Chapter 3 - THE CRACKING FAÇADE
The timestamp shifted to Thursday of the previous week, 4:20 PM.
The camera angle showed the spacious, sunlit art studio on the third floor—a sanctuary that Mr. Vance had specially built for his fourteen-year-old daughter, Daniela, who had inherited her late mother’s exceptional artistic talent.
Daniela sat at her easel, a charcoal stick in hand, working frantically on a portrait of a blooming night-cereus flower. Her posture was tense, her small frame pulled inward as if she were trying to occupy as little space as possible.
The heavy oak door swung open, and Patricia walked in uninvited.
On the screen, Daniela didn't turn around immediately, but her shoulders locked tight. "Hello, Patricia," she said politely, her voice barely carrying over the ambient sound of the room.
"What is this mess?" Patricia’s voice was sharp, stripped of all its socialite charm. She walked over to the supply shelf, picking up a jar of expensive oil paints that Mr. Vance had ordered custom from Florence as a birthday gift for Daniela.
"It's just my supplies," Daniela said quietly, finally turning around, her dark eyes wide with a mix of fear and defiance. "Dad said I could use this room however I want."
"Your father has a business to run, Daniela. He doesn't have time to coddle your messy hobbies," Patricia snapped, unscrewing the cap of the oil paint. "And frankly, this room smells toxic. It’s affecting the air quality of the entire west wing."
Before Daniela could protest, Patricia deliberately tipped the open jar of crimson paint directly over the center of Daniela’s nearly finished canvas.
A thick, dark red streak cascaded down the paper, obliterating hours of meticulous shading, destroying the face of the flower in a grotesque mimicry of a bleeding wound.
Daniela let out a sharp, choked gasp, leaping out of her stool. "No! No, why did you do that? That took me three weeks!"
Patricia’s reaction was chillingly calm. She set the empty jar down with a soft clink, her lips curling into a cruel, patronizing smile.
"Clean this up, Daniela. And if you even think about crying to your father with another one of your melodramatic stories, I’ll make sure he cancels Martina’s tuition payment by tomorrow morning. Do you understand me?"
On the screen, Daniela stood paralyzed. Her small hands shook violently at her sides. She didn't scream. She didn't fight back. She just nodded once, her lower lip bleeding from how hard she was biting it, while Patricia turned on her heel and glided out of the room like a ghost leaving a trail of destruction.
In the security room, Mr. Vance felt something inside his chest snap.
It wasn't a sudden explosion of rage; it was the cold, terrifying click of a lock turning over a black abyss. The man who had built a multi-million-dollar tech empire through ruthless strategy and unyielding precision realized he had been completely outmaneuvered in his own home by a predator disguised as a wife.
"Marcus," Mr. Vance said, his voice entirely devoid of warmth.
"Yes, sir?"
"Lock down the estate perimeter. No one leaves. No deliveries, no staff departures, no exceptions. Call security dispatch and have our private security team secure the main gates."
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"Done, sir," Marcus replied, a grim smile touching the corner of his mouth. "I locked the perimeter gates five minutes before you came down here. Nobody is going anywhere until you say so."
"Good," Mr. Vance whispered, his eyes locked on the monitor where Patricia was now walking down the grand staircase, laughing lightly on her phone with one of her socialite friends. "Now let's see what else she’s been hiding in my house."
