Chapter 4 (continued): The Final Judgment, the Fall of the Porcelain Angel, and the Ten Minutes of Grace
Valeria blinked rapidly, confusion wiping the fake tears from her face.
“W-what… what did you say?” she stammered.
“I said ten minutes,” I repeated, stressing each word like a death sentence. “Ten minutes to pack your things, grab whatever you’re wearing, and get out of my house for the rest of your life.”
The color that had returned to her cheeks vanished again. Her eyes widened in disbelief as reality crashed down on her like a block of concrete.
“You… you’re kicking me out?” she asked, her voice cracking with genuine panic. “Neo, you can’t be serious. You can’t do this! The wedding is in a month! The deposits are paid! The invitations have already been sent! What am I supposed to tell my parents? What will my friends say? What will the press say, Neo? We’re the couple of the year!”
Her complete detachment from reality disgusted me even more. In the middle of violence and betrayal, she was worried about the press and her social circle.
I stepped closer. My shadow swallowed her.
“The wedding is canceled. Right now. This very second,” I said coldly. “And as for what the press will say… oh, trust me, Valeria, you’d better hope I’m the one who speaks. Because if you don’t walk out of this house in the next ten minutes, I’m calling the police. I’ll file charges for assault, abuse, and violence against an elderly person.”
She gasped, covering her mouth.
“And I won’t stop there,” I continued mercilessly. “With the money I have, I’ll hire the best lawyers in the country. I’ll make sure the footage from the hidden security cameras I installed last week gets leaked to every gossip show, every magazine, every corner of social media.”
(It was a lie — there were no cameras — but I saw the color drain from her face.)
“The entire country will find out that the ‘refined and elegant’ Valeria is nothing more than a cowardly abuser who tortures an old woman when she thinks no one is watching. You’ll be the shame of your precious high society. Your reputation will be destroyed.”
She searched my eyes and realized I wasn’t bluffing.
Panic turned into desperation… then into pure hatred. The mask finally shattered. No sweet fiancée remained — only a furious, exposed stranger.
Without another word, she spun around and stormed out of the kitchen, her heels striking the marble floor as she ran toward the stairs, sobbing loudly — not from remorse, but from rage and humiliation at losing her golden ticket.
Minutes later, I heard hurried footsteps crossing the foyer… the wheels of a suitcase… the front door opening.
Then came the most beautiful sound I had heard in years:
The slam of the door.
The heavy wood vibrated through the walls.
Silence returned to the house.
But this time it wasn’t suffocating. It was clean. Pure. The air no longer smelled of expensive perfume and hypocrisy. It smelled like home again.
The house was mine.
And more importantly… my mother was safe.
