At precisely 6:30 AM, the heavy oak front door didn’t just open—it practically rattled off its hinges as Eleanor Vance stormed into my entryway.
She possessed the presence of a woman used to commanding obedience through sharp tongue lashings and calculated social ostracization. Clad in a crisp pastel suit, her silver hair arranged in a rigid, unforgiving bun, she carried her leather handbag like a weapon. Behind her slunk Julian, looking thoroughly miserable, a thick white tensor bandage wrapped snugly around his bruised wrist and arm.
I was sitting calmly at my granite kitchen island, sipping a freshly brewed black coffee, dressed in my tailored corporate trousers and silk blouse. My laptop sat open before me, displaying my firm’s secure encrypted portal.
“You absolute savage!” Eleanor shrieked, her voice echoing off the high ceilings of my condo. “Look at what you did to my boy! He comes to me in tears in the middle of the night, bleeding, his arm nearly broken! Is this how a dutiful wife treats the man who honored her with his name?!”
I set my ceramic mug down with a soft, deliberate clink. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t stand up.
“Good morning, Eleanor,” I said, my tone as smooth and unbothered as glass. “I see you didn’t bother knocking.”
