Chapter Two: The Slap in the Living Room
Vivian waited until every face in the room turned toward her.
She loved an audience.
Paige had learned that years ago. Vivian’s cruelty was always sharper when someone was there to witness it. Not because she feared witnesses, but because she enjoyed control. She liked turning humiliation into theater.
“Paige,” Vivian said, her voice wrapped in false softness, “come here.”
Paige did not move.
The relatives shifted uncomfortably.
A cousin named Elaine lowered her gaze. Uncle Robert cleared his throat and pretended to study his glass of wine. None of them wanted to be involved.
Vivian’s expression hardened.
“Paige,” she repeated. “Now.”
Paige walked forward slowly. Her legs felt heavy, but she refused to let her stepmother see her shake.
She stopped a few feet away.
Vivian looked at her black dress, then at her face.
“This has been a painful day for all of us,” Vivian began. “Your father’s passing has left many things uncertain.”
Paige said nothing.
Vivian turned slightly so everyone could see her profile.
“But some realities must be accepted. This mansion was maintained by your father and me during our marriage. I am his wife. I will be managing the household and the estate going forward.”
A strange silence filled the room.
Paige’s chest tightened.
“What are you saying?” she asked.
Vivian’s smile was small.
“I am saying you need to pack your belongings.”
The words landed like ice water.
Paige blinked.
“What?”
Vivian stepped closer.
“Your father is dead. This house doesn’t belong to you anymore.”
The room went still.
For a second, Paige could not breathe.
Her father had just been buried. The dirt was still fresh over his grave. The flowers had not even wilted. And Vivian was already throwing her out.
“This is my home,” Paige whispered.
Vivian’s eyes flashed.
“No. It was your father’s home. And now it is mine.”
Paige looked around the room, hoping someone would speak. Anyone. A relative. A family friend. A person who had eaten at their table, laughed at her father’s jokes, accepted his generosity.
No one did.
Paige’s voice trembled. “Dad would never want this.”
Vivian’s expression changed instantly.
The false grief vanished.
“Do not pretend you know what your father wanted,” she snapped.
“I was his daughter.”
“And I was his wife.”
“You hated that he loved me.”
A few guests inhaled sharply.
Vivian’s face turned cold.
Then, before Paige could move, Vivian raised her hand and slapped her across the face.
The sound cracked through the living room.
Paige stumbled sideways, one hand flying to her cheek.
For one terrible moment, she heard nothing but the rush of blood in her ears.
The relatives stared.
Nobody stepped forward.
Vivian leaned close, her voice low enough for Paige to hear but loud enough for the room to understand.
“Get out of my house.”
Paige looked at her.
Tears burned her eyes, but she refused to cry openly. Not for Vivian. Not in front of these people. Not in the room where her father used to lift her as a child and spin her until she laughed.
Vivian pointed toward the front door.
“Now.”
Paige’s hand dropped from her cheek.
She wanted to shout. She wanted to remind them all who Jonathan Whitmore had been. She wanted to say that the man they had buried would be ashamed of every silent person in that room.
But grief stole her voice.
So she turned.
Every step toward the door felt like walking through broken glass.
She passed the grand staircase where her father had once posed with her for Christmas photos. She passed the piano her mother used to play. She passed the portrait of Jonathan that Vivian had placed near the entrance, surrounded by white lilies and black ribbon.
At the door, Paige stopped.
Her hand touched the handle.
For a brief second, she almost collapsed.
She had lost her father.
Now she was losing her home.
Then she opened the door.
And froze.
A man in a dark suit stood on the porch under a black umbrella. His silver hair was damp from the rain, and he held a leather document folder against his chest.
His eyes softened when he saw her red cheek.
“Miss Paige,” he said.
Paige knew him instantly.
Samuel Hayes.
Her father’s attorney.
Her lips parted.
Samuel looked past her into the mansion. Then he looked back at her and spoke with quiet urgency.
“I am sorry for your loss,” he said. “But I need you to come back inside.”
Paige stared at him, confused.
“Why?”
May you like
Samuel opened the leather folder just enough for her to see the sealed envelope inside.
“Because your father left instructions,” he said. “And Vivian Whitmore has no legal right to remove you from this house.”
