Chapter 8 - The Mother-in-Law's Downfall
With Julian back in a jail cell without bail, Beatrice was left entirely alone.
She had been evicted from the Charleston estate. Her accounts were frozen. She was living in a cheap motel on the outskirts of the city, eating canned soup.
But Beatrice Vance was nothing if not proud. She believed she could still salvage her reputation. She gathered the last of her expensive jewelry, pawned it, and bought a ticket to the annual Charleston Heritage Gala—the most exclusive high-society event of the year.
She walked into the ballroom wearing a vintage Chanel gown, holding her head high, ready to spin a lie about how her son was framed by a psychotic wife.
The moment she stepped into the room, the string quartet seemed to falter.
The whispers began instantly. Women she had played tennis with for decades turned their backs. Men who had done business with her late husband looked away in disgust.
Beatrice forced a smile and approached a group of her closest socialite friends. "Martha! Darling, it's so good to see you—"
Martha held up a hand, her face cold. "Don't speak to me, Beatrice."
"Martha, please, you have to understand, the rumors are completely fabricated—"
"Fabricated?"
The crowd parted. Elena walked down the grand staircase of the ballroom. She was wearing a stunning, backless crimson gown, looking like royalty.
Beatrice’s jaw dropped. "What are you doing here?"
"I own the building, Beatrice," Elena smiled coldly. "And I sponsored the gala."
Elena walked right up to her former mother-in-law. "There is no fabrication. The police found the doghouse. They found the chain. The photos have been leaked to every news outlet in the state. Everyone in this room knows exactly what you are."
Beatrice looked around the room. The faces staring back at her were filled with absolute revulsion. She was a pariah. A monster in a Chanel dress.
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"You have nothing," Elena whispered, stepping close so only Beatrice could hear. "No money. No family. No legacy. You will die alone in a cheap motel, and nobody will even attend the funeral."
Beatrice let out a strangled sob, dropping her designer clutch. She turned and fled the ballroom, the sound of her heels clicking frantically against the marble, entirely ruined.
