Rise Of The Scorned SON-IN-LAW

The Return

Three days after signing the inheritance documents, Ethan stood outside his apartment building in the early morning rain. Water ran down the cracked concrete steps and pooled in the broken gutter at his feet. The building looked worse than he remembered. Peeling paint exposed rotted wood underneath. Windows on the third floor were boarded up. A smell of mildew and garbage hung in the damp air.

He had lived here for four years.

The thought felt impossible now, like remembering a different life entirely. He looked down at himself, at the carefully chosen clothes Vincent had selected for this performance. Worn jeans from a discount store. A faded jacket with a broken zipper. Scuffed sneakers that had been purchased new yesterday and then deliberately aged with sandpaper and dirt. Even his phone was a replacement for his old one, the same model, complete with a cracked screen that had been meticulously recreated.

Every detail was perfect. Every detail was a lie.

"Are you certain about this, Lord Blackwood?" Vincent's voice came through the nearly invisible earpiece tucked into Ethan's ear. The technology was so advanced that even if someone looked directly at it, they would see nothing. "I can have the building condemned today. You need never set foot inside again."

"I'm certain," Ethan replied quietly, knowing the microphone embedded in his jacket collar would pick up his words. "They need to see me broken. Defeated. This is where broken people live."

He climbed the stairs, his footsteps echoing in the stairwell. The elevator had been broken for six months. By the time he reached the fourth floor, his ribs were screaming in protest. The doctors had warned him against physical exertion, but this was necessary. Pain was part of the authenticity.

His apartment door stood slightly ajar.

Ethan's hand went instinctively to his pocket, where a canister of pepper spray now rested. Vincent had insisted. But when he pushed the door open, he found not intruders but devastation.

The apartment had been ransacked.

His few possessions were scattered across the floor. The futon mattress had been slashed open, stuffing pulled out like entrails. His small television lay shattered on the floor. Books were torn, pages scattered like confetti. Even the cheap dishes from the kitchenette were smashed, shards of ceramic glittering among the debris.

A note was taped to the wall where his mother's photograph used to hang. The photograph itself lay on the floor, the frame broken, the glass cracked directly across her smiling face.

Ethan picked up the note.

**RENT OVERDUE. EVICTION NOTICE. YOU HAVE 48 HOURS TO VACATE OR YOUR POSSESSIONS WILL BE DISPOSED OF.**

Below the official notice, someone had scrawled in red marker: **GOOD RIDDANCE DEADBEAT**

"Vincent," Ethan said softly. "Did you arrange this?"

"No, Lord Blackwood." Vincent's voice carried a note of surprise. "The eviction notice, yes. But the destruction is genuine. It appears your former landlord took the opportunity to express his feelings about your departure."

Ethan knelt and carefully picked up his mother's photograph. He brushed away the broken glass, revealing her face. She looked so young in this picture, so full of hope. It had been taken before illness had stolen the color from her cheeks and the light from her eyes.

He slipped the photograph into his jacket.

The rest could burn.

"There are several individuals approaching your location," Vincent said suddenly, his tone sharpening. "Four men. They match the description of the ones who attacked you three nights ago."

Ethan stood, his heart rate accelerating. "Where?"

"Stairwell. Twenty seconds out."

Ethan moved quickly despite his injuries. He positioned himself near the door, out of immediate sight. His hand found the pepper spray. The weight of it was reassuring, but he knew he could not use it. Not yet. Victims did not carry pepper spray. Victims were helpless.

The footsteps came closer. Heavy boots on concrete. Voices talking low and rough.

"You sure he came back here?"

"Saw him go up myself. Stupid bastard actually came back."

They appeared in the doorway. Four men, just as before. The leader with the scar down his cheek saw Ethan immediately and smiled. It was not a pleasant expression.

"Well, well," Scar said, stepping into the apartment. His companions followed, fanning out to block any escape. "Look who survived. Thought we'd put you down for good."

Ethan said nothing. He let fear show on his face, let his hands tremble slightly. It was not entirely an act. These men had nearly killed him. The memory of their boots slamming into his ribs was still fresh enough to taste.

