Chapter 3 - The Queen’s GambitAn hour later, the front glass doors of my corporate headquarters chimed.
Evelyn had arrived.
She didn't look like the untouchable matriarch who had sat sipping tea and mocking my fertility just yesterday afternoon. Her face was pale beneath layers of expensive powder, her designer sunglasses pushed up onto her head, and her breath came in short, ragged gasps. She had bypassed security by sheer force of upper-class entitlement, storming straight into my private executive suite with two of her closest socialite friends trailing behind her like confused ducklings.
"Victoria!" Evelyn shrieked, slamming her leather handbag onto my mahogany desk. "You delusional little parasite! How dare you pull such a pathetic stunt? Cutting off our accounts? Sending notices to our bank?"
I didn't look up from my tablet. I continued reading a financial report, letting the silence stretch out until the atmosphere in the room grew heavy and suffocating.
One of Evelyn’s friends shifted uncomfortably. "Evelyn, maybe we should—"
"Shut up, Martha!" Evelyn snapped, her eyes wide with rage as she pointed a manicured finger at me. "She’s a fraud! She crawled out of some working-class suburb with nothing, and my son gave her a name, a home, a life! And now she thinks she can lock us out of our own house?"
Slowly, deliberately, I set my tablet down. I stood up.
At five-foot-nine in my tailored crimson heels, I towered over Evelyn. For three years, I had shrunk myself to keep the peace, slouching at dinners, letting her win petty arguments, playing the dutiful, quiet wife.
Now, I straightened my posture to its full height, my eyes locking onto hers with a predator’s cold focus.
"Your house, Evelyn?" I asked, my voice carrying a quiet, lethal resonance that made all three women freeze.
I picked up a single manila folder from my desk and slid it across the polished wood. It stopped right at the edge of her manicured fingers.
"Open it," I commanded.
Evelyn’s hands trembled as she snatched the folder open. Her eyes darted across the first page—the master title deed of the Oakridge Estate.
Owner: Victoria Vance.
Not Daniel. Not the family trust. Me. Purchased five years before I even met Daniel, using the first major payout from my cybersecurity firm.
"This... this is forged," Evelyn stammered, her voice cracking as the color drained completely from her face. "You couldn't... where would a girl like you get millions of dollars?"
"While your son was partying in Ibiza and failing out of business school, I was building an empire," I replied, stepping around the desk and walking slowly toward her. "You called me barren, Evelyn. You mocked me for not giving your precious bloodline an heir. But you forgot one crucial detail."
May you like
I stopped inches from her face, looking down into her terrified eyes.
"An empire doesn't need an heir when its creator is immortal."
