Chapter 3 - Blood on the Ivory Silk
My mother let out a strangled gasp, her hand flying to her throat. “No! That’s absurd! We’ve lived in that house for thirty years! We run Vance Logistics! You can’t take that away from us because of a family dispute!”
“This is not a dispute, Beatrice,” Mr. Harlan said coldly. “This is assault with a deadly weapon, felony destruction of property, and attempted extortion.”
My father snapped. With a primal roar of rage, he lunged across the fitting room, swinging the hammer toward Mr. Harlan’s head.
“Dad, no!” Lila shrieked.
Before the hammer could descend, the delivery driver and the wedding photographer—two broad-shouldered men who had been watching in horror from the doorway—pounced forward. The photographer grabbed my father’s wrist, forcing his arm down onto the marble table until the hammer clattered uselessly to the floor. The delivery driver pinned my father against the mirror, holding his arms behind his back.
“Get your hands off me!” my father screamed, struggling against the two men, his hair disheveled, his eyes wild with unhinged fury. “I am Robert Vance! I own this city!”
“You don't even own the shoes on your feet, Mr. Vance,” Mrs. Delaney, the seamstress, said with quiet, absolute disgust. She stepped forward, holding her phone to her ear. “The police are already in the elevator. And I’ve just sent the security camera footage from this room directly to Mr. Ethan Voss’s personal assistant.”
At the mention of Ethan’s name, Lila’s entire demeanor shattered. She yanked the delicate ivory veil from her head, tearing the lace in her panic.
“You sent it to Ethan?” Lila cried, running toward Mrs. Delaney. “Delete it! Delete it right now! You don't know what you’re doing! He’s going to marry me!”
I stepped into Lila’s path, blocking her. Though my face was bleeding and swollen, my presence was overwhelming.
“Ethan wouldn't look at you if you were the last woman on earth, Lila,” I said softly. “You wanted my dress. You wanted my life. You wanted my fiancé. But all you’ve ever been is a shadow living off my scraps.”
Lila raised her hand to strike me, her face contorted in ugly, childish rage, but Mr. Harlan stepped between us, holding up his phone.
“I wouldn't do that, young lady,” Mr. Harlan warned. “The officers are in the hallway.”
The heavy mahogany double doors of the boutique flew open. Four uniformed police officers rushed into the private fitting room, their boots clicking sharply against the polished floor.
“Drop the weapon! Stand clear!” the lead officer commanded, his hand resting on his holster.
The delivery driver stepped back, releasing my father. My father straightened his suit jacket, attempting to regain his aristocratic posture, though his hands were shaking violently.
“Officer, thank god you’re here,” my mother chimed in instantly, her tone shifting seamlessly into that of a victimized matriarch. “My eldest daughter had an unstable emotional episode. She attacked her father and destroyed her own wedding gown. We were simply trying to restrain her—”
“Save it, ma'am,” the lead officer interrupted, looking at the blood pouring from my cheek, the torn gown on the floor, and the heavy iron hammer resting on the table. “We’ve already reviewed the live feed provided by the boutique’s security system. Hands behind your back, sir.”
Two officers stepped up to my father. Before he could speak another word, they pulled his arms behind his spine and snapped heavy steel handcuffs over his wrists.
“You can’t arrest me!” my father screamed as he was dragged toward the door. “Claire! Tell them to stop! You owe me! I raised you! You’re nothing without me!”
May you like
I stood silently, watching him struggle against the steel constraints.
“I owe you nothing, Dad,” I said quietly as the officers marched him into the hallway. “Not anymore.”
