Catherine’s mouth opened, but the words stumbled out wrong.
“There’s a mistake. Elena Morrison is my son’s wife. She’s… nobody.”
Victoria’s gaze flicked past Catherine.
“She’s standing right behind you.”
Catherine turned.
A taxi was pulling into the driveway.
The rear door opened, and Elena stepped out in her black funeral dress, rain threading down her face, belly round beneath the soaked fabric. She stood for a moment, taking in the wreckage: dresses in puddles, cracked frames, her father’s smiling face smearing in the ruined wedding album.
Elena’s expression didn’t explode. It settled. It sharpened.
She walked forward, crouched, and lifted the album from the water. Her baby kicked under her palm, as if insisting she stay upright.
Victoria stepped beside her and opened an umbrella over both of them, creating a small dry circle in the storm.
“Mrs. Morrison Bradford,” Victoria said gently, “we’ve documented everything. Multiple witnesses. Video. We can proceed with criminal and civil action immediately.”
Elena looked up, eyes flat as winter glass.
“Tell me what I own,” she said.
Victoria tapped her tablet.
“You own Bradford Industrial Group entirely, one hundred percent of shares,” she replied. “You own this residence and several Bradford family properties, including a Manhattan penthouse and a lake house in Connecticut. Mr. Bradford has signing authority only because you haven’t revoked it. That can be terminated now.”
Catherine made a sound like something breaking.
Patricia and Veronica lowered their phones. Their giggles died. They had just filmed themselves destroying a billionaire’s property.
Elena’s voice stayed calm. “I want Thomas here.”
Victoria placed a call.
Fifteen minutes later, Thomas’s Mercedes rolled into the driveway. Sophia sat in the passenger seat, lipstick perfect, impatience in her posture. Thomas stepped out first, ready to command the scene, then froze when he saw the police, the lawyers, and his mother’s terrified face.
“What is this?” he demanded.
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