Chapter 9 - The Ultimatum Extended
The real test, however, wasn't Thanksgiving. It was the annual Vance Family Christmas Gala, held at the Oak Brook Country Club on December 18th.
Two days before the gala, Loretta made her final, desperate play.
She didn't call Vance. She called my office.
My executive assistant buzzed me at 2:00 PM on a Friday. "Sloane, there’s a woman on line three insisting she’s your mother-in-law and claiming there's a family emergency regarding your attendance at the gala."
I pressed the flashing button, leaning back in my leather chair. "Loretta. I hope this is about a charitable donation to a local food bank, because otherwise, my assistant’s time is billable at four hundred dollars an hour."
"Sloane," Loretta’s voice was shaking, though this time it wasn't with rage—it was with manufactured desperation. "We need to talk. Without the lawyers. Without Vance."
"About what?"
"The gala on Saturday. The club president and three members of the DuPage County board are presenting Vance with our family’s legacy civic award. If you show up looking like... like you did at Thanksgiving—cold, defiant, refusing to participate in our traditions—it will humiliate him in front of all our peers."
I spun my gold fountain pen between my fingers. "Let me get this straight. You want me to attend a black-tie gala where your friends will pretend to congratulate me while whispering behind my back, all so Vance can accept an award for a legacy he’s currently dismantling?"
"He is a Vance!" she shrieked, her theatrical composure finally cracking. "You are trying to strip him of his identity!"
"No, Loretta," I said softly. "I’m helping him build a new one. One where he doesn't need your approval to breathe."
There was a long, breathless pause on the line.
"If you come," Loretta whispered, her voice venomous, "you will wear the traditional family pearls. You will sit at the head table. And you will smile for the photographer."
"And if I don't?"
"Then Vance goes alone. And everyone will know his wife couldn't even be bothered to support him at a family milestone. It will ruin his reputation in this community forever."
I smiled, looking out my office window at the snow falling over downtown Chicago.
"Checkmate, Loretta," I murmured.
"What?"
"I'll be there," I said clearly. "And I'll be wearing whatever I want."
On Saturday night, Vance and I stepped out of our car under the porte-cochère of the Oak Brook Country Club.
I wasn't wearing the family pearls.
Instead, I wore a custom-fitted, midnight-blue velvet evening gown that cost more than Tatum’s entire wardrobe, accented by a diamond tennis bracelet I had purchased with my own corporate bonus. My hair was swept up in a flawless chignon, and my right hand—the one that had been bruised by the seafood fork four months ago—was bare, gleaming under the crystal chandeliers.
When we walked into the grand ballroom, heads turned.
Loretta, standing near the stage in a stiff silver gown, froze. Tatum dropped her champagne flute—thankfully missing the floor, but shattering the illusion of her nonchalance.
Vance looked down at me, his eyes shining with absolute, unfiltered adoration. He offered his arm.
"Ready to face the empire?" he asked quietly.
I looped my arm through his, my posture immaculate, my smile radiant.
"Let's go show them who runs the show."
May you like
As we walked down the center aisle toward the head table, Harlan stood up slowly from his seat, raised his glass toward us from across the room, and gave a slow, respectful nod.
It wasn't an apology. But it was an unconditional surrender.
