I’ll Marry His Rival and Burn His Empire to Ash Chapter 15

I’ll Marry His Rival and Burn His Empire to Ash Chapter 15

In the Monroe family living room, the air was so quiet you could hear the firewood crackling in the fireplace.

Red and green Bloomberg tickers flickered across the television screen. I leaned against the sofa, staring blankly at the numbers. My mother, Eleanor Monroe, had been sitting in the armchair opposite me, staring at me like this for a full ten minutes.

Her taut posture made her look like a porcelain doll about to crack.

At last, tired of the silent judgment, I picked up the remote and turned off the television.

“Mother,” I said calmly, “if you have something to say, just say it.”

That sentence was like a switch, instantly detonating the panic she had been suppressing.

“Was it you, Ava?” Her voice was sharp and thin. “Did you really call the police on Jackson? And that photo on Instagram… dear God, all of Charleston is talking! Did you really… did you really marry Ethan Blackwood?”

She paused, as if the name itself had burned her tongue. Finally, she let out a despairing moan. “What on earth were you thinking? What about the Monroe family’s reputation? How are we supposed to show our faces?”

I picked up the glass of ice water beside me and took a sip.

“Yes, I called the police,” I admitted, my voice devoid of emotion. “As for whether he gets bailed out, that’s up to the Devereaux lawyers. It has nothing to do with me.”

My calm seemed to shock her even more than the admission itself.

I set down the glass and finally looked at her. There was none of the pain or madness she expected in my eyes, only a cold silence.

“I only called the police, Mother. I didn’t hire someone to break his leg and let him know what lifelong disability feels like.” My voice was very soft, but every word was ice. “Considering Chloe will need a cane for the rest of her life, this is the most restraint I could show.”

“Chloe…” Mother’s face paled. Whatever anger she felt was ultimately suppressed by the social pragmatism she had cultivated for decades. She sighed, her tone softening. “But that’s Jackson… I watched him grow up. After all, he used to be your husband…”

“Used to be,” I cut her off, giving her no chance to use the past to dilute my resolve.

I stood and smoothed the nonexistent creases in my skirt.

“My surname is Monroe now. My husband is Ethan Blackwood. Please remember that, Mother. Don’t call me by the wrong name again.”

I turned to go upstairs, unwilling to continue this meaningless conversation.

“I’m not finished.”

Mother’s voice came from behind me, carrying an unprecedented, stubborn refusal to yield.