Chapter 11 - The Barrel of the Cold Truth
The cold,
metallic scent of the gun hung in the air,
mixing with the smell of Ofelia’s expensive perfume,
creating a nauseating cocktail of death and vanity.
Ethan’s hand was shaking,
the muzzle of the pistol dancing in the dim light of the hallway,
aimed directly at my chest.
His face was a mask of sweat and desperation,
the eyes of a man who had realized the floor was disappearing beneath his feet.
“You think you can just walk in here,
a nobody from a broken marriage,
and take what belongs to me?”
he hissed,
his voice cracking like dry wood.
I stood my ground,
though every instinct in my body was screaming at me to run,
to hide,
to beg for my life.
But I had spent twelve years begging Miguel for scraps of affection,
and I had spent a lifetime shrinking before Ofelia’s gaze.
I was tired of being small.
I was tired of being the victim in someone else’s play.
“It never belonged to you,
Ethan,”
I said,
my voice sounding like it belonged to a different woman,
someone harder,
someone older.
“You’re just a ghost in Richard’s house,
haunting the halls while he’s still breathing.”
Ofelia was cowering behind a velvet chair,
her hands over her mouth,
her eyes darting between us like a trapped animal.
She was a woman who knew how to manipulate words,
but she had no defense against lead.
“Shut up!”
Ethan roared,
taking a step forward,
the gun now inches from my forehead.
“He’s a vegetable!
He’s a ghost!
I’m the one who kept the stock prices up!
I’m the one who made the deals!”
“You made deals with the enemy,”
I countered,
staring down the dark tunnel of the barrel.
“You let Chloe sell the company out from under you.
You’re not a CEO,
Ethan.
You’re a failure.”
The insult hit him like a physical blow.
His finger tightened on the trigger,
his knuckles white,
his breath coming in ragged,
ugly gasps.
I prepared to die,
wondering if Miguel would even cry at my funeral,
or if he would just complain about who was going to do his laundry.
Then,
the silence was broken by the sound of a heavy door swinging open.
The click-clack of firm footsteps echoed on the marble.
Not the sound of a motorized wheelchair.
Not the sound of a shuffle.
The sound of a man walking with purpose.
Ethan froze,
his head slowly turning toward the sound.
Richard Vance stepped into the light,
standing tall,
his shoulders broad,
his gaze as cold as the deep end of the lake.
He was wearing his tuxedo,
untied at the neck,
looking every bit the king he had once been.
“Put the gun down,
Ethan,”
Richard said,
his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the floor.
Ethan’s jaw dropped,
the gun slipping slightly in his sweaty palm.
“Richard?
But…
the meds…
the doctors…”
“The doctors you paid to kill me?”
Richard asked,
stepping closer,
unafraid of the weapon.
“They were greedy,
Ethan.
But Maya was smarter.”
Ofelia let out a high-pitched whimper,
realizing the tide had turned forever.
Ethan’s eyes filled with a terrifying,
manic light.
“If I can't have it,
Richie,
no one can.”
He swung the gun toward his brother.
I didn't think.
I didn't plan.
I lunged forward,
grabbing Ethan’s wrist with both hands,
using all the strength I had gained from years of lifting patients and moving furniture.
A shot rang out,
the sound deafening in the narrow hallway.
The smell of gunpowder filled my nose.
I felt a searing heat across my arm,
but I didn't let go.
Richard was on him a second later,
his fist connecting with Ethan’s jaw with a sound like a wet slap.
The gun fell to the floor,
sliding away into the shadows.
Ethan collapsed,
sobbing,
broken by the sight of the brother he thought he had buried.
Richard looked at me,
his eyes wide with concern,
his hand reaching out to steady me.
“Maya?
Are you hit?”
I looked down at my arm.
The sleeve was torn,
a red line of blood welling up where the bullet had grazed me.
“I’m okay,”
I whispered,
the adrenaline finally beginning to fade.
I looked at Ofelia,
who was now trying to smooth her hair and look composed.
“Call the police,
Ofelia,”
I said,
my voice trembling but firm.
“And tell them there’s been an attempted murder in the Vance estate.”
She didn't hesitate.
She picked up the phone,
finally realizing who the real master of the house was.
But as the sirens began to wail in the distance,
I realized the battle for the company had only just begun.
We had the man,
May you like
but we didn't have the throne.
Not yet.
