Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2 — The Matriarch's Mistake
The next morning, the house was dead silent.
I walked down the stairs at exactly seven AM, dressed in sharp, tailored slacks and a silk blouse.
The dining room floor was spotless.
Tom was asleep on the living room sofa, curled into a tight, defensive ball, clutching a throw pillow to his chest.
I walked into the kitchen and turned on the espresso machine.
The loud grinding of the coffee beans made Tom jump off the couch as if a bomb had gone off.
He looked at me, his eyes darting frantically, looking for an exit.
Before he could say a word, the heavy brass lock on the front door clicked open.
Someone had a key.
The door swung wide, and in marched Beatrice, Tom’s mother.
She was a woman built entirely of hairspray, expensive jewelry, and unearned arrogance.
"Tommy!" she shrieked, marching into the foyer. "Why didn't you answer my calls? Did you set the rules like we discussed?"
She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw Tom cowering in the living room.
Then her eyes locked onto me, casually sipping a double espresso in the kitchen.
"You!" Beatrice snapped, her face twisting into an ugly sneer.
She stomped into the kitchen, her heels clicking aggressively against the tile.
"Why isn't breakfast on the table? My son is a hardworking man! Didn't he explain your duties last night?"
I took another slow sip of my coffee.
"He tried," I said mildly.
Beatrice’s face flushed red. She wasn't used to being ignored.
"You listen to me, you little brat," she hissed, raising a hand with perfectly manicured, claw-like nails.
She swung her hand, aiming a vicious slap directly at my cheek.
She wanted to finish the lesson her son had started.
I didn't even spill my coffee.
My free hand shot up, catching her wrist in mid-air.
The slap stopped dead, inches from my face.
Beatrice gasped, trying to yank her arm back.
She couldn't.
My grip was like a steel vise.
"Let go of me!" she shrieked, her voice echoing off the high ceilings.
I stepped closer to her, lowering my voice to a terrifying, deadly calm.
"Tom made a mistake last night," I whispered. "But he was drunk. What's your excuse, Beatrice?"
I applied a tiny fraction of pressure to her median nerve.
Her knees buckled, and she let out a sharp cry of pain, sinking toward the floor.
"Mom!" Tom yelled, finally finding his voice, but he didn't dare step closer.
"This is my house," I said, looking down at the groveling matriarch.
"I paid the down payment. My name is on the deed."
I released her wrist, and she collapsed into a heap of designer fabric on the kitchen tiles.
"I am going to work now," I announced, stepping over her.
"When I return at six PM, I expect both of you to be gone."
"If I find a single piece of your luggage, Tom, or a single trace of your mother’s cheap perfume in my house..."
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I paused at the front door, looking back at the two terrified bullies.
"I will stop being polite."
