortgage to bail you out?”
Julian stared down at the papers, his lips trembling.
“The bank foreclosed eighteen months ago,” I whispered. “Your mother didn’t own this house anymore. I do. I bought the remaining title deed from the bank last month using the advance from my new design contract.”
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Chloe dropped her designer handbag to the floor. Her face went completely white. “Wait… what? You don’t own this house? Julian, you told me we were moving into a debt-free estate! You said your family was wealthy!”
Julian didn’t answer her. He stared at me with wide, hollow eyes, realizing for the very first time that the man who walked into this house like a king had returned as a beggar.
