Chapter 3 - THE MIDNIGHT SURVEILLANCE
-3
By midnight, the glittering facade of Hawthorne Hall had gone dark. The last of the high-society guests had departed, carrying whispered gossip about the bride whose dress had famously disintegrated on live ballroom furniture. The catering staff had packed away the leftover silver, and the parking lot was completely empty save for my sedan and Daniel’s leased luxury sports car idling near the VIP exit.
I didn't go home immediately. Instead, I sat in the dim interior of my car parked across the street, watching the main entrance of the venue through a pair of high-powered theater binoculars.
My phone buzzed against the center console. I picked it up and tapped the screen, opening a direct video feed from the Hawthorne Hall venue manager.
"Mr. Arthur," a nervous, hushed voice whispered through the speaker. "I've secured the security archive just like you asked. The exterior cameras covering the service hallway, and the interior dome camera directly above Table Four and the bride’s prep area... I've downloaded all of it onto an encrypted flash drive."
"Excellent work, Marcus," I replied, keeping my eyes fixed on the glass doors across the street. "Did you review the footage yourself?"
"Yes, sir," the manager swallowed hard, his voice trembling slightly. "I... I saw what your son and his new wife were doing. Squeezing that industrial tube of super glue all over your wife’s designated chair... Good grief, Mr. Arthur, if Mrs. Arthur had sat there, it would have ripped the skin right off her legs. It could have caused a severe medical emergency."
"That was precisely their intention, Marcus," I said coldly. "Greed and malice rarely concern themselves with safety protocols. Put that flash drive in a sealed envelope and lock it in your office safe. I’ll pick it up on Monday morning."
"Understood, sir. Are you... are you going to press charges?"
"Charges are for common criminals, Marcus," I replied, a dark, humorless smile touching my lips. "We are going to conduct a corporate restructuring."
I hung up the phone just as the glass doors of Hawthorne Hall pushed open.
Daniel emerged first, carrying three heavy garment bags over his shoulder, his face etched with exhaustion and lingering anger. Right behind him hurried Vanessa. She had changed out of her ruined wedding gown and into a chic white designer pantsuit, though her posture remained stiff and defensive. She was frantically tapping away at her smartphone screen, her face illuminated by the harsh blue light of the display.
"I'm telling you, Daniel, your parents are absolute redneck trash," Vanessa hissed, her voice carrying across the empty pavement as they approached the sports car. "Did you see the way your mother looked at me during the toast? Like a cow staring at a passing train! And your father... I swear to God, he knew. He sat there smiling like a serial killer!"
Daniel unlocked the car doors with a sharp beep, tossing the garment bags into the back seat. "Drop it, Vanessa. We're heading to the airport. The private jet leaves for Bora Bora in four hours, and I don't want to think about my parents for the next two weeks. Let them sit in their boring little suburb and rot."
"And my dress? Who’s paying for my dress?!" Vanessa shrieked, slamming the passenger door shut after herself.
Daniel didn't answer. He slid into the driver's seat, slammed his own door, and peeled out of the parking lot with a screech of tires, kicking up gravel as they roared off toward the interstate highway, escaping into a honeymoon funded entirely by my capital and engineered by their own delusions.
Let them go to Bora Bora. Let them sip champagne on white sand beaches and post glamorous photos to social media.
A honeymoon is temporary.
Bankruptcy is permanent.
I waited until their taillights disappeared around the corner of the highway ramp. Then, I put my sedan in gear, signaled, and drove quietly back toward our quiet, modest home in the suburbs—a home that didn't have a single mortgage payment, a single debt, or a single drop of artificial pretense.
When I unlocked the front door, the house was dark and silent. Elena had already gone upstairs to bed, exhausted by the emotional roller coaster of the day. I walked into the kitchen, poured myself a glass of tap water, and looked out the window at the blooming rose bushes in the backyard—bushes I had planted myself, tended myself, and pruned myself.
They grew strong because the soil was honest.
May you like
Daniel had forgotten where he came from. He thought he was an oak tree towering over the forest, when in reality, he was just a parasitic vine clinging to a wall I had built with my own bare hands.
And on Monday morning, I was going to unhook the vine.
