Chapter 4 - The Domestic Siege
Back in Minneapolis, the morning sun brought no warmth to the luxury apartment. Beatrice sat at the dining table, her posture rigid, her fingers drumming an agitated tattoo against the polished wood. Raymond was pacing near the window, a fresh cigarette unlit between his lips, while Brenda scrolled through her social media feed with an air of calculated boredom.
“She’s bluffing,” Brenda said, tossing her phone onto the table. “Valerie has nowhere to go. She’s too proud to crawl back to her parents, and she loves her little corporate job too much to make a scene.”
“She’s stubborn,” Beatrice snapped, her eyes darting toward the hallway. “And that child of hers is a constant reminder of everything that went wrong with Mitchell’s choices. I told him years ago he should have married Arthur’s daughter from the country club. At least she knew her place.”
The heavy front door clicked open.
Mitchell stood in the entryway, his designer overcoat damp from the morning frost, his briefcase clutched tightly in his hand. He had caught the first red-eye flight out of Milwaukee after receiving Valerie’s cryptic text message and his mother’s frantic voicemails.
“What in God’s name is going on here?” Mitchell demanded, slamming his briefcase down onto the console table. “I get a message from Valerie saying Dad hit her and you shaved Daisy’s head, and now she’s unreachable!”
Beatrice didn't flinch. She stood up, smoothing down her apron with supreme confidence.
“Your wife is out of control, Mitchell. She lets that child run wild. My antique bracelet—the one my grandmother handed down to me on her deathbed—disappeared from my vanity. Daisy took it. We had to teach her a lesson before she grows up into a criminal just like her mother.”
Mitchell stared at his mother, a look of profound disbelief crossing his handsome features. “You shaved her head? Are you insane? Valerie is going to sue us—she’s going to tear our lives apart over this!”
“She won't do a damn thing,” Raymond grunted, stepping forward. “She’s living under our umbrella. If she doesn't like the rules of this house, she can pack her bags. And as for me hitting her—she was screaming, disrespectful, and out of line. Any man of honor would have done the same.”
Mitchell rubbed his temples, a splitting headache blooming behind his eyes. He pulled out his phone, dialed Valerie’s number once more, and listened to the dead, flat ringing tone.
“She’s blocking me,” Mitchell muttered, panic finally breaking through his polished exterior. “She’s actually blocking me.”
“Let her go,” Brenda scoffed, walking over to pour herself a mimosa from the fridge. “She’ll come crawling back by the end of the week when she realizes she can’t pay her hotel bills without your supplemental income. Honestly, Mitchell, you deserve better anyway. You’re a rising VP at logistics firm; you shouldn’t be tied down to a woman who thinks she’s an equal.”
Before Mitchell could reply, a sharp, authoritative knock echoed against the front door.
Three heavy thuds that made the brass knocker rattle on its hinges.
“Are you expecting someone?” Mitchell asked, frowning.
Beatrice frowned, walking toward the door. “No. Deliveries don't come this early.”
She turned the deadbolt and pulled the door open.
Standing in the hallway were two uniformed Minneapolis police officers, flanked by a tall, immaculately dressed man carrying a heavy leather briefcase.
“Is this the residence of Beatrice and Raymond Vance?” the lead officer asked, his hand resting casually on his utility belt.
“Yes,” Beatrice said, her voice finally losing a fraction of its steady arrogance. “I am Beatrice Vance. What is the meaning of this?”
The tall man stepped forward, opening his leather portfolio to reveal a stack of official court seals and embossed signatures.
“My name is Marcus Vance—no relation,” the attorney said, his voice cold and flat as steel. “I represent Valerie Vance. I am here to serve you with an emergency protective order, a summons for domestic battery, child abuse, and defamation, and a writ of replevin for all personal property currently belonging to my client.”
The officers stepped past the frozen family members into the foyer, their expressions unreadable.
“Wait a minute!” Mitchell shouted, lunging forward. “You can’t just walk in here—!”
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“Mr. Vance,” the lead officer interrupted, stepping squarely into Mitchell’s path. “I suggest you step back and keep your hands where we can see them. We also have a warrant to search the premises for stolen property related to a grand larceny report filed an hour ago.”
Brenda’s mimosa glass slipped from her fingers, shattering against the hardwood floor with a sharp, explosive crash.
