Chapter 4
Vivian didn't come home that night.
The next day was no exception.
She didn't answer Richard's calls or respond to any of his messages.
That was her classic move. Every time she had pulled it before, Richard and I would always cave in, apologize, and offer her even more over-the-top material compensation in the end.
But this time, I didn't ask, and I didn't urge Richard to do anything.
I returned the Chanel dress without ever taking it out, and the 4,000 dollars showed back up in my account.
I started clearing out all the things I'd bought for Vivian from the house.
I packed up all those designer clothes, shoes, bags, electronics, and even that tracksuit she'd ruined with scissors.
Then I shoved the bag into the farthest corner of the storage room and turned the lock.
Richard watched me, opening his mouth like he wanted to say something, but in the end, he just stayed silent.
He pulled every string he could, and finally, on the third night, he tracked down Vivian and her friends in a swanky hotel suite.
He hauled her back home, plain and simple.
When Vivian got home, there wasn't a shred of guilt on her face—just that smug, victorious look, like she'd won and we'd finally come crawling back to her.
She even shot me a defiant look, daring me to say something.
I acted like she wasn't even there and only turned to Richard.
"She's back. That's all that matters. But what I said before? I meant every word," I told him.
Pretending she didn't exist hit her way harder than any yelling or fighting ever could.
All the drama she'd probably expected—arguments, tears, Richard stuck between us—none of it happened.
Just like that, she became nothing more than an outsider in our home, like she didn't matter at all.
Vivian started pushing the limits, acting up even worse than before.
She cranked the stereo up to max volume, tossed things on purpose right outside my door, and clanged her dishes at dinner just to make noise.
But I kept ignoring her like she was invisible.
I stuck to my own schedule, cooked myself something special every night, and chatted quietly with Richard, making sure she was never part of the conversation.
That calm of mine just drove her absolutely crazy.
A week later, a storm quietly hit me, and all of it was aimed straight at me.
At first, I caught a few of Richard's most trusted subordinates shooting him weird, sidelong glances at the office.
Then, in a charity foundation group chat, people started throwing some pretty pointed shade, never naming names, but everyone knew who they meant.
Later, my best friend, absolutely livid, called me and sent me a link to some local viral article that was making the rounds online.
The headline slapped me in the face: [Exposing the Truth About the Elite Step-Mom: Fake Philanthropist, Secretly Abusive to Her Stepdaughter, Schemed To Drive Her Away].
The article was written from the angle of a so-called "insider"—someone pretending to know it all, spinning wild lies from start to finish.
It accused me of being two-faced, using silent treatment to torment my stepdaughter, stripping her of her allowance, and deliberately destroying her mother's keepsakes.
It said I was plotting to turn Vivian against Richard and kick her out, just so I could snatch all the family fortune for myself.
The photos were all snapped at events I'd attended, but my eyes had been doctored to make me look downright evil. There was even a shot of Vivian crying her eyes out, perfectly staged to maximize the drama.
The comments section was already overflowing with hate and venom.
[She's pure venom.]
[Why isn't she dead yet?]
[Are there any good stepmoms? They're all just after the money.]
[Let's dox her and make her a social pariah.]
[Anyone got her address? Let's all pull up and give her what she deserves.]
My phone started blowing up with harassing calls and nasty texts from random numbers.
Some people even showed up near our neighborhood, looking for trouble.
Richard was furious. He immediately had the company's legal team reach out to the account, demanding they take the post down and preparing to sue.
But the rumors had already spread like wildfire.
I knew it was all Vivian's doing.
She knew I loved sharing my life on social media, and she knew exactly where I worked and where I liked to hang out.
One afternoon, I met up with Katherine Young, Vivian's mother, at a café.
It was the first time we'd met since that whole group chat drama.
She reached out, wanting to discuss support for Vivian and what to do about her education going forward.
She was worried Richard might actually cut off the money for real because he was so pissed.
The whole talk was tense from the moment we sat down.
She kept backing up Vivian and tossed out all the little digs at me.
She acted like every bit of Vivian's "rebellion" was my fault.
I held my ground and told her that child support would get paid like the agreement said, but I was done with any extra or ridiculous demands.
We basically parted ways, both pissed off.
I walked toward the underground parking lot, chest tight with frustration.
Katherine followed a few steps behind, looking like she wanted to say something else.
Just as I stepped out of the elevator and was nearly at my car, a young man suddenly lunged out from the shadows.
He was clutching a glass bottle filled with some foul-smelling, cloudy liquid, barreling straight at me, eyes blazing with fury.
"Evil woman! Think you can bully anyone you want? Go to hell," he screamed.
Everything happened in a split second.
Instinctively, I raised my arm to shield myself and quickly jerked to the side.
Almost at the same moment, Katherine—right behind me—maybe tried to grab onto me to keep arguing, or maybe just stumbled forward in shock.
With a sudden splash, the nasty liquid shot right past me and splattered all over Katherine's face before she could even react.
"My eyes! My face," Katherine shrieked, panicked and in agony.
Her scream, so sharp and twisted, ripped through the silence of the parking lot in an instant.
Acrid, corrosive white smoke burst from her face, filling the air with a nasty stench.
The attacker froze for a second, clearly shocked that he'd spilled it on the wrong person.
I was petrified, but before I knew it, my survival instincts kicked in. I swung my hard shopping bag straight into his face as hard as I could.
He let out a muffled grunt and reeled backward, doubled over in pain.
"Mom!" Just then, Vivian's terrified scream echoed from the entrance.
She stood frozen, watching Katherine clutch her face, scream in agony, and roll on the ground.
The smug look on her face vanished in an instant, replaced by pure, unbridled terror.