Chapter 3 - The Queen Mother’s Wake-Up Call
Bertha Vance was sipping her morning chamomile tea in the sunroom of her sprawling estate when the television screen flickered. She didn't usually watch morning news, but the breaking banner across the screen made her coffee cup slip from her fingers, shattering against the marble floor.
“BREAKING: Vance Logistics Faces Immediate Liquidation; CEO Derek Vance Arrested on Federal Charges.”
“Ridiculous,” Bertha muttered to herself, her hands shaking as she reached for her vintage landline. She dialed her son’s private line. It rang out, eventually switching to a robotic automated voice: “This number is no longer in service.”
Panicking, she called her longtime socialite friend, Eleanor, whose husband sat on the board of the city’s most prestigious country club.
“Eleanor, darling, it’s Bertha. Have you seen this absurd news broadcast? Someone is playing a cruel prank on Derek’s company. Call Arthur and have him fix this immediately.”
There was a long, suffocating silence on the other end of the line. When Eleanor finally spoke, her voice was ice-cold and devoid of any warmth.
“Bertha... Arthur told me not to speak to you. In fact, nobody in our circle is allowed to take your calls anymore. Do you have any idea who you and Derek crossed?”
“Crossed?” Bertha scoffed, regaining a sliver of her haughty pride. “We crossed nobody! We only dealt with common trash—that useless retired mechanic, Arianne’s father. A pathetic old man who grew tomatoes in his backyard!”
“A retired mechanic?” Eleanor let out a harsh, bitter laugh. “Bertha, are you completely insane? That ‘mechanic’ is Jonathan Sterling. The founder and sole proprietor of Sterling Global Holdings. He owns half the real estate in this state, controls the shipping lanes, and personally finances the senators who keep your family out of federal penitentiaries. Your son didn’t just beat his daughter—he tried to murder the only heir to a multi-billion-dollar dynasty. Arthur says your family is finished. Do not ever call this house again.”
The dial tone hummed in Bertha’s ear.
The heavy oak doors of her sunroom swung open. Two private security guards, wearing suits bearing the Sterling Crest insignia, stepped inside without knocking.
“Mrs. Vance,” the lead guard said flatly, pulling out an official eviction notice. “You have thirty minutes to pack your personal belongings. This estate has been seized by order of the primary lienholder. A cab is waiting outside at the gates.”
“You can’t do this!” Bertha shrieked, rising from her chair with trembling fury. “I am a Vance! I belong to high society! I demand to speak to Jonathan Sterling right now!”
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“You already did,” a deep, calm voice echoed from the doorway.
I stepped into the sunroom, adjusting my cuffs, my eyes fixed on the woman who had tormented my daughter for six agonizing years. Bertha froze, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water as the terrifying truth finally settled into her marrow.
