Chapter 3 - The Panic of the Matriarch“Julia? Thank God you picked up,” Constance’s voice trembled through the speaker, carrying the raw, ragged edge of a woman whose world was actively burning to the ground.
I didn't say a word. I simply took a slow, deliberate sip of my green tea, letting the silence stretch out between us like a physical barrier.
“Julia, are you there?” Constance demanded, her aristocratic composure completely evaporating as the reality of what was happening in Boston began to sink in. “Listen to me very carefully. We need to talk. You need to come back to Boston immediately.”
“Come back?” I finally spoke, my voice smooth, chillingly polite, and entirely devoid of warmth. “Constance, if I recall correctly, your exact words three days ago were that my marriage was a failure because I couldn't give your precious son the children he needed. Why on earth would I return to a house where I was treated like an uninvited guest?”
There was a sharp gasp on the other end of the line.
“That... that was a misunderstanding!” Constance stammered, her voice pitching into a frantic octave. “Richard was... he wasn't thinking clearly! We’ve all been under immense stress with the upcoming wedding and the corporate restructuring! Look, Julia, whatever settlement he gave you—we’ll double it. Tripled! Just name your price, get on a private flight back to Boston this afternoon, and let’s resolve this quietly.”
I let out a soft, low laugh that echoed over the crashing waves.
“Double it? Constance, fifty million dollars is barely enough to cover the dry-cleaning bill for the clothes I left behind in that mausoleum you call a townhouse. You think you can buy me back like a used piece of furniture?”
“Julia, please!” Constance sobbed openly now, the sound of her aristocratic dignity shattering into a million jagged pieces. “You don't understand what’s happening! Everything is falling apart! Richard is out of his mind, the board is in open revolt, and... and Brianna... that wretched girl—!”
“What about Brianna?” I asked innocently, though my eyes were fixed on the genetic screening report glowing on my tablet.
“She’s gone,” Constance whispered, the words tumbling out in a panicked rush. “She packed her bags an hour ago, cleared out our safe, and left a note saying she was moving into a penthouse on Park Avenue paid for by... by Julian Vance.”
Ah. So the truth was finally bleeding out into the open.
Julian Vance hadn't just planted his heirs in the Hollis household; he had timed the detonation of his trap to coincide precisely with the moment Richard legally divorced me and severed his ties to my family’s protective capital. Stripped of my financial backing, isolated from his board of directors, and saddled with another man’s twins, Richard Hollis was standing right at the edge of an absolute financial and social precipice.
“Well, Constance,” I said smoothly. “It sounds like you have a wonderful new family to celebrate with. Why are you calling me? Shouldn't you be planning the baby shower with Julian?”
“Julia, listen to me!” Constance pleaded, her voice breaking entirely. “I’m at Logan Airport right now. My private jet is cleared for takeoff. I’m coming to California.”
I raised an eyebrow. “To California? Whatever for? Malibu is far too casual for someone of your high-society pedigree. You might soil your designer coat on the sand.”
“I’m coming to find you,” Constance declared with desperate resolve. “Because you are the only person who can save my son. You are the only person who has the connections, the capital, and the legal leverage to stop Julian Vance from destroying us completely.”
“Save Richard?” I repeated, the words tasting like ash on my tongue. “Constance, you spent twelve years telling me I wasn't good enough for your family. You stood by while your son humiliated me, replaced me with his mistress, and tossed me out like trash. And now you expect me to play the rescuing hero?”
“I’ll beg if I have to!” Constance cried out, unmoored from every ounce of pride she had ever possessed. “I’ll get on my knees in front of you, Julia! Just... please don't hang up. I’ll be at your estate in Malibu by tonight.”
Click.
The line went dead.
I lowered the phone slowly, looking out across the vast, glittering expanse of the Pacific Ocean.
May you like
Twelve years of quiet suffering, endless medical appointments, and biting insults had all led to this exact moment. The mighty Constance Hollis—the untouchable queen of Boston high society—was currently flying across the country, desperate to beg forgiveness from the very woman she had tried so hard to erase.
And she still had no idea that I hadn't even played my best card yet.
