Chapter 6 - The Awakening
Andrew stared at me as if I were a phantom stepping out of a nightmare.
He looked at the tailored suit. He looked at the luxury SUV. He looked at the men in formal suits who stepped out of the vehicle behind me, holding briefcases embossed with the golden crest of Escalante Global Holdings.
“Mariana…?” Andrew whispered, the name tasting foreign and terrifying on his tongue. “What… what is the meaning of this? Why are you here with these people?”
I walked slowly up the stone steps, my heels clicking rhythmically against the marble floor where my blood had dripped just hours earlier. I stopped two feet away from him, looking down with a gaze so cold it made him physically recoil.
“You asked me where I was going last night, Andrew,” I said, my voice carrying clearly across the silent courtyard. “I went home.”
Margaret pushed past her son, her eyes wide with frantic denial. “Home? This is your home! You are a penniless orphan we pulled out of obscurity! You have nothing! You are nothing!”
Marcus Vance stepped forward from our legal team, opening a heavy black portfolio and holding it out for them to see.
“Mrs. Margaret Harrison,” Marcus said smoothly. “Allow me to correct your historical error. Mariana Escalante is the only daughter and sole universal heir of Don Fernando Escalante. Every square foot of this mansion, every brick of your corporate headquarters, every luxury vehicle in your garage, and every diamond in your vault was purchased using capital disbursed directly from the Escalante family trust.”
Brenda shoved her way to the front, her face twisted in hysterical panic. “That’s a lie! She’s a servant! She cleaned our floors! I watched her!”
I turned my gaze to Brenda, letting a thin, humorless smile touch my lips.
“I cleaned your floors because I wanted to see how long a parasite could pretend to be the host,” I said softly. “I sat at your dinner table, listened to your insults, and let you wear my mother’s jewelry, because I wanted to know exactly how deep your greed went before I cut you off.”
Andrew grabbed my arm—a reflex born of years of physical intimidation.
“You tricked us!” he roared, his voice cracking with panic. “You lied to me for four years! You made me believe you were weak!”
I didn't flinch. I didn't pull away. I simply raised my hand—the hand with the bandaged cut—and pointed two fingers at his chest.
Before Andrew could tighten his grip, two private security officers stepped forward, grabbing his wrists with brutal, professional efficiency and twisting his arms behind his back, slamming him face-first against the marble pillar.
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“Get your hands off me!” Andrew screamed, thrashing wildly. “Do you know who I am?!”
“You were my husband,” I said, walking past him toward the open oak doors of the mansion. “Now, you are an unemployed debtor trespassing on my property.”
