Chapter 10: The Fall of the Matriarch**
Within forty-eight hours, Victoria Ashford’s world disintegrated. The private staff at the Ashford estate—the butler, the private chefs, the housekeepers who had endured decades of verbal degradation—began handing in their resignations one by one.
The vast mansion, once illuminated by crystal chandeliers and filled with social sycophants, fell into pitch darkness and hollow silence.
Victoria walked through the marble kitchen where the entire nightmare had begun. The sink where she had mocked Clara’s tears was bone dry. The cavernous room felt like a mausoleum. She looked at her reflection in the darkened window: her hair was unkempt, the emerald jewels around her neck felt like heavy iron shackles, and there was no one left to order around, no one left to fear her, and no one left to love her.
She poured herself a glass of water, her hand trembling so violently that the glass slipped from her fingers. It shattered against the polished marble floor, splashing cold water across the hem of her expensive dress.
She stood frozen over the broken shards, remembering how Clara had stood in that exact spot, weeping silently while holding her baby.
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For the first time in sixty years, Victoria Ashford sank to her knees among the broken glass in the dark kitchen and let out a raw, broken sob that echoed through the empty mansion, unheard by a single living soul.
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