Chapter 2: The Arsenal
By the time I was washing the third plate, heavy footsteps approached. A key slid into the lock and turned.
Vance stood in the doorway, arms crossed, the stench of IPA beer rolling off him. “Have you figured out the menu yet?” he demanded.
I turned off the faucet, dried my hands, and forced the corners of my mouth up into an obedient, groveling smile. “I have, Vance,” I whispered submissively. “It is your mother’s sixtieth. Only sixty dishes can truly honor her. Smoked brisket, buttermilk biscuits, a whole roasted turkey… Not a single one will be missing.”
Vance looked taken aback, clearly not expecting me to fold so completely. He eyed me suspiciously, hunting for a spark of rebellion. Finding only feigned humility, his overwhelming arrogance erased his doubts.
“Good to know you still have a brain,” he scoffed, triumph flashing in his eyes.
I bit my lip, pretending to hesitate. “But the fridge is practically empty. I don’t have the heavy cream or the right cuts of beef. If I wait until morning, I’ll never finish by noon. I need to go down to the 24-hour Meijer right now for one massive grocery run. I’ll stay up all night prepping.”
Vance checked the wall clock, weighing my words. “Make it fast,” he grunted, stepping aside. “Don’t try anything stupid. If you don’t have every ingredient when you get back, you’re not sleeping.”
“I’m going right now.” I kept my head down, grabbed my black work tote from the entryway, and slipped out the front door.
The moment the lobby doors closed behind me and the cool autumn wind of Chicago hit my face, I sprinted. I hailed a black SUV and directed it to River North. Looking back through the tinted windows at the hazy yellow square of our fifth-floor apartment, a razor-sharp smile stretched across my face.
Vance, Eleanor, the devotion you demanded will be delivered right on time.
Darcy’s penthouse was aggressively modern—stark blacks, whites, and grays with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering skyline. She was waiting in the lobby in silk pajamas and a cashmere trench coat. She didn’t ask questions; she just grabbed my freezing hand and pulled me into the elevator.
Upstairs, she sat me on a plush sofa, snapped on latex gloves, and parted my hair with clinical precision. I winced sharply as an alcohol swab hit my torn scalp.
“Now you feel the pain,” Darcy’s voice was tight with unrestrained fury. “You have two active lacerations. I’ve taken high-res photos. This is undeniable evidence of domestic battery. Sloan, I told you years ago that unweaned mama’s boy was going to eat you alive.”
“You were right,” I stared at my pale reflection in the glass coffee table. “I don’t just want a divorce, Darcy. I want to shatter them into a million pieces in front of their entire bloodline.”
A predatory smirk spread across Darcy’s face. “There’s the Sloan I remember. Let’s talk money. The condo appraises at seven-hundred-and-fifty thousand. Eleanor put down the down payment, but the deed is in both your names. You paid the mortgage for five years. That’s comingling of marital assets. Plus punitive damages for emotional distress… I can walk you out of there with four hundred thousand in liquid cash.”
The number made my head spin. I had agonized over buying mid-range moisturizer, thinking I was broke, while my money funded their lavish lifestyles.
“Do it,” I nodded. I pulled my phone from my bag. “But legal documents aren’t enough. Eleanor is a master manipulator. Her relatives will side with blood. I need your laptop. I’m making a PowerPoint.”
Darcy burst into a genuine laugh. “You get battered, flee to your lawyer’s, and your first instinct is a revenge PowerPoint? You are a psychopath.”
“If I’m going to destroy them, it needs to be bulletproof.”
I sat at her mahogany desk, my mind terrifyingly sharp.
Slide One: The Truth Behind the Collapse.
Slide Two: Photos of my bleeding scalp next to the transcribed audio of Vance’s assault.
Slide Three: Ten pages of group chat screenshots where Eleanor called me a “worthless peasant” and a “stain on the family.”
Slide Four: The darkest secret of all. My medical records from the previous February.
By the time I finished, the sky outside was turning a bruised purple.
“Change into this,” Darcy commanded, standing behind me with a bespoke navy-blue power suit and a pair of four-inch black Christian Louboutin stilettos. “Throw those cheap sweatpants in the incinerator. Today, you are not a punching bag. You are a debt collector.”
I washed the exhaustion away, applying my makeup sharp and aggressive. I pulled my hair into a flawless chignon. The woman in the mirror radiated a freezing aura.
At 11:30 AM, Darcy’s Mercedes glided to a halt in front of my condo building. Waiting for us were Rowan, a sharp-eyed investigative journalist, her cameraman, and two off-duty police officers acting as process servers.
“We’re here to keep the peace, ma’am,” the older officer said quietly. “If he tries anything physical, we drop him.”
Darcy handed me a thick manila folder containing the divorce petition and the freshly signed Order of Protection. From the fifth-floor balcony, I could hear the raucous noise of dozens of relatives packed into my living room, waiting for their feast.
I signaled toward a delivery truck parked on the street. Two hired movers hauled two massive, duct-taped cardboard boxes out of the back.
It’s time to serve the birthday banquet.
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