Chapter 2: The Taste of Mint and Malice
I ended the call and glided back into the ballroom just as Julian descended the stage steps. He was immediately swarmed by sycophants raising crystal glasses, desperate for a sliver of his newly minted, scandalous limelight. As I approached, his brow furrowed imperceptibly. He looked genuinely offended, as if my composed demeanor was an insult to the grand tragedy he had orchestrated.
Khloe stood practically glued to his bicep. Seeing me, she carefully unlatched her fingers from his suit. “Eleanor, I… I am so incredibly sorry. I had absolutely no idea Julian would say something so dramatic in a setting like this. I begged him not to, but he—” She paused, expertly biting her lower lip as her eyes flushed with fresh, manufactured tears.
Before I could respond, Victoria Vance intercepted us. My mother-in-law was a woman whose entire personality was wrapped in old money pretension, despite her family’s wealth being largely a facade. She reflexively touched her heavy pearl necklace, her voice pitched perfectly to ensure the nearest gossip columnists could eavesdrop.
“Eleanor, darling. For a woman in your unfortunate position, the most vital skill is learning to read the room. Julian has made his heart explicitly clear. Don’t throw a tantrum and make this embarrassing for everyone.”
I leveled my gaze at her. Three years ago, when I first crossed the threshold of the Vance estate as a newlywed, she had touched those exact same pearls and coldly informed me, “The Sterling family might have some crude cash from running raw material businesses, but now that you are part of the Vance family, you need to learn our refined rules.” Back then, in my naive pursuit of a peaceful marriage, I believed compromise was the bedrock of love. Tonight, the veil was lifted. Some people don’t want a compromise; they want a doormat.
Julian finally stepped forward, adopting his best diplomatic CEO voice. “Eleanor, how this unfolded tonight was poorly considered on my part. I concede that. But Khloe has been by my side for five grueling years. She has sacrificed her youth for this company. I simply cannot let her remain in the shadows, unacknowledged, any longer.”
I stared at the man I had shared a bed with for three years, feeling nothing but the chilling realization that I was looking at a complete stranger. Five years of organizing his calendar and fetching his oat milk lattes was a “sacrifice.” Yet my three years of secretly stabilizing his collapsing supply chains, securing high-level resources, plugging his multi-million dollar funding gaps, and hiding his family’s catastrophic financial incompetence was framed as me enjoying prestige.
“We can discuss the divorce settlement privately,” Julian continued, his tone flat, dropping the final insult. “You can ask for whatever you want. I will make sure you are taken care of.” He delivered the line with the magnanimous air of a king throwing a copper coin to a beggar.
I gave a single, crisp nod. “Okay.”
Victoria’s tense posture visibly melted into relief. A momentary, predatory flash of triumph illuminated Khloe’s eyes before she swiftly bowed her head, resuming her act as the anxious, accidental homewrecker.
Julian, however, looked entirely destabilized by my rapid capitulation. “You’re agreeing? Just like that? Are you sure?”
I looked up at him, fully aware of the live stream cameras still pivoting in our direction. Half the room was holding its breath, waiting for me to shatter—to scream, to claw at Khloe’s perfectly styled hair, or to collapse to my knees and beg the Vance family for mercy. Instead, I gracefully placed my half-empty champagne glass onto the silver tray of a passing waiter. The delicate crystal struck the metal with a sharp, resonant clink.
“Julian,” I said, my voice cutting through the ambient hum of the ballroom like a scalpel. “A divorce is perfectly fine. But the terms will not be yours to dictate.”
By midnight, the leaked footage from the gala had saturated Twitter, TikTok, and TMZ. It mutated into a viral wildfire of the ugliest variety. The trending hashtags read like a digital stoning.
When Tyler forwarded me the screenshots of the vitriolic comments, I was standing in the kitchen of my Brooklyn Heights brownstone, boiling a pot of penne pasta.
He fired off a barrage of frantic voice memos. “El, look at this garbage! They’re saying you must be some gold-digging nobody from an insignificant family who tried to climb the social ladder, and now that you’re exposed, you’re too cowardly to fight back! This one says, ‘Khloe was with him during the startup trenches—true love always wins!’ And this one is actually critiquing your bone structure, saying you don’t possess the ‘aura’ of a wealthy household!”
