Rise Of The Scorned SON-IN-LAW

Chapter4: Let The Performance Begin

The pen felt lighter in Ethan's hand after he signed, as if the weight of his old life had been transferred onto the paper and locked away forever.

Vincent straightened from his bow, and when he looked at Ethan again, there was something different in his eyes. Not just respect, but relief. As if he'd been holding his breath for five years and could finally exhale.

"There are matters we must attend to immediately," Vincent said, moving with crisp efficiency to a panel on the wall that Ethan hadn't noticed before. He pressed it, and the panel slid aside to reveal a sleek touchscreen. "But first, you should see the scope of what you now control."

The screen came alive with a cascade of information. Stock tickers, real-time financial data, news feeds from around the world. But Vincent swiped past all of it until he reached a simple organizational chart.

At the top, in bold letters: BLACKWOOD HOLDINGS

Below it, branches spread like a vast tree, each one representing a different company, a different industry, a different empire within the empire.

"Blackwood Technologies," Vincent said, pointing to one branch. "We own forty-three percent of the company, making us the largest single shareholder. Current valuation: sixty-eight billion dollars. They produce semiconductors that go into everything from smartphones to military hardware."

His finger moved to another branch. "Blackwood Pharmaceuticals. Seventy-two percent ownership. They hold patents on eighteen of the top fifty prescription medications worldwide. Annual revenue: forty-two billion."

The branches kept spreading. Real estate. Shipping. Media. Finance. Each one representing billions in assets, thousands of employees, countless lives touched by decisions made in Blackwood boardrooms.

"And this," Vincent said, tapping a branch near the bottom, "is Gregory Industries."

Ethan leaned forward, ignoring the sharp pain in his ribs.

The Gregory family business looked pathetic compared to the rest of the chart. Their company is a mid-sized commercial real estate firm that was dwarfed by even the smallest Blackwood subsidiaries.

"Their entire net worth," Vincent said quietly, "is approximately three hundred million dollars. Respectable, certainly. Enough to live in luxury. But compared to the Blackwood Empire..." He paused. "They are insects, Lord Ethan. And you control the hand that could crush them."

Three hundred million. The Gregorys had built their entire identity around that wealth, had wielded it like a weapon against him for three years. And it was nothing. Less than the loose change in the Blackwood accounts.

"How much money do I have access to right now?" Ethan asked.

Vincent smiled. "Your personal account was activated the moment you signed. Currently, it contains five billion dollars in liquid assets. That number will grow by approximately forty million dollars per month from dividend payments alone. Would you like to see it?"

Before Ethan could answer, Vincent had pulled out a black credit card from his pocket. It was unlike any card Ethan had ever seen. It had no numbers, no name, just the Blackwood crest embossed in silver.

"This is yours," Vincent said, handing it to Ethan. "There is no spending limit. No approval process. The card is linked directly to your personal account. You could buy a private island this afternoon if you wished."

Ethan turned the card over in his hands. It was heavy, made of metal rather than plastic. The weight of it felt absurd, almost offensive, when he thought about the last four years of his life.

Four years of counting pennies. Of choosing between eating dinner or saving for his mother's medication. Of wearing shoes with holes in them because new ones weren't in the budget.

And now this.

"I want to see my mother," Ethan said suddenly.

"Of course." Vincent checked his watch. "She should be awake by now. I'll have a car prepared—"

"No." Ethan stood, his body protesting the movement. "I'll drive myself. I still have..." He paused, realizing the absurdity. "I don't have anything, do I? My car. My phone. My clothes. They took everything."

"Your previous possessions are being disposed of," Vincent said matter-of-factly. "They're not appropriate for Lord Blackwood. But you'll find a full wardrobe in your suite, tailored to your measurements. As for transportation..."

He moved to the windows and gestured outside.

Ethan followed, and for the first time noticed the motor court below. Six cars were parked there, each one worth more than most houses. A Bentley. A Rolls-Royce. A Ferrari. A Lamborghini. Two Mercedes, one sedan and one SUV.

"These are for your personal use," Vincent explained. "The garage contains another forty vehicles if these don't suit your taste. We also have three helicopters and a private jet at the airfield."

Ethan felt dizzy, and it wasn't from his concussion.

"I can't... I don't know how to live like this."

"You'll learn," Vincent said gently. "But for now, perhaps something understated? The Mercedes sedan would be appropriate for a hospital visit."

