Chapter 77 77
Elliot's POV
That afternoon, the house buzzed with false life, like a theater where everyone played their role in the grand farce that was my mother's birthday.
The main living room was packed with people: investors, family friends who feigned loyalty for a sip of champagne, and company employees who kissed the ground she walked on. Music floated in the air, a soft and pretentious jazz she had chosen to impress, as if that elevated her above what she really was.
I moved among them like a ghost, smiling when necessary, nodding at empty conversations.
I had been ruminating on the same thing for two weeks: the company, the riches my father had built with his hands, and how she, my mother, now handled them as if they were hers by divine right. As if the empire hadn't been born from his vision, but from her mere existence.
She was still angry with me about Emma. She had thrown it in my face that very morning, with that cutting voice she had perfected after my father's death. "You're an immature child, Elliot. Emma was perfect for you, for the family. And you let her go on a whim?"
Whim. As if she didn't know that Emma was just a distraction, a veil hiding what really burned inside me. But it didn't matter. Soon, all that would be behind me.
I saw her now, in the center of the room, laughing with a group of sycophants, dressed in that red tailored suit. Everyone admired her: the great successful businesswoman, the woman with absolute control. She defined herself that way, in interviews and speeches, as if she had been born with that armor. But I knew the truth. If it weren't for my father's death, she would be nothing more than a submissive wife, obedient, invisible. That iron character, that devouring ambition, she had forged it in widowhood. She had taken over everything: the company, the house, even the memories. And now, I was going to claim what was mine.
I slipped away from the bustle, climbing the stairs to her office. The hallway was deserted, the echo of the party muffled by the thick carpets. I pushed the door and entered.
I looked around: nothing of my father remained. For years, she had made sure to erase every trace of him. The paintings he had hung, replaced by impersonal abstract art; the desk that had been his, now covered with her papers and trophies. It was as if he had never existed, as if she had devoured him whole to become what she was.
I sat in her chair, the one that presided over the room like a throne, and closed my eyes. I felt the weight of the responsibilities that would fall on me when she was no longer there. The company, the bank accounts, the properties scattered around the world. All that would be mine, and with it, the freedom to pursue what really mattered. Her. My teacher, the woman who had ignited something in me that wouldn't go out.
She rejected me, saw me as an immature college kid, but that would change. I just needed to remove the obstacles from the path. My mother was the biggest one: her control, her constant judgment. With the riches in my hands, I could offer her everything, show her that I was a man capable of anything for her.
A sudden silence pulled me from my thoughts. The music stopped abruptly, as if someone had cut the cable. Then, a scream pierced the house: "Call an ambulance!"
I smiled in the darkness of the office.
I knew exactly what was happening. I had planned it with precision. The birthday cake, the one she boasted about so much, with its elaborate layers and extravagant decorations. I had made sure it contained sesame, subtly mixed into the cream, undetectable to anyone but me. Her allergy was legendary in the family, but no one suspected I would use it like this.
I took a deep breath, inhaling the still air of the office, and stayed calm, as if the chaos below didn't exist. I imagined the scene: her collapsing, her face swelling, panic spreading like wildfire. It was poetic, in a way. She, who had taken over my father's life, now losing hers at her own celebration.