I fished a single noodle from the roiling water, blew on it, and took a bite. Still needs salt. I sighed, reaching for the ceramic shaker and dusting the water with a heavy pinch.
Tyler was practically hyperventilating on a live call now. “El! Are you even comprehending the words coming out of my mouth? The entire internet is currently drafting a pathetic, tragic screenplay of your life, and I can hear you stirring a pot!”
“I hear you perfectly, Ty,” I murmured. “And then what? If I panic, the pasta is going to get soggy.”
The line went dead silent. I could hear him grinding his teeth. “You are terrifying. I have never witnessed a human being become the main character of national gossip and still prioritize their carbohydrate intake.”
I carried my ceramic bowl out to the enclosed balcony. This brownstone was a historic, ivy-choked sanctuary left to me by my grandmother. Rain from a recent storm still clung to the brick walls, and in the corner, a sprawling cluster of potted mint gave off a brilliant, glossy green sheen. The night breeze carried its crisp, clean scent, cutting through the humidity. When I left the gala, I hadn’t returned to the sprawling, sterile Vance estate. When the driver asked for my destination, I gave him this address. He was bewildered; the Vance family had no idea this property existed. To them, Eleanor was just a mild-mannered girl with no powerful backing, lucky to share their surname.
The doorbell chimed. I opened it to find Tyler. He looked immaculate in a razor-sharp gray suit, yet he was awkwardly balancing a cardboard tray of two sugar-free cold brews and a massive, grease-stained food truck burrito.
“Hot and cold balance,” he announced, marching inside. “Scientific wellness.”
“You’re deeply lying to yourself,” I said, locking the door.
“Whatever. As long as it converts to calories.” He dumped his haul onto my rustic wooden dining table and scanned the room. “You finally moved back to civilization. This place is infinitely better than the Vance mausoleum. Their living room is so grotesquely huge it feels like a soundstage built exclusively for people to perform being miserable.”
I offered a small smile. Tyler cracked open his laptop, the blue light reflecting in his eyes. “Vance Holdings is already bleeding. The absolute second your dad froze the credit lines, their accounting department went into cardiac arrest. My insiders tell me Julian has already made three panicked calls to their partner banks. Oh, and your replacement hasn’t been idle either. She posted on Instagram.”
He shoved his phone into my face. Khloe had uploaded a moody, artistic shot from backstage at the gala. Half her face was obscured by an obscenely large floral arrangement. The caption read: I never set out to steal anything from anyone. It’s just that sometimes, when true feelings are suppressed in the dark for too long, the silence becomes unbearable.
Tyler rolled his eyes so aggressively I thought he might strain a muscle. “She calls this ‘not wanting to steal’? Please. She practically has ‘Future Mrs. Vance’ tattooed across her forehead in neon ink.”
Just as he spoke, my phone screen illuminated with an incoming call. Victoria Vance.
I stared at the caller ID, letting it ring for a grueling fifteen seconds before I finally answered.
Victoria’s voice dripped with practiced, haughty concern. “Eleanor, darling. You vanished in such a rush last night. The family was absolutely beside itself with worry.”
I glanced at Tyler, who was aggressively pantomiming a gag reflex over his burrito. I bit the inside of my cheek to suppress a laugh. “How can I help you, Victoria?”
“Why are you speaking to your elders with such a hostile tone?” she sighed, a delicate, wounded sound. “Julian was… undeniably impulsive last night. But men of his stature face unimaginable pressures in their empires. Having a woman by his side who can actively assist his daily burdens isn’t easy to find. As his wife, you should possess the grace to be understanding.”
I remained utterly silent. Mistaking my silence for submission, her tone softened into a weaponized lullaby. “Khloe has worshipped Julian for years. She’s suffered the indignity of hiding without a proper title. Your dynamic with Julian has always been terribly frosty anyway, Eleanor. Why not take the high road and be generous? The Vance family won’t leave you destitute. We’re prepared to offer a luxury condo, and we can negotiate a very respectable cash payout. You’re still young enough. Taking a settlement and fading away quietly is nothing to be ashamed of.”
