Chapter 3 - The Golden Daughter’s Feast
Across town, in the gated community of Oakridge Estates, Brittany Vance was basking in the glow of faux success.
Her social media stories were already going live. I knew this because my phone buzzed on the coffee table with a notification from my personal assistant, Marcus, who had been monitoring Brittany’s public Instagram profile under my instructions since four o'clock that afternoon.
I cast the screen of my tablet to the television, overriding the audit sheets with Brittany’s smiling face.
She was standing on the patio of a rented luxury cabana, surrounded by eight women in linen dresses. On the cedar table behind her sat two massive, silver chafing dishes.
*“When your private culinary team spends two days curating the menu,”* the caption read, complete with champagne emojis. *“Signature fourteen-hour braised Angus short ribs with red-wine reduction. Only the best for my girls! #BespokeLiving #PrivateChef #BossBabe.”*
The living room audience watched the screen in dead silence.
Uncle Greg rubbed his temples. “Good God, Danny… did Brittany really take the dinner Claire cooked for us?”
“Brittany needed it!” Patricia interjected, her voice trembling with indignant fury. “Brittany is trying to land a major contract with the junior league! If she looks successful, she becomes successful! What was Claire going to do with all that food? Feed it to people who see each other every Thanksgiving anyway?! Claire has millions! She owns a real estate firm and didn't even tell us! She hid her wealth from her own husband!”
“I didn't hide anything,” I retorted sharply. “The prenuptial agreement Daniel signed seven years ago explicitly laid out every single trust asset, every commercial parcel, and every square foot of real estate owned under my family’s name. Daniel signed it because seven years ago, he had sixty thousand dollars in credit card debt and zero assets. I paid his debts. I bought this house before our wedding day. The deed is held under the *Sterling Heritage Trust*. Daniel’s name is nowhere on the title.”
Patricia gasped, whipping her head toward her son. “Daniel! Tell me that’s a lie! Tell me your name is on this house!”
Daniel looked down at his designer leather loafers. He couldn't speak. He couldn't look his mother in the eye, and he certainly couldn't look at mine.
“You told me you bought this place!” Patricia wailed, her hands flying to her cheeks. “You told me you closed the mortgage yourself! You told me Brittany and I would always have a home here!”
“He lied to you, Patricia,” I said. “Just like he lied to you about his promotion. Just like he lied to his sister when he told her he could funnel company capital into her fake business without anyone noticing.”
I picked up my phone and dialed a number on speakerphone.
The line rang twice before a deep, authoritative voice answered.
“Detective Reynolds, Oakridge Precinct.”
“Detective Reynolds, this is Claire Sterling,” I said clearly. “I am calling to follow up on the commercial grand larceny and property theft report I filed at three o'clock today regarding Vanguard Pacific property.”
Daniel’s head snapped up. “Claire! No! What are you doing?!”
“Yes, Ms. Sterling,” the detective replied over the speaker. “We have an officer en route to the cabana address at the Oakridge Club right now. The catering equipment and the stolen high-value inventory totaling over four hundred dollars in specialty food items, along with the corporate credit card used for the vehicle rental, match your report. We’ll be taking a statement from Brittany Vance shortly.”
“Claire, hang up the phone!” Daniel screamed, rushing toward me.
Before he could reach me, Uncle Greg stepped between us. Greg was a burly, retired contractor who had worked honest union jobs his entire life. His face was dark with disgust as he planted a broad palm firmly against Daniel’s chest, shoving his nephew back onto the sofa.
“Back off, Daniel,” Greg growled. “You don't put your hands near your wife. Not now. Not ever.”
“Uncle Greg, she’s ruining Brittany’s life!” Daniel cried out, tears of genuine terror now spilling down his cheeks. “Brittany will get a criminal record! She’s trying to build a brand!”
“Brittany is a thief,” I said to the room. “And she’s about to discover that when you steal from a commercial kitchen account monitored by federal tax compliance laws, it isn't an intra-family dispute. It’s an interstate commerce violation.”
I turned back to the phone. “Thank you, Detective. Please ensure the vehicle is impounded as well; the lease is registered under my corporate account, and the authorized driver agreement was terminated two hours ago.”
“Understood, Ms. Sterling. Have a good evening.”
The line clicked dead.
Outside, the faint sound of approaching sirens began to wail through the quiet suburban streets.
Patricia looked toward the window, her eyes wild with panic. “The police? You called the police on Brittany?!”
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“No, Patricia,” I replied, touching the tender, bruised skin beneath my eye where her emerald ring had drawn blood. “The police are coming here for you.”
***
