Chapter 9 - The Standoff in the Foyer: Confronting the Monster Who Stole My Entire Life
When my car screeched to a halt in front of the luxury glass tower downtown, I didn't wait for the valet.
I threw the car into park, left the door wide open, and sprinted across the pavement toward the revolving glass doors of the lobby.
The head concierge took one look at my pale, sweat-soaked face and didn't even try to stop me as I vaulted past the front desk toward the private elevator bank.
“Mr. Vance! The police units just pulled into the underground garage!” the concierge shouted behind me.
I didn't answer.
I slammed my fist against the elevator call button.
When the doors slid open, I lunged inside, pressing the penthouse floor button with frantic repetition as the metal box began its rapid ascent up forty-two stories.
Come on. Come on, move faster!
The digital floor numbers ticked upward with agonizing slowness: 35, 38, 40, 42.
Ding.
The elevator doors opened directly into the private foyer of our penthouse.
The scene that met my eyes froze me in my tracks.
The heavy oak front door of our apartment was standing wide open.
Shattered pieces of glass from a decorative vase lay scattered across the imported marble floor.
And standing right in the center of the entryway, holding a heavy silver candlestick like a club, was Bernice.
Her hair was slightly disheveled, her designer pantsuit immaculate, and her face twisted into a mask of cold, triumphant malice.
Walking slowly out of the hallway toward her, her hands raised defensively in front of her swollen belly, was Savannah.
Her face was pale, her eyes wide with terror, backing away step by step as Bernice advanced.
“You really thought you could lock me out of my own home, didn't you, you little parasite?” Bernice snarled, taking another menacing step toward my wife.
“You think you can turn my son against me and walk away with everything I built? I made Christopher! I gave him his life, his money, and his future! And you—you’re nothing!”
“Stay away from her!” I roared, bursting out of the elevator foyer like a freight train.
Bernice spun around instantly, her eyes widening in shock as I lunged across the marble floor, slamming into her with enough force to send the heavy silver candlestick flying from her hand.
It clattered loudly against the glass wall, gouging a deep scar into the surface.
I pinned my mother against the walnut console table, my hands gripping the lapels of her designer jacket, my face inches from hers.
“It’s over, Bernice,” I whispered, my voice shaking with a rage so profound it felt entirely detached from my body.
“I know everything.”
Bernice stopped struggling.
Her frantic expression instantly smoothed out, replaced by an eerie, chilling calmness that made my blood run cold.
She didn't look afraid.
She looked like a chess player who had just anticipated my opening move.
“Oh, Christopher,” Bernice whispered, a sickening, triumphant smile curving her painted lips.
“You think you’re so clever because you found a dusty old birth certificate in a desk drawer. But you didn't ask the most important question of all.”
I tightened my grip on her jacket.
“What question?”
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“Did you ever bother to wonder who your real parents were?” she whispered, her eyes locking onto mine with malicious glee.
“Because if you did, darling, you wouldn't be standing here threatening me. You’d be running for your life.”
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