Chapter 4 - The Court of False Queens
On Monday afternoon, I deliberately broke my suspension.
I wore an impeccably tailored navy suit, pearl earrings, and my low-heeled Chanel pumps. I had my hair set at noon, and by one o’clock, I walked through the double mahogany front doors of the Oakridge Valley Country Club as if I owned the air they were breathing.
The marble foyer went dead silent the moment my heels clicked against the floor.
The hostess, a terrified college girl named Chloe, nearly dropped her leather-bound reservations book. “M-Mrs. Vance… the manager told us… you aren’t permitted on the premises…”
“I am meeting a guest on the terrace, Chloe,” I said with a warm, maternal smile. “You need not worry yourself. If Mr. Henderson has an issue, he may bring it to me directly.”
I swept past her and stepped out onto the sun-drenched stone terrace overlooking the eighteenth green. This was the territory of the Ladies' Auxiliary luncheon.
At the central table sat Kristin Hayes, surrounded by her court of sycophants. She was wearing a dramatic white cervical collar around her neck, oversized designer sunglasses, and an expression of delicate, fragile martyrdom. Her friends were cooing over her, patting her hands, handing her iced matcha lattes.
Then Kristin saw me.
She froze mid-sip. Her sunglasses slid down her nose, and the delicate victim routine dissolved instantly into pure, unvarnished malice. She stood up so abruptly her chair scraped loudly against the flagstone.
“What are you doing here?” Kristin hissed, marching toward me, her friends trailing behind her like nervous geese. “You’re banned! You were served the suspension notice! How dare you show your wrinkled face here after you practically tried to kill me?”
The entire terrace—fifty of the town’s wealthiest, most influential women—stopped their conversations. Silverware clinked softly to a halt.
“Kristin,” I said, looking down at the soft foam collar around her neck. “I see your vanity has finally found an accessory to match your spinelessness.”
Gasps rippled across the patio.
“You vicious old bat!” one of her lackeys snapped. “She has whiplash! Julian is suing you for personal injury, emotional distress, and defamation!”
“Julian can sue the sky for being blue, dear, but it won't stop the rain,” I replied smoothly. I took a step closer to Kristin. Despite her high heels, she took an instinctive step backward, her hand flying up to protect her neck.
“You shouldn’t have shoved me, Kristin,” I said, keeping my tone so level, so chillingly polite, that several women at the nearby tables pulled back. “You thought I was frail. You thought seventy-five meant defenseless. You thought money bought manners, but clearly, Julian bought you neither.”
“Get out of here before security drags you out in zip ties!” Kristin shrieked, her voice cracking with fury. “This is my club now! My husband runs this board! You’re just a relic nobody cares about!”
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“We’ll see about that at Wednesday’s hearing,” I said softly. I leaned in, just close enough for her alone to hear: “By the way, dear… you forgot to wash the yellow lemon curd out behind your left ear.”
Her face turned scarlet. She reached up instinctively, clawing at her hair, while I turned on my heel and walked back inside, leaving the terrace echoing with stifled laughter.
