Chapter 2 - The House of Glass
Garrett froze. The color drained completely from his face, leaving his skin the shade of wet drywall.
“What do you mean, declined?” Garrett stammered, stepping toward the waiter. “Try it again. It’s an unlimited corporate card from Vance Logistics. Run it again!”
“Sir, the machine indicated that the account has been suspended by the primary guarantor,” the waiter said quietly, not backing down.
I folded my arms across my chest, feeling the damp, sticky chill of wine soaking through the silk of my blouse, but inside, I felt nothing but ice. “I am the primary guarantor, Garrett. And I revoked your authorized user status at two o’clock this afternoon.”
The officers approached the table, their hands resting neutrally near their duty belts. The lead officer, a veteran sergeant with salt-and-pepper hair, took in the scene in half a second: my wine-drenched hair and clothes, Garrett’s flushed face and aggressive stance, and the broken tension hanging like a wire.
“Who called nine-one-one?” the sergeant asked.
“I did,” I said, stepping forward past Garrett. “My name is Claire Vance. This man is my husband, Garrett Vance. Approximately ten minutes ago, he intentionally threw a glass of wine into my face after demanding that I pay for his family’s dining tab. He then threatened me when I attempted to stand up.”
“Officer, this is a private domestic matter that has been wildly exaggerated!” Vivian cried out, her voice trembling with theatrical grief. “My son never laid a finger on her. Look at her! Does she have a bruise? Does she have a cut? It was a spilled drink during an argument about money! This woman is mentally unstable—she’s been under psychiatric care since her father passed away!”
The sergeant turned his gaze slowly to Vivian, his expression thoroughly unimpressed. “Ma’am, lower your voice. Did anyone ask you to speak?”
“Do you know who I am?” Vivian scoffed, her mask slipping further. “I am Vivian Montgomery Vance. My late husband sat on the municipal board of—”
“Ma’am, step back against that wall and remain silent, or I will cite you for interfering with an investigation,” the officer said, his tone flat and unyielding.
He turned back to Laurent. “Do you have security cameras covering this area?”
“Yes, Officer,” Laurent said immediately. “Our security director has already isolated the video clip. If you will follow me to the back office, you can review it yourself.”
Garrett reached out blindly, grabbing my forearm with tight, punishing fingers. “Claire, call them off. Tell them it was a misunderstanding. If this gets into the press, the merger with Crossfield Capital is dead. Do you hear me? Everything I’ve built dies tonight!”
“Let go of my arm,” I said, my voice dead and cold.
“Claire, please!” he hissed, his grip tightening until his knuckles turned white. “Think about our home! Think about what people will say!”
“Sir! Step away from her and put your hands behind your back. Right now!” the second officer commanded, moving in instantly.
Garrett, completely blinded by panic, didn't release me fast enough. The officer grabbed Garrett’s wrist, twisted it back with textbook efficiency, and forced him against the edge of the mahogany table. Glasses clattered; an empty water goblet tumbled to the floor and shattered into a hundred glittering shards.
“Get your hands off me!” Garrett screamed, struggling like a trapped animal. “I didn’t do anything! Claire, tell them!”
“Garrett Vance, you are under arrest for assault and disorderly conduct,” the sergeant said, snapping cold steel handcuffs around his wrists with two definitive clicks.
Vivian shrieked, clutching her chest as if she had been shot. Patrons across the restaurant pulled out their phones openly now; flashes flickered in the low light, capturing Garrett’s contorted, humiliated face as he was hauled upright by his collar.
“Laurent,” I said, turning to the manager as if my husband were not currently being led away in chains behind me. “Please run my personal debit card for the full bill, including a twenty-five percent gratuity for the staff whose evening was ruined.”
I pulled a simple, unbranded blue card from my wallet—an account tied strictly to my personal liquid assets, completely separate from the marital accounts Garrett had attempted to drain.
Laurent swiped it. The machine chimed with a clear, cheerful beep.
*Approved.*
I signed the slip with a steady hand, handed the leather folio back to the waiter, and turned to face Vivian, who was trembling with pure, unadulterated hatred.
“You evil, calculating little bitch,” Vivian whispered, tears of rage spilling over her heavy eyeliner. “You planned this. You humiliated my son in front of everyone who matters in this city.”
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“No, Vivian,” I said, leaning in so close she could smell the sour Pinot Noir Garrett had bathed me in. “Garrett threw the wine. Garrett ran up the bill he couldn't pay. All I did was stop paying for the privilege of being your punching bag. Now get out of my way. I have locks to change.”
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