Page 82 of Lords of Ruin: Cherished

My phone vibrates in my pocket—another update from the boys about Willow's heart—but for once, I can't bring myself to check it. My mother, who I was told had died in a mental institution when I was six, stands before me, very much alive.

"You were dead," I manage to say. "Dad told me you were dead."

She removes her veil slowly, revealing a face I've seen only in faded photographs and distant memories. Older now, with fine lines at the corners of her eyes, but unmistakably her.

"Your father found it more convenient for me to be dead than to explain the truth," she says, taking a seat directly across from me. “Actually, he saw it easier to blackmail me into silence and take all my money, than he did to divorce me.”

Mr. Blackwell clears his throat and adjusts his glasses before continuing.

"As I was saying, according to Mr. Beaumont's will, since Mrs. Eleanor Beaumont is alive and was never legally divorced from the deceased, she is entitled to the entirety of the estate as his lawful spouse."

Angie shoots to her feet, her face flushing crimson to match her designer heels. "This is absurd! I've been married to him for fifteen years!"

"Bigamously, it appears," my mother replies calmly, setting her black leather gloves on the desk.

Mr. Blackwell winces. "Mrs. Angelica, I'm afraid that as Mr. Beaumont was still legally married to Mrs. Eleanor at the time of your... ceremony, your marriage is not legally recognized. You are entitled to nothing under the will."

Angie turns to me, eyes wild with fury. "You knew about this, didn't you? This was your plan all along!"

Before I can respond, my mother raises a hand. "Vincent knew nothing of my existence. But I've known about all of you." She glances at the documents before looking back at Angie. "Including those twins. However, as a gesture of goodwill, I am willing to establish trust funds for the children. They are, after all, innocent in this matter, and Vincent’s only siblings."

Angie's face drains of all color. "You bitch."

"Considering your precarious legal position, I'd advise against name-calling," my mother replies, unfazed.

Angie grabs her purse, knuckles white against the leather. "You think you've won? You have no idea what you've walked into." She turns to me, eyes narrowed to slits. "This is why your precious Willow will die."

The mention of Willow snaps me back to reality. My phone.

"What do you mean she is going to die? Did you know about her heart malfunction? Did you cause it?" I demand, rising to my feet.

Angie smirks, her expression sharpening like a blade. “You know, the right connections can get anyone really far.”

My pulse pounds in my ears. My hands clench at my sides, shaking with the effort to stay in control. “If you did something to her?—”

“She’s as good as dead already,” Angie cuts me off, her voice dripping with satisfaction.

Something inside me snaps.

Before I even register the movement, my hands are around her throat, crushing the breath from her smug little smirk. Angie’s eyes go wide, her hands clawing at mine as she gasps for air. The room erupts into chaos.

“Vincent, stop!” Mr.Blackwell yells.

Hands grab at me, trying to pry me off, but I don’t budge. I tighten my grip, watching her face turn red, then purple. The satisfaction is intoxicating—finally shutting her up, finally making her feel the same helplessness she’s inflicted on Willow.

Her nails dig into my arms, but I don’t feel it. The only thing I feel is pure, unfiltered rage.

“What’s your blood type?” I question, as she struggles against me.

“What?” She strains her nails clawing down my forearm.

“What is your blood type?” I seethe through a locked jaw and grinded teeth.

“O-negative.”

I release her with a growl, shoving her backward. She collapses, coughing and gasping, hands clutching at her throat. O-negative is perfect because that means that this fit, healthy body, bitch of a stepmother is a universal donor.

Angie laughs, her voice raw and hoarse. “Fucking psycho,” she wheezes.

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