“Stop your pathetic squirming, you decrepit relic. Consider this a complimentary upgrade,” Serena Vance sneered.
The cruel silver blades of the shears caught the harsh, unforgiving glare of the afternoon sun. I sat anchored to the frigid granite of the courtyard bench, my shoulders involuntarily caving inward as if I could fold myself out of existence. I am Evelyn Kingsley. Decades ago, I was the formidable matriarch of this estate, a woman who hosted galas in the grand ballroom and stood shoulder-to-shoulder with titans of industry. But time is a relentless thief. It had stolen my husband, my vitality, and over the last agonizing year, it seemed to be stealing my mind. Age, heavy medications, and a calcified grief had stacked quietly on my fragile bones.
I used to wear my silver hair meticulously pinned back, a style I adopted when my son, Damian, was merely a boy. Back then, I foolishly believed that unwavering kindness and a gentle hand could construct an impenetrable fortress around a family. I was wrong. Kindness, I was learning too late, was merely blood in the water for a shark like Serena.
Now, she stood looming behind me like a bespoke executioner. One of her manicured hands clamped down onto my jawline—fingers digging into my fragile chin with bruising force—while her other hand hacked at my thinning hair in violent, jagged chunks. The sickening snip-crunch of the metal echoed over the bubbling of the estate’s grand fountain.
“Please,” I stammered, my voice a pathetic, trembling whisper that shamed me. “Don’t do this, Serena. Damian… Damian will be home soon.”
