Chapter 4 - THE EMPTY THRONE
The fallout within the Vance family was glorious in its speed and brutality.
By Tuesday afternoon, the elite social circles of Manhattan were buzzing with the kind of gossip that wealthy elites lived for. The story of the arrogant lawyer who got arrested in the Hamptons after shoving his tech-founder wife into a freezing pool had leaked to the tabloids. Someone—likely one of the caterers or disgruntled guests who had witnessed the humiliation—had sold cousin Brooks's video to a digital gossip outlet.
Within hours, the video was everywhere.
Millions of views showed Preston’s smug face, his arms outstretched like a performer, followed by my terrifying plunge into the black water. The internet did what the internet does best: it went feral. Within twenty-four hours, the hashtag #HamptonsAbuser was trending nationwide. Public opinion turned on Preston and his family with terrifying speed.
I sat in my corner office on the fortieth floor of Apex Technologies, watching the city skyline blur through the glass, when my executive assistant buzzed through.
"Chloe, your mother-in-law is downstairs in the lobby," she said, her voice dripping with well-disguised contempt. "Security tried to turn her away, but she's causing a scene, demanding to see you."
"Send her up," I said quietly.
Ten minutes later, the heavy glass doors of my office swung open. Vivian Vance walked in, but the haughty, untouchable queen bee of old money was entirely gone. Her hair was slightly disheveled, her designer Chanel jacket was wrinkled, and the fierce arrogance in her eyes had been replaced by a desperate, sputtering fury.
"You arrogant little monster," Vivian hissed, marching straight toward my desk. "Do you have any idea what you've done? Preston's firm suspended him indefinitely! His partners are refusing to take his calls! Our family name is being dragged through the gutter by every low-class tabloid in the country!"
I didn't stand up. I simply looked at her over the rim of my reading glasses, letting the silence stretch until her own words hung heavily in the air between us.
"Your family name was built on empty air and unpaid debts, Vivian," I said calmly. "I looked into your family's financial holdings last week. That historic estate in Greenwich? Heavily mortgaged. The trust funds you love to brag about? Mostly depleted by bad investments and high-society gambling debts. You were never old money, Vivian. You were just very expensive liars."
Vivian staggered back a half-step, her face flushing crimson. "How dare you speak to me like that! I am your elder! I raised the man who made you relevant!"
"Preston made me relevant?" I stood up slowly, walking around the desk until I stood just inches away from her. I was no longer the woman who shrank away when she raised her voice. "Preston was an anchor tied to my ankles. He leeched off my success, mocked my intelligence, and thought he could treat me like a domestic servant because I had the decency to be polite. And you—you enabled every single second of it."
"He is your husband!" she shrieked, her voice cracking. "You are supposed to forgive him! That is what women in our position do!"
"I am not a woman in your position," I replied coldly. "I built my own empire from the ground up while your son was busy memorizing case law to impress men older than him. The marriage is over, Vivian. The penthouse is mine. The accounts are mine. And by the end of the week, Preston won't even be able to afford the gas to drive back to your miserable little estate."
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Vivian opened her mouth to scream another insult, but the absolute coldness in my eyes stopped her. She realized, with a sudden, horrifying clarity, that all her social leverage, all her weaponized pedigree, and all her condescending arrogance meant absolutely nothing against a woman who held all the cards and refused to play the game anymore.
Without another word, she turned on her heel and fled the office, the heavy glass doors swinging shut behind her.
