Chapter 121: The Ash and the Price

Miriam was standing with a bottle of cheap, burning whiskey clutched tightly in her hand. The glass was cool against her palm, but her blood felt like hot, acidic oil. She hadn’t moved from this spot in almost an hour, rooted to the grimy sidewalk by a paralysis of self-hatred and consuming, cold fear.

The light spilling from the nearby diner, VAN’S, was a sick, yellowish haze. It illuminated the chipped, garish orange paint of her custom SUV. The car, a machine worth more than this entire block, was a monument to the world she was quickly losing. It felt like a beacon announcing her weakness, her desperation. The irony of standing here, sipping cheap liquor on a trash-strewn street, while her nemesis, Norah, slept soundly in a glass tower overlooking the world, made her want to vomit.

She looked out at the dinner shop, watching the shadows of the few remaining customers shift behind the smudged window glass. Each movement was a distraction from the turmoil inside her head. She knew what she had to do. She had to go inside and talk to Vanessa. But the thought of facing that woman, that raw, judging creature of the streets, filled her with a profound, debilitating dread.

Miriam raised the whiskey bottle and took a long, reckless gulp. It burned her throat, but the pain was a welcome change from the dull, crushing ache in her chest.

She was lamenting on how Aria with no name could know so much and claim everything she wanted badly.

“How?” she whispered to the empty air, the word catching on the alcohol. “How does she do it? She has no past. No family name. No status. She’s like smoke, you can’t grab her, and yet she knows everything about us. She knows things that should have stayed buried with my grandmother.”

The memory of the gala night, two weeks ago, still tasted like spoiled wine in her mouth. Aria’s words—the cruel, casual way she had exposed Hannah’s affair with Norman, the decades of quiet servitude to the Malcovich name just to keep the company afloat—were worse than any physical assault. It wasn't just an insult; it was a total demolition of Miriam’s identity. The Dubois family was supposed to be old money, respectable, and self-made. Aria had revealed them as nothing more than poor relatives begging for scraps.

“She called me petty,” Miriam spat, the word bitter. “She called me humiliating. And she’s right. Because when my own mother ran away from me, I was humiliated. I was left there to bleed out in the street, not from a bullet, but from the truth.”

Miriam squeezed the bottle again, her knuckles white. She had been defeated, not by a better woman, but by a ghost who spoke the truth. And now, she didn't just want Ethan back. She wanted revenge. She wanted to reclaim the respect she had lost. Aria had insulted her family badly, and she doesn’t want to take it as a defeat; she needs to fight back from the shadows.

She had tried the straight route. She had tried to pay a professional. And that was where the nightmare began.

She remembered the night, a month and a few weeks ago, when she had hired Freddie. She had paid him a fortune—ten times what he normally charged—just to find out where 'Norah' came from. Miriam had been so careful. She chose a secure, underground parking garage in the next district. She had been on the phone with Freddie, driving toward him, checking his location pin before she decided to check in the wine shop.

Miriam was parked just outside a wine shop a block away, nervously waiting for his final instructions. She was supposed to walk down the alley to meet him. She had just left the wine shop, clutching a bottle of expensive red, when her eyes met those of a tough-looking woman taking her own sip of the liquor with her cold stare on her. That woman was Vanessa. Miriam had quickly looked away and insulted her badly, dismissing the street woman, focused only on Freddie’s voice in her ear.

“I’m coming now, Freddie. Just tell me what you have.”

“Just wait one minute, Miss Dubois. I can see you. Just come—”

That was the exact moment the sound ripped the air apart.

It wasn't a roar. It was a single, metallic TWHACK.

Miriam heard the phone drop on the other end, followed by a sickening, wet thud. Silence. Absolute, total silence.

Miriam had stood there, frozen, the phone still pressed to her ear. She hadn't seen the shooter. She hadn't seen the car. She only heard the silence where Freddie’s voice used to be.

Then, she saw it. Through the narrow gap between two buildings, down the dark alley, she saw the silhouette of Freddie. He was down. Not just falling, but already down, unmoving.

A primal scream of terror had lodged in Miriam’s throat. She hadn’t even realized she was running until her expensive heels were pounding against the pavement, scattering gravel. She dropped the expensive bottle of wine. She fled back to her SUV, scrambled inside, and drove away so fast that she nearly clipped a light pole. She left the silence, the wine, and the corpse of the man who knew too much.

She had paid for information. She got a murder instead.