---

Thirty minutes later, Ethan was dressed in clothes that fit him perfectly because they'd been made specifically for his body. The suit was charcoal gray, Italian wool, with a silk shirt and leather shoes that probably cost more than a month's rent at his old apartment.

He looked at himself in the full-length mirror in what Vincent called "the dressing room" but what was actually larger than his entire studio apartment had been.

The man staring back at him was a stranger.

Gone was the exhausted waiter with the stained work clothes and desperate eyes. In his place stood someone who looked like he belonged in the Gregory mansion. No, someone who made the Gregorys look shabby by comparison.

The bruises were still there, purple and yellow along his jaw and cheekbone. But somehow, in this suit, they looked different. Not like the marks of a victim, but the wounds of a warrior.

"The Mercedes is ready, Lord Ethan," Vincent said from the doorway. "I've taken the liberty of calling ahead to the hospital. Your mother has been moved to the VIP wing, and the staff has been instructed to give you complete privacy."

Ethan nodded, still staring at his reflection.

"Vincent," he said slowly, "the Gregorys. When I go back to them, they'll notice the changes. The money. The confidence. How do I explain it?"

"You don't," Vincent replied. "Not immediately. For now, you continue as you were. Return to your apartment. Return to your jobs, if any will still have you. Let them think you're still broken, still desperate. The changes will come gradually, subtly. A better phone here. New clothes there. Small things that could be explained by picking up extra shifts or finding a better job."

He paused, his expression thoughtful.

"The Gregory family's greatest weakness is their arrogance, Lord Ethan. They genuinely believe you are beneath them, incapable of rising. Use that. Let them continue to believe it while you position yourself exactly where you need to be."

"And when they finally realize the truth?"

Vincent's smile was cold and precise. "By then, it will be far too late."

---

The drive to Blackwood Memorial Hospital took forty minutes, and every second of it felt surreal. The Mercedes practically drove itself, gliding through traffic with a smoothness Ethan had never experienced. The interior smelled of leather and luxury, and the seats were heated despite the mild weather, adjusting automatically to support his injured ribs.

A smooth, feminine and artificial voice spoke from hidden speakers: "Good morning, Lord Blackwood. I am ARIA, your personal AI assistant. I have been programmed with your preferences and schedules. How may I assist you today?"

Ethan nearly drove off the road.

"My... what?"

"Your personal AI assistant," ARIA repeated patiently. "I manage your calendar, communications, security protocols, and various other functions. I am integrated into all Blackwood properties and vehicles. Would you like a tutorial?"

"No," Ethan said quickly. Then, "Wait. Yes. Maybe. I don't know. This is insane."

"Understood," ARIA said, somehow managing to sound sympathetic despite being a computer program. "I will provide information as needed and remain unobtrusive otherwise. Please note that you have seventeen missed calls on your old phone number, all from the Gregory residence. Would you like me to route those calls to your new secure line?"

Seventeen calls. Ethan's hands tightened on the steering wheel.

"What could they possibly want?"

"Shall I play the voicemails, Lord Blackwood?"

Ethan hesitated, then nodded. "Yes. Play them."

The first message was from Olivia, her voice sharp with irritation:

"Ethan, where are you? You were supposed to pick up my dry cleaning this morning. Don't tell me you're still sulking about last night. Grandmother was perfectly within her rights to ask you to leave. You embarrassed the entire family. Call me back immediately."

The second was from Catherine Gregory herself:

"Ethan, this is Catherine Gregory. I'm calling to inform you that your behavior last night was absolutely unacceptable. However, I am a forgiving woman. If you apologize properly and agree to certain conditions, we may allow you to remain married to Olivia. But be clear: there will be consequences for your actions. Call my secretary to arrange a meeting."

Ethan listened to all seventeen messages. Each one was more demanding than the last, as if his silence was itself an offense that required punishment. Not once did any of them ask if he was alright. Not once did they acknowledge that they'd thrown him out, denied him help while his mother was dying, humiliated him in front of hundreds of people.

They simply expected him to come crawling back.

Because that's what he'd always done before.

"ARIA," Ethan said, his voice cold and controlled, "delete all of those messages. And block any future calls from Gregory family numbers."

"Deleted and blocked, Lord Blackwood. Shall I send a response?"

"No," Ethan said. "Let them wonder. Let them wait."

He pulled into the hospital parking lot, and immediately understood why it was called Blackwood Memorial. The building was huge and stunning. A massive water feature dominated the front entrance, and the landscaping looked like something from a luxury resort.

