Chapter 3 - Amber and Shards
The sound wasn’t a clean crack. It was an apocalyptic roar—a deafening, multi-layered explosion of thick, hand-blown crystal, shattering internal glass partitions, and sixty-year-old high-proof tequila slamming into mahogany and wool.
CRASH.
The impact sent a shockwave straight up the handle and into my wrists, a sharp, numbing jolt that felt magnificent. The top half of the eighty-thousand-dollar bottle simply vanished into a cloud of glittering glass dust, while the dense, syrupy amber core erupted outward in a dark wave.
Bernice let out a sound that wasn't quite human—half shriek, half animal choke—as a heavy spray of the expensive liquor hit her designer trousers, staining the cream-colored silk a deep, sticky brown.
“You—you insane, backwoods bitch!” she screamed, stumbling backward until her lower back slammed against the marble fireplace hearth. “Scott is going to destroy you! He’s going to strip you of every single dime, leave you naked on the highway, and throw you in a public ward!”
I didn't stop.
The momentum of the first swing carried me in a natural arc. I planted my left foot, twisted my torso, and brought the heavy orange head down a second time—directly onto the base of the pedestal, splintering the mahogany legs and sending the heavy brass plaque clattering across the floor.
The room instantly filled with an overwhelming, suffocating wave of alcohol fumes—heavy with notes of charred oak, vanilla, and old leather. It smelled less like a luxury investment and more like a cheap tavern after a midnight brawl.
Bits of glass crunched beneath my shoes as I lowered the sledgehammer, letting the heavy head rest gently on the ruined rug.
I looked up at Bernice. She was sliding down the marble hearth, her knees pulled toward her chest, her hands fluttering uselessly over her stained trousers as if she could brush away eighty thousand dollars with her fingertips.
“You think Scott owns this house, Bernice?” I asked. My voice was calm, conversational, almost gentle—the kind of tone a doctor uses before delivering an amputation notice.
“He paid for the renovations!” she gasped, her chest heaving underneath her silk blouse. “He signed the papers! His name is on the gate pass, the insurance, the tax ledger!”
“His name is on the window dressing,” I corrected her, reaching slowly into the deep pocket of my cardigan. I pulled out a heavy, waterproof manila folder secured with a red elastic band. “Scott was very thorough when he hired his corporate lawyers to vet me before our wedding. He wanted to make sure I wasn't after a piece of his precious consulting firm.”
I walked over, knelt down, and tossed the folder onto her lap. It landed with a heavy, flat slap against her knees.
“Unfortunately for him,” I continued, standing back up and looking down at her crumpled figure, “he forgot to check who actually owned the land beneath his feet before he started building his little empire.”
Bernice’s trembling, ring-laden fingers clawed at the red band. She snapped it with a frantic pull, dragging out the thick stack of parchment papers inside.
The top sheet was stamped with the raised gold seal of the State Superior Court—a primary deed of trust dated seven years before Scott had even graduated from business school.
“The... The Sterling Trust?” she whispered, her eyes darting across the legal jargon like a trapped bird. “No. This... this must be forged. Scott’s firm handled the acquisition from the developers—”
“Scott’s firm handled the residential sublease,” I interrupted smoothly. “Which means every month, his corporate account pays thirty-two thousand dollars in rent to a holding company.”
I pulled my phone from my pocket, the screen glowing brightly in the dim, alcohol-saturated room.
May you like
“And right now,” I added, tapping the speakerphone icon, “the primary trustee is exercising her right to terminate the occupancy agreement due to a severe breach of property maintenance standards and unacceptable hostility toward registered guests.”
I hit dial.
