Chapter 7 - The Desperation of Sylvia Vance
Sylvia stopped three feet away from my wheelchair, her chest heaving as if she had just sprinted up six flights of stairs. She completely ignored my father, her eyes locking onto me with a venomous glare that time and humiliation had only intensified.
"This is your doing," Sylvia hissed, her voice trembling with rage. "You ungrateful, manipulative little cheat! You ruined my son's life over a temper tantrum! Do you have any idea what you've done? Vance & Associates is finished! They've frozen all of our accounts, they've seized his assets, and now they've locked him in a federal hole!"
Dr. Hayes stepped forward instantly, placing herself squarely between Sylvia and my wheelchair. "Step back, madam. This patient is recovering from severe trauma and is under strict medical orders to avoid agitation."
"Stay out of this, you quack!" Sylvia snapped, trying to lunge past Dr. Hayes. "This is family business! Anna, tell them to drop the charges! Tell your father to call his little judge friends and fix this right now, or I swear to God, I will drag your name through the mud until—"
"Shut your mouth, Sylvia," my father said.
The words weren't shouted. They were spoken in that same flat, absolute judicial register that had just sent a federal prisoner down to the cells.
My father stepped around Dr. Hayes, standing directly between Sylvia and me. He towered over her, his expression cold and devoid of any human warmth. For the first time, Sylvia seemed to genuinely register who she was talking to—not just an old man she had sneered at over Christmas dinner, but the Chief Justice of the United States Supreme Court.
"You have spent three years abusing, isolating, and terrorizing my daughter," my father said, each word landing like a hammer blow. "You stood in your kitchen and watched your son assault a pregnant woman. You aided and abetted the destruction of evidence. And right now, federal investigators are executing a search warrant on your home and personal bank accounts for laundering kickbacks from David’s firm."
Sylvia’s face went chalk white. Her jaw slackened. "That... that's impossible. We didn't do anything illegal—we're respectable people—"
"You were respectable when you hid behind local judges who played golf with your son," my father replied smoothly. "Now you're a co-conspirator in a federal RICO investigation. I suggest you retain competent legal counsel immediately—though given your current asset freeze, you might find it difficult to afford one who isn't a public defender."
Before Sylvia could sputter a single word in defense, two federal marshals stepped up behind her, their hands resting lightly on their utility belts.
"Ma'am, you need to step away from the restricted area," one of the marshals instructed firmly.
Sylvia looked around the courtroom. The reporters were watching her now, their cameras flashing silently from the back rows, capturing every twitch of panic on her face. Realizing the ground had completely vanished beneath her feet, she glared at me one last time with pure, undiluted hatred, spun on her heel, and hurried up the aisle, nearly tripping over her own designer boots as she fled the room.
I let out a long breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
May you like
"Let's go home, Dad," I whispered, closing my eyes for a brief second. "Or... to the hospital."
"To the hospital, sweetheart," my father said gently, resting his hand on my head. "And after that... you're coming home with me. Where you belong."
