Chapter 8 - THE REIGN OF THE QUEEN
The morning sun washed over the sprawling limestone courtyard of the Vance estate, turning the dew on the manicured hedges to diamonds.
Mara stood on the second-floor balcony, wrapped in a heavy silk robe that smelled of cedar and rain. On the silver tray beside her sat a cup of black coffee and a fresh pastry. Her ankle was wrapped in clean gauze, the pain completely gone, replaced by the cool comfort of the estate's medical care.
Down at the massive wrought-iron gates at the end of the long driveway, a commotion had broken out.
Through the security monitors mounted on the brick wall, Mara watched the scene unfold with clinical detachment.
Elliot Ashford was pounding his fists against the iron bars, his face purple with rage and panic, his frayed tuxedo jacket missing a button. Behind him, Delia was sobbing hysterically, her emerald silk gown ruined by the morning dew and mud, her makeup streaked down her cheeks as she screamed obscenities toward the security cameras.
"Open this gate right now!" Elliot roared, his voice cracking. "Do you know who I am? I demand to see my daughter! Mara! Mara, you ungrateful little bitch, open this door!"
Delia clutched her head, wailing as she realized her phone had been disconnected. "My social accounts! Everything is gone! The bank froze my cards! Mara, you planned this! You planned all of this!"
A pair of heavy leather shoes clicked softly on the stone balcony behind her.
Dante stepped out, holding a steaming cup of espresso. He didn't look down at the screaming figures at the gates; instead, he looked at Mara, watching the play of emotions across her face.
"Do you want me to have them removed by the local precinct?" Dante asked calmly, taking a sip of his coffee.
Mara took a slow sip of her own coffee, letting the rich, bitter warmth coat her tongue. She watched her father—the man who had spent twenty years ignoring her existence, treating her like a burden and a spare part—begging for scraps outside the gates of the man who owned his entire world.
She watched her sister—the girl who had mocked her bruised plum dress, laughed at her bleeding heels, and proclaimed to all of New York that nobody wanted her—now standing in the mud, utterly powerless and invisible to the world that once adored her.
Mara set her cup down on the silver tray. The clink echoed sharply in the morning air.
She turned around, her posture straight, her chin held high, her eyes shining with absolute, unyielding power.
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"No," Mara said, a slow, breathtaking smile spreading across her lips. "Let them stay out there for a little while longer. I want them to finally understand what it feels like to be completely, hopelessly ignored."
Dante Vance looked down at her, his cold slate-gray eyes softening into a gaze of absolute devotion. He raised his espresso cu