The valet parking attendant's eyes widened when he saw the Mercedes, and widened further when Ethan stepped out.

"Welcome to Blackwood Memorial, sir," the young man said, practically tripping over himself in his eagerness to be helpful. "Are you here to visit someone?"

"Margaret Chen," Ethan said. "She's in the VIP wing."

"Of course, sir. Take the main elevators to the tenth floor. Someone will meet you there."

Someone did meet him, three someones, actually. A hospital administrator in a pristine suit, a nurse, and a security guard who looked more like a bodyguard.

"Lord Blackwood," the administrator said, bowing slightly. It was the second time someone had bowed to him today, and it still felt wrong. "We're honored by your visit. Your mother is resting comfortably. This way, please."

They led him through corridors that didn't look like any hospital Ethan had ever seen. The floors were marble, the walls decorated with original artwork, the lighting soft and warm rather than harsh fluorescent. It looked more like a five-star hotel than a medical facility.

"How is she?" Ethan asked as they walked.

"The surgery was successful," the administrator replied. "Dr. Morrison, our chief cardiothoracic surgeon, performed the procedure personally. The damage to her heart was significant, but we were able to repair it completely. With proper care and rehabilitation, she should make a full recovery."

Full recovery. The words felt impossible.

Just yesterday, Ethan had been told his mother had hours to live. That without a hundred thousand dollars, she would die. And now she was going to make a full recovery.

They stopped in front of a door marked "1001." The administrator gestured to it respectfully.

"We'll give you privacy, Lord Blackwood. If you need anything, anything at all, press the call button and someone will respond immediately."

Then they were gone, and Ethan was alone in the hallway, staring at a door that separated him from his mother.

He took a deep breath, wincing at the pain in his ribs, and pushed it open.

The room beyond was enormous, easily the size of his entire old apartment. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the city. A sitting area occupied one corner, complete with a sofa and television. The medical equipment was there; monitors, IV stands, oxygen, but somehow it had all been arranged to be as unobtrusive as possible.

And in the center of it all, in a hospital bed that looked more comfortable than any bed Ethan had ever slept in, was his mother.

She was asleep, her chest rising and falling with steady, regular breaths. The color had returned to her face, replacing the gray pallor that had haunted Ethan's dreams for months. Tubes and wires connected her to various machines, but even those seemed less invasive here, less frightening.

She looked peaceful.

Ethan moved to her bedside, his legs suddenly weak. He sank into the chair beside her and reached out with a shaking hand to touch hers.

Her skin was warm. Alive.

"Mom," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I couldn't help you sooner. I'm sorry I let you suffer. I'm sorry for everything."

The tears came then, hot and unstoppable. All the fear and desperation and helplessness of the past three years poured out of him in great, shuddering sobs. He pressed his forehead against her hand and wept like he hadn't wept since he was a child.

He didn't know how long he sat there. Time seemed to lose meaning in that quiet room, with only the soft beeping of monitors and his mother's steady breathing to mark its passage.

Finally, when the tears had run dry and he could breathe again, Ethan felt his mother's fingers move.

He looked up to find her eyes open, looking at him with an expression of such love and concern that it nearly broke him all over again.

"Ethan?" Her voice was weak, rough from intubation, but it was the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard. "Baby, what happened to your face? Those bruises..."

"I'm fine, Mom," he said quickly, squeezing her hand gently. "How are you feeling?"

"Confused," she admitted, looking around the luxurious room. "Where am I? This isn't... this doesn't look like Metropolitan General."

"You're at Blackwood Memorial," Ethan said carefully. "A private hospital. You had surgery last night, and it went perfectly. The doctor says you're going to make a full recovery."

His mother's eyes widened. "Blackwood Memorial? Ethan, this place is for wealthy people. We can't afford—"

"It's taken care of," Ethan interrupted. "Everything is taken care of. The surgery, the room, the rehabilitation, all of it. You don't need to worry about money anymore, Mom. Not ever again."

She looked at him with confusion and something that might have been fear. "Ethan, what did you do? Did you borrow money? Did the Gregorys finally—"

"No," Ethan said firmly. "The Gregorys did nothing. This has nothing to do with them."

He hesitated, then made a decision. His mother deserved the truth, or at least part of it.

"Mom, I need to tell you something. About my father."

