At my birthday party, my husband tied me to a ceiling beam and whipped me thirty times because I had stained his mistress’s dress. “Maybe now you’ll learn your place,” he laughed while everyone watched. I didn’t cry. When they finally cut me down, I picked up my phone and called my five gangster brothers. “Make his entire family beg for mercy,” I whispered. Then the front gates suddenly slammed shut.

By eight o'clock the following morning, the financial markets opened, and the name Vance Construction became the biggest headline on Wall Street.

Inside the glass executive suite of Sterling Financial downtown, Marcus sat behind a wall of seven glowing monitors, executing trades with methodical precision. I sat beside him, watching the red numbers plummet across the screen.

“Vance Construction stock was trading at eighty-four dollars a share yesterday,” Marcus explained, tapping a key. “When news hit at dawn that federal auditors were seizing their physical construction sites over safety violations, short-sellers flooded the market.”

On the central screen, the stock ticker read: VNC: $12.40 (-85%).

“Their primary lenders are panicking,” Marcus continued smoothly. “They had a hundred-million-dollar liquidity line backed by Arthur Vance’s personal guarantee. I just bought out that debt note through a subsidiary. Now, Arthur doesn't owe the bank—he owes us.”

The heavy frosted glass doors opened, and Julian walked in, carrying a thick legal summons.

“Arthur Vance’s personal attorney tried to call my office three times this morning,” Julian said, setting his coffee down. “He offered a full asset surrender if we drop the criminal charges against Isaac.”

I looked at Julian. “What did you tell him?”

“I told him I don't negotiate with domestic abusers,” Julian replied crisply. “I also filed an emergency petition for absolute divorce on your behalf, along with a criminal complaint for aggravated assault, torture, and unlawful restraint.”

At that moment, Marcus’s private phone rang. He pressed speaker.

Arthur Vance’s hysterical voice filled the office. “Marcus! Please! I am talking to you man to man! My son made a terrible mistake, but you are destroying fifty years of my family's legacy! We can settle this privately!”

Marcus looked at me, waiting for my signal.

I leaned closer to the phone. “Arthur.”

The line went silent for two seconds. “Flora? Flora, my dear child! Please talk to your brothers! Tell them to stop! Wendy and I always cared for you—”

“You stood beside the champagne tower and laughed while your son whipped me, Arthur,” I said, my voice completely devoid of emotion. “You told your guests I came from nothing.”

“I was wrong! I was arrogant!” Arthur sobbed into the receiver. “Please, what do you want?”