Chapter 3: The Banquet of Ruin
I walked through the corridors of my building, the Louboutins clicking sharply against the concrete like a reaper counting down the seconds. The front door was cracked open to let the heat out.
From inside, Eleanor’s shrill, bragging laugh pierced the air. “Oh, you all just wait! She swore she’d cook sixty heritage dishes completely from scratch! That is how you show respect to your elders!”
The corners of my mouth curled into a frigid smile. I shoved the heavy door open with everything I had.
BANG!
The door slammed brutally against the drywall. The deafening noise instantly assassinated the joyful chatter. Dozens of eyes snapped toward the entryway.
Eleanor, draped in the two-thousand-dollar silk blouse I bought her, sat in the center of the room. Her smug pride froze awkwardly. Vance sat beside her, a craft beer in hand. He blinked in stupid confusion at my navy power suit and flawless makeup before feral rage exploded across his features.
“What the hell kind of game are you playing, Sloan?” Vance leaped up. “Where have you been? Where is the food? Are you trying to feed my family air?”
Eleanor slammed her teacup down. “Do you have any respect for me at all? Where is my sixty-course feast?”
“Oh, relax, Eleanor,” my voice cut through the room, cold and unwavering. “It’s your sixtieth Jubilee. The sixty dishes you demanded. I didn’t forget a single one.”
I signaled the hallway. The two sweating movers hauled the massive cardboard boxes into the apartment and dropped them right in the middle of the cramped living room with a heavy thud.
Vance kicked the side of a box. “What is this garbage?”
“Open it and find out.”
A mover slashed the tape and threw open the flaps. An overpowering, cheap smell of stale grease, processed meat, and synthetic cheese violently assaulted the room. Inside were rows upon rows of crushed, foil-wrapped packages. They were one-dollar-and-fifty-cent gas station hot dogs and smashed dollar-menu cheeseburgers.
The living room descended into a graveyard silence. I stepped forward, reached into the box, and pulled out a squashed, greasy burger. I walked right up to Eleanor and dropped it softly onto the pristine table in front of her.
“Eleanor. Dish number one.”
I grabbed a soggy hot dog. “Dish number two.”
“Are you out of your mind?!” Vance snapped, his face flushing apoplectic purple. He lunged forward, sweeping his arm across the table. The greasy burgers went flying. Ketchup, mustard, and chunks of gray meat splattered across the hardwood. A massive glob of greasy chili hit the hem of Eleanor’s pristine silk blouse.
“My blouse!” Eleanor shrieked, leaping up in horror. She pointed a trembling finger at me. “You dare serve me pig slop to humiliate me? You want me dead, don’t you?”
The relatives erupted in shocked gasps and relentless criticisms. “Sloan, you have zero class!”
“Shut your mouths!” I spun around. My gaze, sharp as a scalpel, swept across the crowd. The sheer pressure of my voice shocked the chaotic room into instant silence.
“Class? Respect?” I let out a dark, chilling laugh. “When Vance grabbed me by my hair, smashed me against the granite, locked me in the kitchen, and threatened to throw me on the street if I missed one dish… where was your talk about class?”
The relatives’ faces morphed instantly. They fell dead silent, looking at Vance with horror.
Vance’s eyes darted wildly. “What the hell are you talking about? I’ll kill you, you lying—”
He raised his fist to swing at my face. The second his hand went up, the two plainclothes officers surged forward like linebackers.
“Hold it right there! Chicago PD!” The older officer wrenched Vance’s wrist brutally behind his back and slammed him face-first into the drywall. Vance let out a yelp of pain, struggling wildly.
Eleanor collapsed onto the sofa, drained of blood. “Officers, you have the wrong man! This is a private domestic dispute!”
“A domestic dispute?” I reached into my bag, pulled out the legal documents stamped with the red seal of the court, and held them high. “Today, in front of this entire family, the police, and the press, I am officially filing for divorce from Vance!”
I threw the thick stack of papers onto the table, right on top of the smeared ketchup. “These sixty gas station burgers are the absolute last ounce of devotion I will ever give this family. From this day forward, I owe you nothing. But what you owe me, I will extract through the court of law with interest.”
Vance roared against the drywall. “You ungrateful wretch! What gives you the right?”
“Based on the fact that you are a violent abuser.” Without hesitation, I pulled out my phone, maxed out the volume, and hit play.
Vance’s cruel, arrogant voice played with crystal clarity. “Sixty dishes tomorrow… You are staying in this kitchen tonight…” Followed immediately by the sickening smack of the struggle, my hysterical scream, and the deadbolt clicking shut.
The relatives stood with their mouths hanging open.
I slammed the thick stack of printed PowerPoint slides onto the table. “Everyone, open your eyes! These are the chat logs from Eleanor. Read them. ‘She’s a worthless peasant. She can’t even give me a grandson. We are cursed having her in our house.’”
Eleanor’s lips quivered. “You’re framing me! I never said that!”
“Everyone here can check their own chat history right now!” I sneered.
But I wasn’t finished. My voice dropped, carrying a tremor I fought to control. I pulled out the final document—the medical records stamped in red ink.
“Last February, I was three months pregnant.” I pointed directly at Eleanor’s face, my tears finally breaking free—tears of hatred carved into my bones. “When the ultrasound tech told you my baby was a girl, you forced me into a car. You drove me to an unlicensed, illicit clinic across state lines.”
I glared at Vance. “You pinned me down in the back seat. You dragged me inside. The doctor warned you the procedure could cause permanent infertility. But you held me down while they forced a chemical termination on me.”
I played the final audio file. Eleanor’s heartless voice scraped the room. “A girl is useless to this family. Get rid of it so she isn’t a burden. If she can’t have kids after, who cares?”
The room exploded. An elderly aunt covered her mouth in absolute horror. “Eleanor… this is a mortal sin! To destroy your own grandchild because it was a girl?”
Public opinion flipped instantly. The relatives’ expressions shifted to pure, unadulterated disgust. Eleanor threw herself onto the floor, weeping hysterically, desperately trying to change the narrative.
“The only people burning in hell are you two!” I roared. I turned to Rowan, the reporter, and the officers. “Domestic battery, psychological torture, and medical coercion resulting in bodily harm. I believe that is enough to press charges.”
“More than enough,” Darcy stepped forward, radiating menace. “And as of this exact second, this Order of Protection means if you come within three hundred feet of my client, you go to jail.”
I picked up my bag, straightened my spine, and walked straight out the door of that putrid, rotting house without a single backward glance. The midday sun felt blinding. The boulder crushing my chest lifted slightly.
But the war wasn’t over. They were about to unleash a monster from the shadows.
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