Don’t stop here—continue reading to discover the next part of the story.

-2

The morning sun filtered through the grand arched windows of the Vance mansion’s breakfast parlor, casting warm beams across the imported Italian marble dining table. The room smelled of freshly brewed Blue Mountain coffee, toasted brioche, and expensive citrus flowers.

Andrew Vance sat at the head of the table, dressed in a bespoke charcoal Brioni suit, casually flipping through the financial section of The Wall Street Journal while sipping his coffee. Across from him, Brenda sat in a silk dressing gown, her manicured fingers delicately peeling a fresh fig. She looked radiant in the morning light, her demeanor dripping with the smug satisfaction of a woman who believed she had permanently conquered her rival.

"I still can't believe you threw her out so easily last night," Brenda murmured, smiling as she poured herself a cup of coffee. "Honestly, Andrew, keeping her around for four years was an act of charity. A woman with her boring hair, cheap handbags, and complete lack of pedigree... she never belonged in our world."

Andrew lowered the newspaper, a self-satisfied smirk playing on his lips. He reached across the table, taking Brenda’s hand and kissing the back of her knuckles.

"Charity is the right word, darling," Andrew said smoothly. "When I found her in that modest suburban apartment four years ago, she looked like a lost puppy. I thought, Why not give her a taste of real society? I dressed her up, introduced her to high-net-worth circles, gave her a roof over her head. But people from lower backgrounds never truly learn gratitude. They take, take, take, and the moment you demand a little respect, they play the victim."

At that moment, Margaret Vance glided into the breakfast parlor, wearing an immaculate cashmere sweater draped over her shoulders, her fingers adorned with heavy diamond rings. She took her seat with practiced elegance.

"Is the maid finally gone?" Margaret asked coldly, not even bothering to look up as she reached for the silver coffee pot. "I expect her belongings are already in the trash bin by the front gates. We cannot have her lingering around polluting the neighborhood."

"Security escorted her off the property at dawn, Mother," Andrew replied, chuckling softly. "She didn't take much anyway. Just her battered brown leather purse and a few plain dresses. Honestly, by tonight, she’ll probably be crawling back, begging for bus fare. But she crossed the line. Striking my mother’s honor over a family heirloom... I’ll never forgive that."

"You handled it like a true patriarch, my son," Margaret praised, taking a sip of her coffee. "Brenda is a breath of fresh air compared to that ungrateful peasant. Look at her—grace, beauty, high society breeding. That is the kind of woman who belongs in this family."

Brenda flushed with pleasure, leaning in to kiss Andrew’s cheek. "Once the divorce is finalized and you settle the assets, we should host a grand gala right here in this mansion. Celebrate a new beginning."

Before Andrew could reply, the heavy mahogany doors of the breakfast parlor burst open.

It wasn't a maid. It wasn't a butler.

It was Thomas, the senior estate manager, his face drained of all color, his breathing ragged as if he had just run a marathon up the grand staircase. He clutched an iPad in his trembling hands, his knuckles white.

Andrew frowned, irritation flashing across his face. "Thomas! What is the meaning of this intrusion? Can't you see we are having breakfast?"

"Sir..." Thomas stammered, his voice cracking with panic. "You... you need to look at the corporate terminal immediately."

Andrew let out an annoyed sigh, tossing his napkin onto the table. "What is it now? Did one of the junior analysts misplace a quarterly report?"

"No, sir," Thomas whispered, his eyes wide with horror. "Every single corporate account... they're gone."

Andrew froze, the smirk slipping entirely from his face. "What do you mean, gone?"

"At exactly nine o'clock this morning," Thomas rushed out, frantically tapping the screen of the iPad and holding it toward Andrew, "the central clearing house executed a total asset freeze on Vance Industries. All domestic credit lines have been revoked with zero balance. The primary operating accounts at First National Bank show a zero balance, and our institutional investors have just issued emergency divestment notices."

Margaret dropped her silver spoon, the metal clattering loudly against her porcelain plate. "That's absurd! Call our chief financial officer! Call our banking partners! This is a technical glitch!"

"I tried, Madam," Thomas said, his voice shaking uncontrollably. "Mr. Vance’s CFO just called me from his car. He said the federal SEC and private equity auditors have already seized the downtown headquarters. The master debenture agreements holding all company assets... they weren't backed by our collateral. They were backed by an anonymous private trust."

Andrew stood up so abruptly his chair tipped backward, crashing loudly against the marble floor. He snatched the iPad from Thomas’s hands, his eyes scanning the digital financial summary.

Every single line showed red.

Frozen. Seized. Revoked. Bankruptcy proceedings initiated.

"This is impossible!" Andrew shouted, his face turning an ugly shade of crimson. "We have twenty million in liquid assets! We own the patents on the new biomedical software! We own this mansion!"

"Sir... we don't own anything," Thomas whispered, his voice barely audible. "The deed to this mansion... it's not registered under your name. It’s registered under a private holding entity called Escalante Global Real Estate."

The name echoed in the silent parlor like a gunshot.

Escalante.

Brenda stood up, her face turning pale beneath her makeup, her voice trembling. "Andrew... what is going on? What does this mean?"

Andrew didn't answer. He stared at the iPad screen, his hands shaking so violently he almost dropped the device. A cold sweat broke out across his forehead as a terrifying, impossible realization began to form in the back of his mind.

The quiet wife.

The woman who never complained about money.

The woman who always seemed to know the exact right investors to call whenever his company faced a crisis.

The woman he had slapped, humiliated, and thrown out into the rain just twelve hours ago.