Chapter 5 - The Hand of the Patriarch
Before the final word had even fully drifted from Victoria’s lips, a high-speed blur of navy blue surged across the upper terrace.
Julian Vance, thirty-two years old, heir to the Vance shipping empire, had just stepped out of the main estate doors after an emergency board call. He took in the entire scene in less than a fraction of a second: his wife kneeling in the mud, covered in filth; his daughter weeping hysterically; and his mother standing above them with a glass of champagne, uttering words of utter venom.
Julian did not pause. He did not ask for an explanation.
A roar of pure, unbridled rage tore from his throat as he closed the distance between himself and his mother in two terrifying strides.
CRASH!
Julian’s broad hand swung through the air with violent force. He didn't just strike her hand; his palm collided full-force with the crystal glass, shattering it into a dozen glistening shards. Champagne and sharp glass exploded across the marble terrace, splashing violently over Victoria’s pristine ivory dress. The impact was so severe that Victoria gasped loudly, stumbling back against the stone railing, her hand instantly clutching her wrist in total, unadulterated shock.
The entire garden went dead silent. The string quartet stopped mid-note. Guests froze with their drinks halfway to their mouths, horrified by the sudden, violent display of family treason.
Julian stood over his mother, his tall, broad-shouldered frame trembling violently beneath his tailored navy suit. His jaw was clenched so tightly that the muscles in his neck strained against his collar. His breathing came in ragged, furious gasps as he stared down at the woman who had raised him.
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"Julian!" Victoria gasped, her aristocratic composure completely shattering as she stared at her son in utter disbelief. "How dare you touch me! In front of these people?!"
"I can't believe you'd say something so disgusting!" Julian roared, his voice shaking the glass panels of the nearby conservatory. He raised an accusatory finger, pointing it inches from his mother’s pale, trembling nose. "She's a child, Mom! A three-year-old child! Not your punching bag! Not a tool for your sick, twisted games!"