"Marcus Stone sent us to check on you," Scar continued, moving closer. "Make sure you understood the message. Seems like maybe you didn't, since you're still breathing."

"I have nothing left," Ethan said, his voice deliberately weak. "You took everything. I'm being evicted. I have nowhere to go. Just leave me alone."

One of the other men laughed. "Hear that? He's begging already."

Scar reached out and grabbed Ethan's jacket, pulling him close. His breath smelled like cigarettes and cheap alcohol. "Marcus wants you to know something. Your wife? Olivia Gregory? She's his now. Has been for months. You were just keeping the seat warm, you understand? And now that you're gone, he can finally have what he wants."

The words should have hurt. A week ago, they would have destroyed him. But now, knowing what he knew, they simply confirmed what Ethan had already suspected. Olivia had never loved him. The marriage had been a convenience for her, a way to appear settled while she pursued what she really wanted.

"I understand," Ethan said quietly.

Scar studied his face, looking for something. Defiance, perhaps. Or anger. When he found only resignation, his grip loosened slightly.

"Smart," Scar said. "Keep being smart. Stay away from the Gregorys. Stay away from Olivia. Forget you were ever married into that family. If we hear you've been anywhere near them, we'll come back. And next time, we won't leave you alive."

He shoved Ethan backward. Ethan stumbled, catching himself against the wall, playing up the weakness in his injured ribs.

The four men left as quickly as they had come. Their laughter echoed in the stairwell, fading as they descended.

Ethan waited until he heard the street door slam before he allowed himself to straighten fully.

"Did you get all of that?" he asked.

"Every word," Vincent replied. "Video and audio. Multiple angles from the surveillance equipment we installed in the building. The quality is excellent."

"Good." Ethan looked around the destroyed apartment one last time. "Add it to the file. I want documentation of everything they've done. Every threat. Every action. Every piece of evidence."

"Of course, Lord Blackwood. The legal team is already preparing. When you're ready to move against them, we'll have enough evidence to bury them in both criminal and civil court."

"Not yet," Ethan said. He moved to the window and looked out at the gray morning. Rain streaked the glass, distorting his view of the city below. "They need to feel safe first. Victorious. They need to believe they've won completely."

"And what will you do now?"

Ethan smiled. "Now I go see my wife."

---

The Gregory estate looked different in the morning light. Less imposing, somehow. The manicured lawns were just grass. The marble fountains were just stone and water. The mansion itself, while large, was simply a house. A very expensive house, certainly, but just a house nonetheless.

Ethan had seen Blackwood Manor now. He had walked through rooms that dwarfed this entire building. He had seen wealth on a scale that made the Gregory fortune look quaint.

The security guard at the gate recognized him immediately. His expression shifted from boredom to surprise to something like malicious satisfaction.

"Mr. Blackwood," the guard said, not bothering to hide his smirk. "I'm afraid you're not on the approved visitor list."

"I'm here to see my wife," Ethan replied calmly.

"Mrs. Gregory is not receiving visitors," the guard said, his voice firm.

"Mrs. Gregory is my wife. I have a legal right to see her."

The guard's smirk widened. "Actually, sir, you don't. Mrs. Gregory has filed a restraining order against you. You're required to maintain a distance of at least five hundred feet. This gate is at four hundred and eighty feet from the main residence." He paused, enjoying himself. "So I'm going to have to ask you to leave. Now."

Ethan had expected this. Vincent had warned him about the restraining order. It was based entirely on fabricated claims of threatening behavior and mental instability. Olivia had signed affidavits. Marcus Stone had provided supporting testimony. Even Catherine Gregory had contributed a statement describing Ethan's "violent outburst" at her birthday celebration.

All lies. But lies with official weight.

"I see," Ethan said. "Could you at least tell her I was here?"

"I could," the guard agreed. "But I won't."

He turned his back on Ethan dismissively, returning to his booth.

Ethan stood there for a moment, staring through the iron bars at the estate beyond. He could see movement in the windows. Servants going about their morning routines. Somewhere inside, Olivia was probably still asleep in her silk sheets, dreaming whatever dreams someone like her dreamed.

