The Matriarch's Sentence
The silence in the sitting room was thick, like the air before a summer storm. The only sound was the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall, each second sounding like a gavel strike against Jessica's future. The sharp, digital ping of Damon Sr.'s phone shattered the stillness. He pulled the device from his pocket, his eyes narrowing as he read the message from Amber Ann.
"There is also a lawyer, Renee Davenport, who seems to be deeply entangled in Jessica's dealings. The PIs hadn't cracked exactly what they were up to so Dan has paid them to continue a full investigation into her as well. I didn't want Jessica to hear this—I didn't want to alert her before we even knew what the lawyer is involved in."
Damon Sr. didn't respond immediately. He leaned back into the shadows of his wing chair, the blue light of the phone reflecting in his eyes like cold flint. He felt a surge of pride for his middle daughter. Amber wasn't just defending herself anymore; she was playing the long game with the strategic mind of a general. She was keeping the family out of it and handling things with a cold efficiency that Jessica had always lacked. He looked over at Angelica, who sat perfectly still, her spine straight as a rod.
Angelica finally stood. She didn't look like the soft, coddling mother who had spent years making excuses for Jessica's "eccentricities." She stood with the rigid, terrifying grace of the Lance matriarch—the woman who had stood beside Damon Lance Sr. for more than thirty-five years. She looked to her eldest daughter and gave her a kiss to her cheek and a soft pat to her belly.
Jessica shivered as she felt the finality of it all.
"Jessica," Angelica said. Her voice was steady, yet it carried a hollow tone that was far more painful than a scream. "You will always be my daughter. Daresay, you have always been my favorite. But it will take me a great deal of time—perhaps a lifetime—to reconcile the daughter I thought I knew with the woman described to me today."
Jessica looked up, her eyes wide and glassy. For the first time that night, the performance stopped. Real tears began to track through her foundation, carving messy lines through her "perfect" face. These weren't for the cameras or for Dan's pity; they were born of a genuine, piercing terror of being found out and maybe even abandoned.
"I think it would be best if you stayed at your younger sister's house for now," Angelica continued. She paused, watching the rejection hit Jessica like a physical blow to the chest. "However, we will remain civil, as your father has requested. I expect both you and Amber Ann to attend family dinners as per usual. We are still a family, and we will continue to behave as such. You – in particular – need to truly understand the meaning of family."
Angelica leaned down, her perfume—a scent of expensive lilies—filling Jessica's senses one last time. She pressed a second, brief kiss to Jessica's forehead. It felt like a brand. Without another word, Angelica turned to her husband. She placed a firm hand on Damon's shoulder, looking him directly in the eye.
"I will be upstairs, darling. I want to see that text. Please forward it to me, dear."
Damon Sr. smiled, a look of genuine admiration for his wife's strength flashing in his eyes. He took her hand, kissed her knuckles with a courtly devotion, and watched her leave the room. She didn't look back at Jessica once.
The silence that followed was suffocating. Jessica had never felt more invisible. The shame of her mother knowing every dirty secret, every manipulated cent, was a weight she couldn't shrug off.
She didn't like the thought of her mother being disappointed in her, and she slumped a bit more into her seat.
"The keys, Jessica," Damon Sr. said. His voice was flat, clinical.
Jessica flinched. The irony was a bitter, jagged pill. She remembered the smirk she'd worn when Amber had been the one handing over keys, stripped of her place in this very house their father had gifted her. Now, the wheel had turned, and Jessica no longer had her house or free reign over the Lance estate.
With trembling fingers, Jessica reached into her designer bag and pulled out the heavy brass key ring. She set them on the marble table without looking at her father, the metal clinking with a finality that sounded like a prison door closing.
Damon Sr. picked up his house phone immediately, his voice booming into the receiver. "Security? Change all the gate and estate codes tonight. Do not give the new ones to Jessica. She is only permitted on the grounds for scheduled family dinners or if Mrs. Lance or I explicitly authorize her entry. Is that clear? Good. See to it now."
Jessica didn't wait to hear the rest. She turned and walked toward the door, her head down, her spirit dejected. The walk to her car across the gravel driveway felt like a walk to a gallows. She climbed into the driver's seat and sat there for a long time, the engine cold, her mind a whirlpool of venom. She didn't blame herself. She didn't blame the clinic or her own greed.
She blamed Amber Ann. Everything was Amber's fault. Amber had stolen Dan, she had stolen their parents' respect, and she was stealing the Lance legacy with that "resort."
Finally, Jessica's grief curdled into a dark, resolute madness. She gripped the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white. She started the engine, the roar of the car sounding like a snarl in the quiet driveway. She shifted the vehicle into gear and began the long drive to the gate.
It would be an even longer drive today. Once she was past the gate and the expressionless gazes of the guardsmen, she pressed a button on the car's interface.
"Call Anthony Shaw," she commanded.
The phone rang twice before a deep, smooth voice—the kind of voice that sounded like velvet over gravel—answered.
"Hey, beautiful," Anthony said. He didn't ask who was calling. He knew.
Jessica took a jagged breath, her eyes turning into shards of black ice as she thought of the home she had just been exiled from – all because of her.
"I need you, Anthony," she whispered. Her voice did not tremble. It had become deadly – the voice of a woman who felt herself scorned.
There was a short, weighted pause on the other end—the pause of a man calculating a fee. "Who?"
Jessica didn't hesitate. The name left her lips with a hiss of pure, unadulterated hate. "Amber Ann Lance-Trace."
"Okay," Anthony replied without hesitation. The word was simple, professional, and terrifying.
The line went dead.
Jessica sat in the dark car, a slow, twisted smile spreading across her lips. If she couldn't have life as she wanted – and deserved – why should others be happy?
She was ready to tear it all down around everyone's ears.