Chapter 2 - The Guest List of ParasitesThe grand dining room of the Vance estate was illuminated by custom crystal chandeliers that cast a warm, golden glow over a table laden with imported caviar, prime cuts of beef, and vintage champagne bottles worth thousands of dollars each.
At the head of the table sat my aunt, Victoria Vance, holding a crystal flute, laughing loudly with my cousins.
“And then I told the interior designer,” Victoria declared, waving her jewel-encrusted hand, “Julian gave me full authorization over the estate budget while he was in London! So we simply must tear out those dreadful marble floors in the east wing!”
The table erupted into lighthearted applause. None of them paid any attention when the heavy double doors at the far end of the dining hall swung open.
My footsteps echoed off the polished wood.
I walked into the room carrying Clara in my arms. Her skin was pale, her red hands dangling weakly over my shoulder, the wet silk of her dress dripping onto the rug.
The laughter died down instantly, dying out second by second like a failing engine. Cousin Richard lowered his champagne glass halfway to his mouth. Aunt Victoria gasped, her eyes darting from my face to Clara, then to Sienna, who was hovering nervously near the doorway behind me.
“Julian!” Victoria stammered, quickly setting her glass down, her face adjusting into a practiced, maternal smile. “Darling! You're back four days early! What a wonderful surprise! We were just throwing a little family gathering to celebrate your latest acquisition!”
I stopped at the edge of the long dining table. I looked at the feast. I looked at the silk napkins. I looked at my late father's silver silverware—items Clara had been meticulously polishing for days.
“Where is Clara's chair, Aunt Victoria?” I asked softly.
Victoria blinked, caught off guard. “What? Oh... well, darling, you know how Clara gets overwhelmed around large groups. She preferred to stay in the back and keep busy. She insisted on it, really!”
“She insisted on washing thirty place settings by hand until her skin bled?” I pressed, my voice a quiet razor.
“Julian, don't be dramatic,” Cousin Richard chimed in, leaning back in his chair. “She's your wife, but she comes from a simple background. She doesn't fit in with high-society functions. We were doing her a favor by letting her contribute in a way she understands.”
A low, dangerous heat rose in my chest.
Clara shifted in my arms, her hand clutching my shirt collar. “Julian... please... let's just go upstairs...” she whispered, terrified of the confrontation.
“We are going upstairs, sweetheart,” I whispered back, kissing her temple. “But first, we are clearing the trash out of our home.”
I looked up at the thirty faces sitting around my table—relatives who hadn't called me when I was struggling in a two-room apartment six years ago, but who had moved into my guest houses the moment my company hit a ten-billion-dollar valuation.
“Marcus,” I said into the lapel mic attached to my jacket.
The heavy dining room doors pushed wide open. Marcus—a former Special Forces operator turned head of my personal security firm—stepped into the room followed by eight towering security guards dressed in sharp black tactical suits.
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“Mr. Vance?” Marcus stood at attention.
“Remove every person sitting at this table from my property immediately,” I commanded clearly. “They have ten minutes to pack their personal belongings from the guest houses. Anything left behind after ten minutes will be incinerated.”
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