I looked down at my fingertips, which still carried the sharp, earthy scent of crushed mint leaves. Over three years, Victoria had mastered this exact cadence—sounding like a benevolent benefactor while aggressively shoving you into the dirt. She used to frame my refusal to social climb as a character flaw. She framed my lack of a pregnancy as a “blessing” for the family’s genetics. Now, she was framing my replacement as a golden parachute.
“Mrs. Vance,” I said, my voice dropping to a silken whisper. “Are you terrified that I will be embarrassed? Or are you terrified that the Vance family will be exposed?”
The line went dead. The silence was thick enough to choke on.
“Eleanor, you are behaving in a profoundly unpleasant manner,” she finally snapped, the facade cracking.
“When your son dragged his mistress onto a stage and declared her the lady of the house on a live broadcast, did you not find that slightly unpleasant?” I countered, my voice chilling the air.
“That was Julian’s executive decision! If you wish to assign blame, look in a mirror and ask yourself why you failed to maintain your husband’s affections!”
Tyler practically vibrated with rage, silently mouthing a string of highly explicit curses. I merely smiled at the ivy creeping up my balcony window. “So, why the urgent phone call, Victoria? Are you demanding my compliance to help you mop up this public relations bloodbath?”
“Return to the estate tomorrow,” she ordered, dropping all pretense. “We will arrange a curated photoshoot with you and Julian. We will issue a joint statement claiming the media maliciously took his words out of context, and that Khloe is merely a highly valued employee. Once the media storm evaporates, we will execute the divorce privately. You need to read the room, Eleanor.”
Read the room. Her favorite weaponized phrase.
I looked at the mint plant. A few rogue stems had grown twisted and crooked, suffocating the fragile new sprouts beneath them. My grandmother used to say, You can’t be afraid of the shears. Only when you aggressively amputate the rot will the roots grow invincible.
“I won’t be returning,” I said simply.
Her voice pitched into a shrill shriek. “Do not reject a life raft when it is thrown to you! The Vance family offering you a dignified exit is a courtesy, out of respect for the three wasted years you spent under our roof!”
“I’m curious,” I mused softly. “Exactly how much dignity do you assume the Vance family actually has left in its reserves to offer me?”
She sputtered, utterly derailed by my defiance. I didn’t give her a chance to recover.
“The cameras were rolling, Victoria. The entire world heard Julian’s manifesto. You want my cooperation now because you need me to get on my hands and knees and scrub the scandal off your pristine marble steps. But Mrs. Vance… my knees are tired.”
“What on earth is that supposed to mean?!”
“It means I am done scrubbing your messes.”
I ended the call. Tyler instantly erupted into applause, slamming his hand on the table so hard a chunk of chicken launched out of his tortilla. “Poetry! Absolute poetry! You are finally radiating the terrifying aura of a billionaire’s heir.”
“Quiet, Ty,” I murmured, staring at the black screen of my phone.
I wasn’t afraid of the Vance family hearing me. I was simply reflecting on why I had buried the Sterling name for so long. Growing up, I was surrounded by sycophants who would dynamically alter their entire personalities the moment they realized who my father was. Flattery, calculated awe, desperate groveling. I naively thought that by hiding my crown during my marriage, I might witness a person’s authentic soul.
I did witness it. And the soul of Julian Vance was a desolate, ugly thing.
The following morning, a dreary, gray rain washed over the city. I didn’t return to the Vance estate. Instead, I took a cab to a hidden, dilapidated antique bookshop tucked away at the end of Bedford Street in the West Village. The storefront was cramped, the glass windows fogged with age, and the proprietor, Mr. Henderson, possessed a temper significantly worse than the dust coating his first editions.
As the brass bell chimed my arrival, he peered at me over the rim of a yellowed newspaper. “Back to haunt me? Haven’t finished deciphering that vintage fountain pen repair manual yet, have you?”
“I finished the manual, but I still managed to fracture the Parker pen,” I admitted, pulling the sleek, vintage writing instrument from my leather tote. A hairline crack spiderwebbed across the resin cap. It was one of the few physical artifacts my grandmother had left me.
