Chapter 2 - The Ascent of Fury
The hand-carved stone steps curved along the facade of the mansion like the spine of a sleeping dragon.
Ethan took them three at a time, his heavy leather dress shoes slamming into the limestone with thunderous, echoing strikes.
Every step he took seemed to reverberate straight into the masonry of the hundred-year-old family manor.
The cool night wind whipped at his disheveled hair, but inside his veins, pure liquid fire was circulating with terrifying pressure.
Guests who had ventured out onto the intermediate terraces quickly pressed themselves flat against the ivy-covered walls to let him pass.
Nobody dared to breathe, nobody dared to reach out a calming hand, and nobody dared to speak his name.
His eyes were fixed solely on the upper balcony, where Eleanor Vance was now attempting to casually retreat inside the warmth of the ballroom.
She was already composing her deceptive narrative, adjusting the collar of her emerald velvet jacket with practiced nonchalance.
She thought she had time.
She thought the social hierarchy of the Vance family name would shield her from any immediate physical reckoning.
She was catastrophically wrong.
Ethan cleared the final flight of stairs and burst onto the grand terrace like a battering ram breaking through fortress gates.
The heavy mahogany doors groaned against the force of his entrance as his presence sucked the very air out of the crowded veranda.
Eleanor froze in mid-stride, her back half-turned toward the ballroom’s golden interior.
“YOU TRIED TO KILL MY SISTER!” Ethan roared, his voice carrying the ferocity of a cracked dam.
The raw volume of his fury shattered the polite murmurs of Rhode Island's elite, instantly freezing the orchestra mid-crescendo.
Eleanor spun around, her aristocratic chin lifting defensively as she tried to summon her familiar aura of icy superiority.
“Lower your voice this instant, you insolent boy, you have no right to speak to me in that tone!” Eleanor hissed back.
Ethan didn’t waste a single syllable on an argument.
Before Eleanor could draw another breath to fabricate her defense, Ethan closed the distance between them in a flash.
His fingers clamped around her right wrist like an iron vice, his grip so fierce and unyielding that Eleanor let out a sharp gasp of shock.
With a singular, controlled heave of raw adrenaline, he yanked her away from the limestone balustrade she had just turned into a lethal weapon.
Eleanor lost her footing on the polished stone pavers, stumbling backward completely out of control.
Her heavy hips crashed directly into the mahogany banquet table behind her, rattling the entire display of antique glassware.
CRASH!
Dozens of hand-blown crystal champagne flutes toppled over like dominoes, exploding across the terrace floor in a dazzling shower of sharp shards.
Golden vintage wine splattered across the stone and seeped into the hem of Eleanor’s emerald velvet gown like spilled blood.
The socialites gathered near the doors screamed in unison, scurrying back toward the safety of the interior hall.
“Ethan, get your hands off my wife before I have you permanently removed from this property!” a booming, indignant voice barked.
Richard Vance, Eleanor’s husband and the self-appointed guardian of the family fortune, lunged through the parting crowd.
Richard’s face was flushed crimson from expensive bourbon and offended vanity, his heavy fist raised to strike Ethan across the jaw.
Ethan didn’t even flinch.
With the fluid reflexes of a man half Richard's age, Ethan raised his left forearm, cleanly deflecting Richard’s wild, undisciplined swing.
Before Richard could reset his stance, Ethan stepped deep into his guard and slammed the heel of his palm directly into his uncle's chest.
The force of the counter-strike sent the older, heavier man staggering backward several steps until his spine collided with a marble pillar.
Richard wheezed, his manicured hands clutching at his tailored vest as he fought to recover the breath Ethan had just knocked out of him.
“TOUCH MY SISTER AGAIN, AND YOU'RE DONE!” Ethan snarled, his glare piercing Richard with such intensity that the older man swallowed hard and stayed back.
A suffocating stillness descended over the terrace, heavier and colder than the ocean fog rolling in from the bay.
Dozens of high-society onlookers stood completely paralyzed beneath the massive outdoor chandeliers, unable to tear their eyes away.
The untouchable Vance dynasty, famous for three generations of immaculate public decorum, was publicly tearing itself to bloody pieces.
Eleanor leaned against the ruined banquet table, her chest heaving as she struggled to compose her dignity amidst the shattered glass.
Her eyes darted frantically across the room, searching for allies among the friends who had praised her taste only thirty minutes ago.
Every single person looked away, averting their eyes in profound embarrassment and quiet condemnation.
Humiliation flared through Eleanor’s veins, turning her pale cheeks into blotchy patches of furious scarlet.
She aggressively smoothed down the lapels of her stained jacket, desperate to reassert some semblance of control over the catastrophic scene.
Her sudden, frantic movement caused her elbow to sharply clip the interior lining of her heavy embroidered breast pocket.
Something dense, heavy, and polished slid free from the fabric’s secret recess.
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A small, dark wooden box tumbled into the air, its brass corners gleaming momentarily in the chandelier light.
Ethan’s gaze dropped instinctively as the heirloom box fell straight toward the terrace floor.