Her hand tightened in his, her expression going carefully blank. "Your father is dead, Ethan. There's nothing to tell."

"He died fifteen years ago," Ethan corrected gently. "And before he died, he left me an inheritance. A substantial one. I only found out about it yesterday, on my birthday."

His mother's face had gone pale. "Alexander," she whispered. "He's... he's really gone?"

"You knew who he was," Ethan said. It wasn't a question.

"I knew he was wealthy," his mother replied, her voice distant, lost in memory. "But he told me his family would never accept me. That it was impossible. So I left, before..." She looked at Ethan. "Before he could find out about you. I didn't want you growing up knowing your father had rejected you. It seemed kinder to tell you he was dead."

"He spent years searching for you," Ethan said softly. "He never stopped looking. He never stopped regretting his choice."

Tears slid down his mother's cheeks. "I didn't know. I thought... I thought he'd just moved on with his life. Forgotten about me."

"He never forgot." Ethan squeezed her hand again. "And he made sure that if his heir was ever found, they would be taken care of. You're going to get the best medical care in the world, Mom. And when you're recovered, you'll never have to worry about money again. I promise you that."

His mother searched his face, seeing something there that made her expression shift from confusion to concern.

"The Gregorys," she said suddenly. "Ethan, what about Olivia? Does she know?"

"No one knows," Ethan replied. "And no one will know. Not yet."

"Why?"

Ethan thought about the wine dripping down his face. About Olivia's disgusted expression. About Catherine's mocking smile as she denied him help while his mother lay dying.

"Because I'm not done with them yet," he said quietly.

His mother's eyes sharpened, and for a moment, she looked like the strong woman who'd raised him alone, who'd worked herself to exhaustion to give him a chance at a better life.

"Ethan Alexander Chen," she said, using his full name like she had when he was a child and in trouble, "what are you planning?"

"Justice," Ethan replied. "That's all. Just justice."

Before his mother could respond, there was a soft knock at the door. Vincent entered, moving with his characteristic grace, carrying a leather portfolio under one arm.

"Forgive the interruption, Lord Blackwood," he said. "But there are several matters that require your attention."

Ethan stood, reluctant to leave his mother but knowing Vincent wouldn't interrupt unless it was important.

"I'll be back soon, Mom," he promised, leaning down to kiss her forehead. "Rest. Get better. Let me worry about everything else."

"Ethan—" she started.

"Trust me," he said softly. "Please. Just this once, let me take care of you."

After a long moment, she nodded.

In the hallway, Vincent's expression was grave.

"What is it?" Ethan asked.

"The Gregorys have escalated," Vincent replied. "Olivia has filed a missing person report, claiming you abandoned her and stole money from the family. She's also speaking to a divorce attorney."

Ethan felt a cold smile cross his face. "Good. Let her file for divorce. It'll make things simpler."

"There's more," Vincent continued. "Marcus Stone has begun spreading rumors in your old social circles that you had a mental breakdown, that you're unstable and potentially dangerous. He's attempting to discredit you preemptively, in case you try to speak against the Gregory family."

"Of course he is," Ethan murmured. "What else?"

"Your old employer at the restaurant has filed a complaint claiming you stole from the till before you left. Completely fabricated, of course, but they're pursuing it through official channels. And Catherine Gregory has contacted several of your mother's creditors, attempting to purchase her outstanding debts."

Vincent paused, his eyes cold.

"They're trying to destroy any possibility of you ever recovering, Lord Blackwood. They want to ensure you remain crushed, broken, unable to threaten their narrative or their reputation."

"How very thorough of them," Ethan said. His voice was calm, almost pleasant. Inside, ice was spreading through his chest, cold and sharp and absolutely merciless.

"What would you like me to do?" Vincent asked.

Ethan was quiet for a long moment, thinking. Planning. Considering each move like a chess player studying the board.

"Nothing," he said finally. "Let them continue. Let them think they're winning. In fact..." He turned to Vincent. "Can you arrange for me to lose my apartment? Make it look like I can't pay rent? And have someone contact me about those debt collectors Catherine sicced on my mother's accounts—make it look legitimate."

Vincent's eyebrows rose slightly. "You want them to think they've succeeded in destroying you?"

"Completely," Ethan confirmed. "I want them to feel safe, confident, victorious. I want them to think I'm at my absolute lowest point."

"And then?"

Ethan's smile was sharp and cold as a blade.

"And then I'm going to show them what it really means to fall."