He pulled out his phone. The cracked screen made it difficult to navigate, but he managed to open his contacts. Olivia's number was still there, still labeled "Wife" with a small heart emoji he had added years ago in a moment of pathetic optimism.

He called.

The phone rang four times before she answered. Her voice was sleep-rough and irritated.

"What."

Not "hello." Not "who is this." Just "what," as if his very existence was an inconvenience.

"Olivia," Ethan said. "It's me."

The line went silent for a few seconds. Then, Olivia spoke, "You're not supposed to contact me. There's a restraining order."

"I know. I was just at the gate. They wouldn't let me in."

"Good. That's exactly what's supposed to happen." She sounded more awake now, and angrier. "What do you want, Ethan?"

"I want to talk. About the divorce. About everything."

"There's nothing to talk about. My lawyer will send you the papers. Sign them and disappear. That's all I want from you."

"Your grandmother promised to take care of my mother," Ethan said, letting desperation creep into his voice. It was not difficult. The memory of that night was still raw. "She promised to pay for my sister's education. Those were the terms of our marriage."

Olivia laughed. It was a sharp, cutting sound. "Are you actually serious right now? You think we owe you something? You embarrassed us. You humiliated my grandmother at her own birthday celebration. You made our entire family look bad in front of our friends and business associates."

"I was begging for my mother's life."

"You were being dramatic and pathetic. As usual." Her voice took on a mocking tone. "Please, please, I need money. My mother is dying. Help me, I'm so helpless. Do you have any idea how exhausting it's been, being married to you? How tiring it is to be connected to someone so fundamentally useless?"

Each word was designed to wound. A week ago, they would have. Now, they simply confirmed what Ethan already knew. Olivia Gregory was exactly as shallow and cruel as she appeared.

"I'm sorry you feel that way," Ethan said carefully.

"I don't feel any way about you," Olivia snapped. "I don't think about you at all. You're a mistake I'm correcting. A problem I'm solving. In a few weeks, you'll be nothing but an embarrassing story I tell at parties."

"The money you took from me every month," Ethan said. "I'll need that back. To pay for my mother's care."

The laughter came again, longer this time. "You cannot be serious. That money was payment for being married to me. For having access to my name, my status, my family's connections. You should be grateful I took so little. Most men would have to pay far more for the privilege of calling themselves my husband."

"So you won't return any of it."

"Not a single penny," Olivia replied coldly and firmly. "And if you try to make trouble about it, if you contact me again, if you come anywhere near this property or my family, I'll make sure you regret it. Marcus has connections. People who can make problems disappear. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

She was threatening him. His own wife was threatening to have him hurt, possibly killed, and she was doing it casually, as if discussing the weather.

"I understand," Ethan said softly.

"Good. Lose this number. Lose my name. Forget you ever knew me."

She hung up.

Ethan stood there with the phone against his ear for a moment longer, listening to the silence. Then he lowered it and looked at the screen. The crack ran directly through Olivia's contact photo, splitting her perfect smile in two.

He deleted the contact.

"Vincent," he said. "Did you record that?"

"Every word, Lord Blackwood. Excellent work maintaining your composure. Many men would have broken character."

"I'm not many men anymore," Ethan replied. He turned away from the Gregory estate and began walking back toward the street. "I need you to do something for me."

"Of course."

"Find out everything about Marcus Stone. His business dealings, his personal life, his secrets. I want to know what he values most in this world. And then I want to know how to take it away from him."

There was a pause. When Vincent spoke again, there was approval in his voice. "It will be done, Lord Blackwood. Is there anything else?"

"Yes. Schedule a meeting with the Blackwood legal team. I want to understand exactly what powers I have. What I can do without revealing my identity. How far I can reach while staying in the shadows."

"I'll arrange it for this afternoon."

"And Vincent? Start purchasing Gregory Industries stock. Do it quietly, through shell companies. I want controlling interest, but I don't want them to know until it's too late."

"That will take time. Months, possibly."

"I have time," Ethan said. "I have all the time in the world."