Chapter 8 - THE MATRIARCH’S DESPERATION
Genesis Miller had never worked a day in her life. She was a woman who defined
herself by the quality of her pearls and the prestige of her address. Now, both
were in jeopardy. She called me from a payphone, her voice trembling with a rage
she could barely contain. "You think you've won, don't you?" she spat. "You
think you can just erase us?" "I don't have to erase you, Genesis," I said,
walking through my garden. "You're doing a fine job of that yourselves." "Arthur
is in cardiac arrest, Jackson is back in jail, and the bank is foreclosing on
the house." "Is that enough for you?" she shrieked. "Does that satisfy your sick
need for revenge?" "It's not revenge," I said, stopping by a rosebush. "It's
structural integrity." "A building with a rotten foundation must be demolished
for the safety of the neighborhood." "You are the rot, Genesis." "You taught
your son that women are property." "You taught him that violence is a tool for
negotiation." "And you thought I would pay you for the privilege of being
abused." The line was quiet for a moment, the only sound was the distant city
traffic. "I will kill myself," she said, her voice dropping to a low, theatrical
whisper. "And it will be on your head." "No," I said, "it will be on your own
conscience." "But we both know you love yourself too much for that." "You'll
survive, Genesis." "You'll just have to do it in a one-bedroom apartment on the
wrong side of town." "Maybe you can find a job." "I hear they're hiring at the
local deli." The sound of her screaming before she hung up was the most
satisfying thing I had ever heard. I knew she was bluffing. Genesis was a
survivor, a cockroach in Chanel. She would find someone else to leech off of,
some other unsuspecting soul. But it wouldn't be me. I went back inside and
found Marcus waiting for me in the kitchen. He had a stack of papers and a
bottle of champagne. "It’s over," he said. "The divorce is finalized." "Jackson
signed everything this morning in exchange for a lighter sentence on the assault
charge." "He’s going away for two years." "And the apartment?" I asked.
"Entirely yours," Marcus said, popping the cork. "No claims, no liens, no
Millers." I took the glass he offered me and felt the cold bubbles on my tongue.
"To the architect," Marcus toasted. "To the architect," I repeated. But as I
looked around my beautiful, empty home, I realized I wasn't just an architect
anymore. I was a survivor. I had built a life out of the wreckage. I had taken
the shards of a plate and turned them into a crown. I spent the evening alone,
listening to the sound of the rain. I didn't feel lonely. I felt powerful. The
Millers were a ghost story now, a cautionary tale about what happens when you
underestimate a woman who knows how to read the fine print. I looked at the scar
on my temple. It was a part of me now. A permanent reminder of the night I
stopped being a victim. I picked up a pen and a fresh sheet of paper. It was
May you like
time to design something new. Something that didn't need a foundation of lies.
Something that was all mine.
