Chapter 3 - The King of Clay
Adrian’s eyes darted frantically between my father and the two large security guards standing by the SUVs. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing against his throat.
"Adrian?" Celeste asked, her high-pitched voice rising in panic as she grabbed his arm. "Who is this old man? Why is he on our property?"
"Shut up, Celeste," Adrian hissed, shaking her hand off. He took a slow, hesitant step down the porch stairs, his hands held out in front of him as if trying to placate a wild animal. "Mr. Vance, I... I didn't know you were coming to Chicago. I thought... well, Evelyn and I have been having some marital difficulties, as I'm sure she told you, but this is a private matter—"
"A private matter?" my father repeated, his voice dangerously soft. He walked slowly toward Adrian, his steps measured and heavy. "You walked into my daughter's hospital room—while she was still bleeding from giving birth to my grandsons—with your mistress on your arm. You threw divorce papers on her bed and called her ugly. Is that your idea of a 'private marital difficulty,' Adrian?"
Adrian’s face went from pale to a sickly, mottled green. He looked at me, his eyes wide with a sudden, horrifying realization.
For five years, Adrian had believed I was just an ordinary girl from Connecticut whose parents owned a small, modest hardware store. I had told him my father’s name was "Thomas Vance," which was true, but I had never mentioned that Thomas Vance was the "T.R. Vance" of Vance Global Logistics—a conglomerate that controlled forty percent of the commercial shipping ports on the East Coast.
"Evelyn..." Adrian whispered, his voice trembling. "You... you didn't tell me."
"Why would I?" I asked, stepping forward. I felt no pain in my abdomen now; the adrenaline had completely numbed my body. "I wanted a husband who loved me for who I was, Adrian. I wanted to build a life from scratch. I gave you five years of my life, my youth, and my love. I cooked your meals, I washed your clothes, and I supported you while you built your pathetic little career. And this is what I get?"
I pointed to Celeste, who was now clutching her Birkin bag against her chest like a shield.
"She can have you, Adrian," I said, my voice steady and cold. "But she’s going to have to pay for you. Because as of five minutes ago, you are completely, utterly broke."
"What are you talking about?" Adrian yelled, trying to regain his footing. "You can't freeze my accounts! I earned that money! The house is in my name! The deed is registered!"
"The deed was registered under a mortgage held by Oak Park National Bank," my father said, pulling a set of legal documents from his jacket pocket. "A bank that was acquired by Vance Global Financial Services three weeks ago. Adrian, your mortgage agreement contains a standard moral turpitude clause for executive loans. Since you used corporate funds from your firm—which we also quietly bought out yesterday—to purchase that white Mercedes for your mistress, you are in default of your loan."
My father tossed the documents onto the hood of the white Mercedes.
"We have initiated foreclosure proceedings on this house," my father continued. "You have exactly twenty-four hours to vacate the premises. If you or this... person... are still here by noon tomorrow, my security team will have you removed for criminal trespassing."
"You can't do this!" Celeste screamed, her red nails digging into her leather bag. "This is illegal! I'll sue you! I'll call the papers!"
My mother stepped forward, her elegant face displaying a look of profound amusement. "Go ahead, dear. Call the Chicago Tribune. Tell them that the mistress of a disgraced, bankrupt architect is being evicted from a house she didn't pay for. I'm sure the social pages would love to print your picture."
Adrian looked at the foreclosure papers on the hood of the car, then at his phone on the grass, and finally at me. The arrogant man who had sneered at me in the hospital room was gone. In his place stood a terrified, small boy who had just realized he had played a game with giants and lost before he even made his first move.
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"Evelyn, please," Adrian pleaded, taking a step toward me. "We have three kids. We can work this out. I was confused, I was stressed about the triplets—"
"Don't say their names," I said, my voice cutting through his excuses like a knife. "Marcus, load the babies back into the cars. We're going to the penthouse."
