The man and his mother threw me out into the cold. But I, after changing my appearance, bought out their business for pennies. They didnt recognise me
“Go.”
The word, spat by my mother-in-law, Patricia Whitmore, hung frozen in the icy air of the hallway.
Oliver, my husband, stood beside her, shoulders hunched. He wouldnt look at me. His gaze was fixed on the wallpaper pattern, as though the answer to his lifes biggest question lay hidden in its swirls.
“Olly?” My voice was barely above a whisper.
In my arms, five-year-old Alfie sobbed, clinging to my coat.
“I cant do this anymore, Emily. Im tired,” he ground out through clenched teeth, still not turning. “Tired of being broke, of your endless scrimping, of the baby crying. Tired of everything.”
Patricia took a step forward. Her face, usually pinched, now looked like a plaster mask.
“Hes speaking plainly now. Youre nothing to him anymore. A millstone around his neck. Because of you and your brood, our business is on its knees!”
She shoved me toward the open door, where a biting wind howled.
“But where will we go? Its winter Weve got no one here.”
“Thats no longer our concern,” she snapped. “Shouldve thought of that before leeching off my son. He deserves better. A wife who brings money into the house, not drains it.”
Oliver finally lifted his eyes to mine. Empty. Foreign. Not a flicker of remorsejust exhaustion and irritation.
“Im leaving you, Emily. And him too.”
He nodded at Alfie, and my heart shattered into a thousand icy shards.
“But hes your son”
“A burden,” Patricia hissed, shoving a hastily packed bag of our things into my arms. “Were starting fresh. Without you.”
The door slammed. The lock clicked with deafening finality.
Alfie and I stood alone on the dimly lit landing. My son had stopped crying, now just sniffling into my shoulder.
I stared at the peeling door, behind which lay my entire past. The cold seeped into my bones, but I barely felt it.
One thought pulsed in my mind, sharp and clear.
My husband and his mother had just thrown me and my child out into the freezing night. They thought they could erase us from their lives like a scribble in a notebook.
I didnt know then about the inheritance from a distant auntnews that would come a week later. Didnt know Id receive money that could flip everything upside down.
I only knew one thing.
One day, theyd regret this. Deeply. Theyd beg me for help themselves.
“I wont forgive. Ever.”
The first few hours were like a bad, dragging dream. I hailed a taxi, giving the driver the first cheap hotel I could think of on the citys outskirts.
My wallet held a few crumpled notes. Enough for one night. Maybe two. After that? Nothing.
Alfie fell asleep instantly in the hotel room, exhausted from tears and fear. I sat on the edge of the stiff bed, watching snowflakes swirl outside.
The next morning, I made a mistake. A final mistake, driven by the naive belief that Oliver still had a shred of humanity left. I called him.
Patricia answered.
“What do you want?” Her voice dripped poorly concealed glee.
“Put Oliver on. I need money. Just for now. For Alfie.”
A nasty chuckle crackled down the line.
“Money? You wont get a penny from us. Olly and I celebrated your departure last night. Opened champagne. He said he could finally breathe.”
A pause, savouring it.
“Youre his past. Forget this number.”
The dial tone.
I dropped the phone. Despair rose like an ice ball in my throat.
A week passed. A week of humiliations, fear, and cold nights in budget motels. My money dwindled. I eyed pawnshop signs, wondering how little theyd give for my modest wedding ring.
Then, as I sat on a park bench watching Alfie play, realising wed have nowhere to sleep that night, my phone rang.
Unknown number.
“Emily Charlotte Fairfax?” A dry male voice.
“Yes, speaking.”
“My name is Charles Waverly. Im a solicitor. Im contacting you regarding the estate of your great-aunt, Beatrice Holloway. Shes left you her entire fortune.”
Silence. I barely remembered Aunt Bea from distant childhood visits.
“Fortune?” I managed.
He named a sum. A number with so many zeros my brain short-circuited. Then added two London flats and a countryside manor.
“Emily, are you still there? Youll need to come in to sign the paperwork.”
I watched Alfie building a snowman. The wind ruffled his blonde hair.
My phone slipped from numb fingers into the snow.
I picked it up. Dialled Olivers number. Again, Patricia answered.
“I told you not to”
“Tell your son,” my voice was calm as a frozen pond, “that he just made the biggest mistake of his life.”
I hung up before her screeching reply.
The tears dried. The pain dulled. Something else took its place. Hard as steel.
I looked at my hands. No, I wouldnt pawn my ring. Id buy the entire wretched pawnshop. Then Id buy their little family business. Their beloved auto repair shop, their pride.
And Id do it so theyd never see it coming.
A year later.
In a private dining room of an upscale London restaurant sat a woman no one would recognise as the old Emily.
Ash-blonde instead of mousy brown. A sharply tailored trouser suit instead of faded jeans. A cold, assessing gaze instead of fear.
Id become someone else. Legally still Emily Fairfax, but to the business world, I was Angelina Frosta surname to remember that night.
The first months after the inheritance werent spent on revenge, but on Alfie and myself. Top doctors for him, a toy-filled flat, a nanny. I wanted to burn away his memories of that night.
The rest of the time, I worked on myself obsessively. Stylists, therapists, crash courses in business and hostile takeovers. I forged myself into someone who could crush them without blinking.
Opposite me sat Archibald Sinclair, a corporate raider with shark eyes and a flawless reputation.
The solicitor Waverly had recommended him: “If you need a building demolished, call builders. If you need a business demolished, call Archie.”
“Their business is ‘SureDrive Auto,'” he reported, flipping files. “Barely staying afloat. Debts, unpaid suppliers. One stiff breeze away from collapse.”
“I want them ruined,” I said, sipping water. “Fast and painful.”
Archies grin was predatory.
“Three-phase plan. First, open a rival shop across the road. Undercut them, poach their best mechanics. Thatll take months. Then pressure suppliers to call in debts. Another month. Finalerumours of bankruptcy to scare off remaining customers.”
“Do it,” I decided. “Make it look like bad luck.”
The plan unfolded.
Across from SureDrive Auto appeared “EliteFix,” a gleaming garage offering diagnostics at half-price. Olivers top mechanics defected for triple wages.
Archie fed me updates. First came their anger, then panic. They slashed prices, only sinking deeper.
Then, like clockwork, suppliers demanded immediate debt repayment, threatening lawsuits.
Oliver scrambled. Patricia tried for loans, but banks refused.
The final straw shattered any lingering hesitation.
Desperate, Oliver found my old, abandoned social media profile. Under a photo of Alfie and me smiling, he commentedpublicly, for all our mutuals to see:
“All smiles while riding my back. Useless wife and broodmare. Good riddance.”
Reading those words, I knew. No mercy.
Archie called them the next day.
“Good afternoon. My client, Mrs. Frost, is aware of your difficulties. Shes prepared to buy your business.”
A stunned silence, then Olivers voice:
“Buy it?”
“Yes. For a symbolic sumenough to cover urgent debts and keep you off the streets. She dislikes waiting. Decide by tomorrow, or sink further.”
I sat in my office overlooking the city skyline, listening to the recording.
They were trapped.
I knew theyd say yes. Then Id walk into that signing. And look them in the eye.
I entered their shabby office unannounced.
Oliver and Patricia sat behind a paper-strewn desk. Both aged, drained, eyes darting like hunted animals. They looked up at the elegant blonde in the designer suit and saw only money and power.
They didnt recognise me.
“Angelina Frost,” I introduced myself, shaking Archies hand.
Oliver stumbled up, forcing a smile.
“Oliver. This is my mother, Patricia. We… were so grateful for your offer.”
Documents were signed in