The cost of digging up Aria’s past was death. That was the clear message.

“I was so close,” Miriam thought now, gripping the empty whiskey bottle. “He was going to tell me the name. I don’t know. I’m still standing here a month and a few weeks later, knowing nothing except that my life is less valuable than her secret.”

She had been right to stop pressing hard on who Aria really is. Aria was untouchable. So, if she couldn't attack Aria directly, she had to find a different angle. She had to fight from the shadows, using the kind of people who weren't afraid of a bullet. The kind of people who didn't care about society's rules. People like Vanessa.

She had come back to Greenwood because she knew Vanessa worked at VAN’S. Vanessa was the only other witness, the only one who saw Miriam’s cowardice up close. The insult Vanessa had hurled at her that night had stung far worse than any society gossip.

Miriam needed to erase that memory. She needed to buy Vanessa’s silence and, more importantly, buy her eyes and ears.

The door to the diner opened, letting out a blast of warm, stale air. Two workers in uniform walked out, tired and quiet. Now, only two customers remained. The coast was clearing.

Miriam knew she had to go in now. She adjusted her expensive coat, trying to smooth out the wrinkles. She felt a desperate need to appear regal, powerful, to overcome the setting.

Just as she was about to move, she was interrupted again.

Three men, loud and smelling strongly of stale beer, staggered out of the bar next door. They stopped when they saw the orange SUV, then they saw the woman standing next to it. Miriam’s beautiful, expensive clothes shone even in the gloom. She was a trophy in a junk yard.

“Hey, honey! Don’t tell me you’re waiting for a tow truck! I can tow you myself, if you know what I mean,” one of the men, a huge brute with a laugh like breaking glass, yelled across the street.

“Check out the legs on that one!” another man shouted, catcalling loudly. “Lost, princess? We can keep you company!”

Miriam’s face burned a furious red. Her nostrils flared. The insult was profound, cutting her to the very core of her elite pride.

"How dare they," she thought, her hands clenching into fists. "These low-life men, these disgusting animals, they see me. They think they have a right to me."

But Ethan. Ethan Malcovich, the most beautiful, powerful man in the city, didn't see her. He never sought her attention. He only saw Norah, a woman he had known for mere months. Miriam had given Ethan years of devotion, years of perfect appearances, years of unwavering social support, and he had thrown her away for a red dress and a mysterious smile.

The crude attention from these men was an unbearable mockery of her failure. They were the lowest of the low, and they saw her as attainable, as easy prey. If she was truly the high-society queen she pretended to be, these men wouldn't even dare look at her. But tonight, she felt their eyes on her, and she felt like she was exactly their level—a cheap, angry woman standing alone on a dark street, covered in spilled liquor.

The rage was instantaneous, explosive, and completely uncontrolled. It was a release of two weeks of humiliation, grief over her mother’s betrayal, and the cold terror of Freddie’s murder.

“Shut up!” she screamed, her voice a high, strangled sound that ripped from her throat.

She raised the empty whiskey bottle high above her shoulder and hurled it, not at the men, but at the ground right next to the front tire of her SUV. SHATTER! The sound of breaking glass was violent and deafening. Shards flew everywhere, glittering viciously under the yellow light.

The men stopped dead in their tracks. They stared at the furious woman in the designer clothes, her chest heaving, her eyes wild with a cold, terrifying insanity. They realized this wasn't an easy target. This was a rich, broken woman having a meltdown. They backed away slowly, muttering, and vanished back into the shadows.

Miriam stood over the broken glass, shaking violently. She closed her eyes, forcing herself to breathe. The cold air rushed into her lungs.

Control. Control. Control.

She smoothed her coat one last time. She was here for a transaction, not a breakdown. She had to be strong.

She checked the diner one last time. Only one customer was left, sitting in a booth, reading a newspaper.

Miriam was waiting for the diner to become less crowded before she went in. Now was the time.

She walked across the street, stepping carefully around the broken glass. She pushed open the door of VAN’S. The bell jangled its loud, cheap warning.

The aroma of old grease, burnt coffee, and cleaning chemicals hit her instantly. It was a smell that belonged to the forgotten corners of the world, a smell of hard work and endless nights.

She walked toward the counter. Behind it, Vanessa was scrubbing a stainless steel milk machine with a worn-out sponge.

Immediately she went in, Vanessa looked at her carefully before frowning.

