Chapter 7 - Downfall in Silk and Diamonds
“You’re a monster!” Tiffany shrieked, her voice echoing violently off the gilded walls as she saw her golden future disintegrating into handcuffs and courtrooms. “You set this whole night up! You knew about the loans! You knew about the money! You let us stand up here and say our vows just so you could pull the rug out from under us! You sick, twisted old witch!”
Eleanor Vance didn't raise her voice. She didn't curse. She simply handed the microphone back to Mr. Harrison, then turned to face Tiffany with an expression of such cold, absolute supremacy that the younger woman involuntarily took two steps backward.
“I didn't plan the timing, Tiffany,” Eleanor said, each syllable ringing like an iron bell. “I gave you every opportunity. When you walked into my office six months ago, demanding that I fire my personal assistant because she didn't greet you by your full name, I forgave your arrogance as youthful foolishness. When you demanded a three-million-dollar wedding instead of a modest family gathering, I paid for it, hoping that generosity would teach you grace.”
Eleanor took a slow step forward.
“Even this afternoon, when Arthur brought me the final proof of Julian’s forgeries, I came to this ballroom with an open mind. I told Arthur that if my son showed me genuine love, if his bride showed genuine respect for our family, I would absorb the debt. I would pay off the Zurich loan quietly. I would protect my son from prison, and I would give you both a clean slate to build a real life together.”
Eleanor paused, gesturing toward her frosting-caked silver hair.
“And then, you took a handful of sugar and showed the entire world what was in your heart. You didn't see an elderly mother who loved her son. You saw an old woman you thought you had conquered. You thought I was weak because I was kind.”
Tiffany’s lips trembled. She looked around at the guests. Not a single person was looking at her with sympathy. The very people she had tried so desperately to impress—the Manhattan elite, the fashion editors, the old-money heirs—were staring at her with cold, mocking amusement. Several were whispering behind their napkins, their eyes scanning her up and down as if she were a counterfeit painting suddenly exposed in a gallery.
“Take the ring off, Miss Montgomery,” Arthur Sterling said, stepping between Tiffany and Eleanor.
“What?!” Tiffany clutched her left hand to her chest. “No! This was a gift! It’s mine! He gave it to me!”
“It was purchased with funds stolen from a corporate account currently under federal lien,” Arthur said, his voice flat and mechanical. “If you do not remove it voluntarily, the officers will take it into evidence right here on this stage.”
Tiffany looked desperately at Julian, who was still weeping on the floor, his forehead pressed against the cold marble. “Julian! Get up! Tell him to back off! You bought this for me!”
Julian didn't move. He was utterly broken, a hollow shell of designer clothing and shattered arrogance.
With trembling, uncoordinated fingers, Tiffany began twisting at the five-carat ring. It was snug, resisting her panic-slicked skin. She yanked at it savagely, crying out in pain as the platinum band scraped over her knuckle, nearly tearing the skin, before finally popping free.
She threw the ring at Arthur Sterling’s chest. “Take it! Take the damn thing! I hope you choke on it!”
Arthur caught the ring in mid-air with the casual reflex of a man catching a ball. He produced a velvet evidence pouch from his pocket, dropped the glittering jewel inside, and zipped it shut without looking at it.
“Thank you,” Arthur said mildly. “Now, as for the dress.”
May you like
Tiffany’s breath stopped. “What did you say?”
***