Mr. Henderson snatched it from my palm, shoving his thick reading glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I can salvage this. But it demands patience. Resurrecting old things is always more expensive and painful than just buying a shiny new replacement.” He scoffed, tossing the pen into a velvet tray. “You nostalgic types are an absolute nightmare for my blood pressure.”
I smiled, a bittersweet curve of my lips. He was entirely correct. I used to be chronically nostalgic. Nostalgic for the illusion of a respectable, loving marriage. Nostalgic for the fleeting, breadcrumb moments of warmth Julian occasionally offered. Nostalgic for the elaborate meals I cooked from scratch, the silk ties I perfectly knotted for him, the agonizingly late nights I waited by the window for his headlights.
But a fractured vintage pen could be bound and repaired. When a human heart grows crooked and rotten, the only cure is amputation.
The shop door violently swung open, and Tyler blew in, clutching a stack of manila folders, his face flushed with manic glee. “I am dressed for corporate warfare!” he announced to the room.
Mr. Henderson slammed his newspaper down. “Keep your decibels manageable in my shop, you caffeinated hooligan.”
Tyler’s mouth snapped shut. He practically tiptoed over to my small reading table, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “El, the audit is complete. The public relations nightmare is just a paper cut. The fatal wounds to Vance Holdings are three specific lifelines.”
He spread the confidential files across the scarred oak wood. “Artery number one: The annual mega-supply contract between Vance and the Carmichael Group. Artery number two: Their commercial bank credit renewals. Artery number three: Their exclusive overseas raw material logistics. Every single one of these beats to the rhythm of the Sterling family’s hidden pacemaker.”
The CEO of the Carmichael Group was my father’s oldest confidant. He had awarded Vance that lucrative contract strictly as a wedding gift to me. The banks were even more deeply entangled; when Vance Holdings recklessly expanded two years ago, their cash reserves evaporated. It was the Sterling Investment Department that had quietly constructed a shadow network of credit guarantees to stop Julian’s empire from imploding under a mountain of short-term debt.
“Does Julian have any inkling of this?” Tyler asked, tapping the files.
“He might not be entirely blind,” I murmured, tracing the edge of a folder. “But Julian is a man who vastly prefers the mythology of his own brilliance. Men of his caliber possess a spectacular talent for standing on the shoulders of giants and convincing themselves they sprouted wings.”
Tyler grinned like a shark. “Well, according to Richard Sterling’s explicit orders, we are amputating the wings. We can trigger a total collapse of Vance’s accounting department by midnight.”
I flipped through the Carmichael contract, my eyes scanning the heavily redacted clauses. “Don’t sever the arteries entirely.”
Tyler’s manic energy faltered. “Are you kidding me? Are you still harboring a soft spot for this parasite?”
“Pull the Carmichael contract, but tell them to stall the final signature—blame it on ‘market volatility.’ For the banks, demand an immediate, aggressive reassessment of risk control, but don’t issue a hard rejection yet. For the overseas channels, revoke their VIP priority status, but leave the door open just a crack.”
Tyler stared at me, his analytical brain processing the strategy. “You’re intentionally leaving them a breadcrumb trail.”
“I’m leaving them a multiple-choice exam where every answer is agony,” I corrected.
A slow, terrifying grin spread across Tyler’s face. “I see the vision. The bridges aren’t burned, but they are rigged with explosives. They’ll have to crawl on their hands and knees, begging you for the privilege to cross.”
I nodded, my gaze hard. “If Vance Holdings detonates overnight, the narrative will spin. The media will claim the monolithic Sterling Empire used its billions to crush a helpless startup out of petty spite. I don’t want a murder. I want an autopsy. I want the world to watch them try to walk, and realize the only reason the Vance family ever stood tall was because I was the floorboards keeping them out of the mud.”
From behind the counter, Mr. Henderson slowly lowered his paper. “You let people step on you long enough, kid, and they start complaining that the floor is creaking.”
Tyler slammed his hand on the table. “Mr. Henderson, that is devastatingly profound!”
“Do not slap my seventeenth-century antique table, you absolute barbarian!” the old man barked.
