Chapter 8 - The Fall of the Matriarch
The chaos that erupted in the plaza was immediate and ferocious.
Flashbulbs popped from nowhere as early-morning journalists and paparazzi—tipped off by Richard’s carefully placed anonymous alerts—swarmed the base of the granite steps. Microphones were thrust into faces, cameras whirred, and Eleanor Vance, the undisputed queen of Chicago’s high society, was handcuffed on the public steps of the federal courthouse.
For a terrifying second, Eleanor didn't fight the marshals. She simply turned her head, fixing me with a look of pure, unadulterated hatred that would have haunted me a week ago.
"You are nothing without me, Marcus," she spat as they led her toward the glass doors. "You’ll be begging for my scraps before the week is out!"
"Enjoy your stay, sister-in-law," Richard called out cheerfully, tipping an imaginary hat. "I'll make sure the prison commissary stocks your favorite imported tea!"
As the heavy glass doors closed behind Eleanor and her escort, the plaza slowly quieted down. The reporters surged forward, shouting questions at me, shoving cameras into my face.
“Mr. Vance! Is it true you resigned from the Vance Hotel Group?” “Who are the children? Are you the father?” “Is this the end of the Vance dynasty?”
I didn't answer them. I pulled Evelyn closer to my side, shielding the boys from the glaring lights, and let Richard clear a path through the media mob toward a waiting cab.
Once we were safely inside the car, speeding away from the epicenter of the media storm, the heavy silence of exhaustion and disbelief settled over us. Evelyn leaned her head against my shoulder, her body finally relaxing for the first time in six years.
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"We actually did it," she whispered, her voice cracking with emotion. "It's really over."
"It's not over, Ev," I said softly, looking out the window at the skyline of Chicago rushing past. "It's just beginning."
