Chapter 48 Chapter 48
That only seemed to make the moment more unbelievable.
The other women began murmuring among themselves, each one repeating some version of the same thing how rude Megan had been, how arrogant, how bold, how shameless. One called her reckless. Another said she clearly did not understand who she had offended. A third insisted that no woman in the estate had ever spoken to them like that before.
But Mrs. Abigail was no longer merely shocked.
Something else had begun to creep into her expression.
Something sharper, something more dangerous.
She slowly lowered her hand, then gave a small laugh not one of amusement, but one of offense ripening into interest.
“This,” she said, her voice low, “is really, really interesting.”
Her eyes remained fixed on the door.
Then, with a smile that did not reach her eyes, she added, “And I love people like her.”
Madam Veronica let out a short laugh, the kind that carried more menace than humor.
“Same here,” she said, folding her arms as she stared at the front of Megan’s house. “I actually love people like her. People who talk too big. People who think they are untouchable.”
Her lips curved into a thin, dangerous smile.
“I love them very much,” she continued. “Because they are always the most satisfying to deal with in the end. They never understand what is coming for them. They never see it until it is already too late.”
She glanced at Mrs. Abigail, and there was a wicked kind of excitement in her eyes now.
“I’m very, very sure about one thing,” she added. “She has no idea what is going to hit her. And when it does, we are going to teach her a very good lesson.”
Mrs. Abigail nodded slowly, her anger no longer wild but controlled, which somehow made her even more frightening.
“Well then,” she said, adjusting her handbag, “let’s go. Let’s go.”
She looked once more at the house, as though marking it in her mind.
“She is going to hear from us,” she said coldly.
“Whether she likes it or not.”
And with that, the women finally began to leave, one after another, their heels tapping against the pavement as they walked away from the compound. But the air they left behind felt heavier than before, as if their threats had not gone with them but had settled around the house like a warning.
By the next day, the atmosphere in Vincent’s family home was entirely different.
Everyone had risen early and dressed carefully for the outing ahead.
Vincent’s father was already prepared, looking unusually alert and determined. His mother had changed clothes more than once before settling on what she felt was respectable enough for the occasion.
His sister had also made sure she looked her best. And his wife who was the reason this meeting was happening in the first place appeared especially composed, moving with the quiet confidence of someone who knew she was about to prove a point.
They were preparing to head to the avenue where, according to Vincent’s wife, her uncle had agreed to see them.
And this was no ordinary relative.
This was General Zakariah.
The very mention of the man’s name seemed to fill the room with a new kind of seriousness. Whatever else anyone may have thought before, they all now understood that this meeting could be the turning point they had been hoping for.
Not long into their final preparations, Deborah suddenly turned toward Vincent.
“Shouldn’t we present him with a gift?” she asked. “At least, this is General Zakariah we’re talking about. We can’t just go there empty-handed. No, that won’t look good at all. We should give him something. Present him with a proper gift.”
Mr. Bushman immediately nodded in agreement, as though the thought had already crossed his own mind but Deborah had voiced it first.
“Exactly,” he said. “Exactly. That is right.”
He lifted a hand for emphasis.
“We should get him something. It doesn’t have to be too small or too cheap-looking. It has to be something meaningful. Something that will catch his attention one hundred percent. That is what we are going to do.”
Vincent, who had been standing slightly apart, frowned thoughtfully.
That did make sense.
If they were truly going to meet a man like General Zakariah, showing up with nothing at all might seem careless, even disrespectful. But then came the real question.
Without wasting another second, Vincent turned to the rest of them and asked, “So what exactly are we going to present to him? What kind of gift would actually catch his attention?”
The question opened the floor at once.
Everyone began thinking out loud.
One suggested a customized walking stick, since men of influence often liked symbolic items.
Another thought perhaps an expensive wristwatch would do.
Someone else mentioned premium wine, but that suggestion was quickly dismissed because no one was certain of the general’s taste in drinks.
For a while, they all remained caught in the same problem wanting something memorable, but not knowing what would truly impress a man of that standing.
Then Vincent’s wife cleared her throat gently.
The room quieted.
She waited until everyone was listening before she spoke.
“What if we get him an antique?” she said.
At once, several faces turned toward her with interest.
She continued, calm and sure of herself.
“From what I know, he loves antiques. And I’m certain none of us has anything like that here already prepared. So why don’t we buy one? We can make sure it is something truly elegant—something rare, something that matches his taste. If we present him with a fine antique, I believe it will go a very long way.”