Vanessa straightened up, her eyes immediately finding Miriam. The scrubbing stopped. The air grew thick with immediate hostility. Vanessa’s expression didn't show surprise, only contempt.

“Back again, rich girl?” Vanessa’s voice was low, gravelly, and instantly insulting. “Couldn’t get enough of the gutter last time? I thought you’d be too busy polishing your pity trophy.”

Miriam ignored the insult, focusing on the task. She placed her expensive handbag on the counter, a silent display of her wealth.

“I told you, I need to talk to you, Vanessa. It’s important. It’s about that night.”

“Which night?” Vanessa challenged, crossing her arms over her chest. “The night you left your cheap wine on the sidewalk? Or the night you left a man bleeding out on the concrete because your little heart couldn’t handle the sight of real trouble?”

Miriam flinched, but she held her ground. “Yes, the night I saw you. The night… the night I was looking for Freddie.”

“The dead guy? Yeah, I saw you that night, too. You looked like a terrified chicken,” Vanessa said, nodding slowly, savoring the insult. “You were shaking so bad, I thought your diamonds were going to rattle right off your earlobes. You were on the phone, watching, and then you ran like the coward you are.”

Miriam swallowed hard. She didn't deny it. She couldn't.

“I came here because of this woman,” Miriam said, quickly pulling the photo of Norah from her bag. She slid it across the counter.

She was about to leave to attend to one customer, one of the remaining two at the far end, when Miriam brought out the picture and placed it on the table.

“This is her. This is Norah. The one who has caused all the trouble. I need to know if you recognize her. Have you ever seen her around here? Was she with Freddie?”

Vanessa leaned down, her face close to the picture. She scrutinized the smiling, perfect face of the woman who claimed to be Norah. Vanessa's eyes, hardened by years of working in this city, slowly scanned the picture.

She pushed the picture away again, harder this time. It flipped over, showing the blank white back.

“I hate people who look like that,” Vanessa spat. “All clean and perfect, like they never had a real problem. No, I don’t know her. And if I did, why would I tell you?”

Miriam stood up slightly on the stool, leaning over the counter. She had to use the weak, fabricated story now, just to keep Vanessa talking.

“Vanessa, please. When I came to Greenwood to take a drink from a nearby store, the day Freddie was shot,” Miriam started, but Vanessa cut her off with a snort.

“You came down here for a drink. Right. And you made me look like I just came out of the gutter. Get real, rich kid.”

“Just listen!” Miriam insisted, her voice tight with desperation. “And there was a television screen. And I saw her. I saw her on the news. She was standing next to Ethan Malcovich. They were showing a clip of their engagement or something. A proposal.”

Vanessa walked to the industrial coffee maker, pouring herself a fresh cup of thick, black sludge. She took a long sip, staring at Miriam over the rim of the mug.

Vanessa only laughed because she hated Miriam.

“You are still lying,” Vanessa said, shaking her head. “You are lying about why you were here. You are lying about what you saw. You think because I work in this dump I’m stupid? You didn’t see any news reports. You were here to buy a secret, and you ran when the price went up. The price of that woman’s secret is a body bag. Why should I help a coward like you?”

She put the mug down, her eyes narrowed. The hatred was palpable. “You have no idea what it means to struggle, pretty girl. You insulted me the day you saw me. You acted like I was dirt beneath your feet when you sped away from Freddie’s body. You are a chicken! You are a spoiled, useless little doll who only knows how to talk about diamonds and parties. You came here, you saw a real, raw murder, and you fled out of fear, shaking like a chicken. I told you to go back to your pathetic, privileged life, and I meant it. You don’t belong here….. What else do you want us to talk about!”

Vanessa turned away, starting to clean a stack of plates with violent energy. She was done. Miriam was just a pathetic distraction.

Miriam watched her. Vanessa’s words were a relentless, accurate hammer blow to her pride. Every insult was true. She was a coward. She was useless here. But she couldn't leave. If she left now, she would be completely defeated. She would go home and wait for Ethan to marry this enemy, and then she would be nothing.

A terrible, cold resolve settled over Miriam. She had no dignity left to lose. She had no spies to hire. She had only one weapon left. The same one that paid for Freddie’s life and then paid for her silence.

When Miriam saw that Vanessa wasn't ready to talk to her, out of anger she shouted. Her voice was raw and strained, echoing off the high, tiled ceilings of the empty diner. It wasn't a question, but a desperate demand. She didn't want friendship. She wanted information.

“How much do you want!”