“Well, well,” Beatrice drawled, her voice dripping with that familiar, aristocratic condescension. She held the iPad up, framing the endless ocean behind her. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this interruption, Elena? Shouldn’t you be in a hard hat somewhere, pouring cement?”
Her friends tittered, a chorus of vapid, enabling laughter.
“You stole my iPad, Beatrice,” I said. My voice wasn’t loud. It was the low, steady rumble of an approaching earthquake. “And you used my private concierge account to book a forty-eight-thousand-dollar vacation to the Maldives.”
Beatrice scoffed, waving a manicured hand dismissively at the camera. “Oh, don’t be so terribly dramatic. I simply borrowed the tablet. And as for the trip, consider it a long-overdue royalty payment. My Julian works his soul to the bone creating masterpieces that elevate your drab, corporate existence. It’s only fair his mother gets to celebrate his latest gallery triumph. He told me to treat my friends. He’s providing for us.”
She actually believed it. She had ingested her own delusions for so long that they had become her reality.
“Julian didn’t provide this,” I said, leaning forward, ensuring my face was perfectly framed in the center of her screen. “Julian has never provided anything. I own the Brooklyn studio. I own the penthouse. I paid for the gallery space, the critics, and the bronze he wastes. Your son is a financial void.”
The confident smirks on the faces of her friends began to falter. They exchanged nervous, sideways glances.
“How dare you speak about his art that way!” Beatrice snapped, her face flushing beneath her sun hat. “You are just jealous that you lack his creative soul!”
“I am a lot of things, Beatrice, but jealous of a man living in a rented basement is not one of them,” I replied smoothly.
“A basement? What are you babbling about?” Beatrice’s voice hitched, a sudden, sharp note of genuine panic piercing her arrogant facade.
“I am talking about the fact that Julian and I have been legally separated for three weeks,” I stated, the words landing like heavy steel beams dropping onto concrete. “I caught him sleeping with his twenty-two-year-old apprentice in my bed. Because of the infidelity clause in our ironclad prenuptial agreement, Julian walked away with absolutely nothing. No alimony. No studio. No allowance.”