Chapter 3 - The Screams on the Screen
The video opened with a shaky, high-definition frame shot inside Genevieve’s sunlit kitchen. The camera angle was slightly awkward, as if a smartphone had been propped up hastily against a fruit bowl on the granite island, capturing the wide expanse of the open-concept living area.
Within three seconds, the front door of the brownstone unlocked with a sharp click, and Evelyn Kensington marched into the frame. She wasn't wearing her gentle, patient public persona. Her face was twisted into an ugly, venomous mask of pure fury, her perfectly manicured lips curled back in a snarl. She was wearing a casual cashmere sweater, but her posture was that of an apex predator closing in on wounded prey.
“You arrogant little bitch,” Evelyn’s voice hissed from the computer speakers, sharp and piercing. “I warned you to stay out of my business, Genevieve!”
The camera shifted slightly as my daughter, Genevieve, stepped backward into the frame, her face pale, holding a cup of tea, looking utterly exhausted and terrified. “Evelyn, what are you doing here? Get out of my house. My father thinks you’re at the bridal fitting—if he finds out you came here—'”
“Your father is an old, senile fool who signs whatever I put in front of him!” Evelyn shrieked, closing the distance between them with terrifying speed. Before Genevieve could raise her hands to defend herself, Evelyn lunged forward and shoved her with all her might.
The sound of Genevieve’s body slamming against the hardwood kitchen floor echoed through the computer speakers like a gunshot. A ceramic mug shattered into a thousand pieces, hot tea splashing across the pristine white tiles. Genevieve let out a sharp, agonized cry, hitting her head hard against the edge of the kitchen island before collapsing into a crumpled, motionless heap on the floor.
“Mommy!” a tiny, terrified voice wailed off-camera—Toby.
Evelyn spun around like a madwoman, pointing a finger directly at the hiding spot beneath the dining table where little Toby was peeking out. “Shut up, you little brat, or I’ll give your mother something even worse to cry about! If either of you breathes a word about the documents I made her sign this morning, I swear I’ll make sure your grandfather cuts every cent of your trust fund before I legally drain his entire empire!”
On screen, Genevieve let out a faint, ragged groan, her hand twitching weakly against the floorboards before her arm went entirely limp, her head lolling backward into a pool of spilled tea.
Evelyn didn't rush to help her. She didn't call an ambulance. Instead, she knelt down, calmly snatched a manila folder from Genevieve’s limp fingers, stood up, smoothed down her sweater with a chilling, sociopathic composure, and calmly walked out of the apartment, locking the deadbolt behind her.
The video looped back to the beginning, playing the horrific scene in silent, mocking repetition.
I sat frozen in front of the monitor, my chest heaving as if I had just been submerged in freezing water. Rage—hot, blinding, and murderous—coursed through my veins, incinerating every ounce of the man I used to be. For two years, I had defended this monster against my own flesh and blood. For two years, I had allowed her to alienate me from my daughter, making me believe Genevieve was just bitter and paranoid. And all the while, Evelyn had been systematically plotting to steal my life, drug or intimidate my daughter, and leave my family ruined.
I looked at the clock in the bottom right corner of the computer screen.
2:42 PM.
The wedding ceremony was scheduled to begin at 3:00 PM sharp. One hundred and twenty guests were waiting in the grand ballroom. The cameras were rolling. The local media was outside on the red carpet.
And Evelyn Kensington was standing outside the bridal suite, waiting for her wealthy, elderly mark to come lead her to the altar.
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I reached out, clicked the mouse to stop the video, and saved a direct, encrypted backup copy of the file directly to my personal cloud storage. Then, with deliberate, icy calm, I unplugged the USB drive, slipped it back into my breast pocket alongside my car keys, and stood up from the desk.
The old Thomas Vance—the lonely billionaire easily manipulated by flattery—died right there in that sterile business center. The man walking out the door was a vengeance-seeking storm.
