The Broken Mother's Ruthless Revenge

The sky over Greenwood Cemetery was the color of a bruise. A cold, persistent rain drizzled down, soaking into the black fabric of Beverley's dress.

The small white casket seemed impossibly tiny sitting on the platform above the grave. It was covered in a blanket of white roses, the petals already dotted with raindrops.

Beverley stood still, an umbrella held over her head by Tessa. Her best friend's arm was wrapped tightly around her waist, the only thing keeping her upright.

Dennison Stevenson stood on the other side of the grave. He leaned heavily on his cane, his face ashen. Two large bodyguards stood behind him, holding black umbrellas, keeping the rest of the cemetery at bay.

There was no one else. No family. No friends. Just the three of them and the priest.

"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit," the priest murmured, his voice barely audible over the rain.

Beverley stepped forward. She picked up a single white rose from the top of the casket. She leaned down, her lips brushing the wet wood.

"Sleep well, my little soldier," she whispered.

The casket began to lower into the ground. The mechanical whir of the winch was loud in the silence. Tessa pulled Beverley back, letting her lean against her shoulder. The tears finally came, mixing with the rain on her face.

Dennison walked over to her after the casket was out of sight. He took her hand in his. His grip was firm, despite his age.

"Go back to the apartment," he said, his voice rough. "I have people looking into the surgery. I will get answers. And I promise you, Ellwood will not be there. I've made sure of it."

Beverley nodded. She didn't have the energy to speak.

The car ride back to Fifth Avenue was silent. The city flashed by, indifferent to her grief.

She walked into the penthouse, planning to grab Aiden's things and leave. She never wanted to step foot in this place again.

But the moment the elevator doors opened, she heard it.

Laughter. A woman's giggle. The soft sound of jazz playing from the speakers.

Beverley stepped into the foyer. She walked down the hall and stopped at the entrance to the living room.

Ellwood was sprawled on the sofa, a glass of red wine in his hand. Kaleigh Frederick was curled up against him, wearing nothing but one of Ellwood's dress shirts. Her bare feet were tucked under his thighs.

The air smelled of roasted garlic and expensive perfume.

Ellwood looked up. He didn't jump. He didn't hide Kaleigh. He just smirked.

"Oh, the performance is over?" he asked, taking a sip of his wine. "How was your little play-acting?"

Kaleigh sat up, pulling the shirt tighter around her. She widened her eyes, her lower lip trembling. "Ellwood, maybe we shouldn't be here... I don't want to upset her."

"Upset me?" Beverley's voice was barely a whisper.

Her eyes swept the room. They landed on the coffee table.

Aiden's Lego Star Destroyer. The one he had spent three weeks building. It was sitting on the glass surface. But it wasn't intact. The front section had been snapped off. And sitting in the middle of the broken pieces, crushing the tiny plastic bricks, was a crystal ashtray. A lit cigarette was smoldering in it, the ash spilling over the grey plastic.

Something inside Beverley snapped. The thread that had been holding her together, the one that told her to be civilized, to be the bigger person, evaporated.

She turned around and walked into the kitchen.

Ellwood chuckled from the living room. "Running away again, Beverley? It's getting old."

Beverley ignored him. She opened the cabinet and pulled out the glass carafe. It was full. The coffee maker had just finished brewing. Steam rolled off the dark liquid.

She grabbed the handle. She didn't bother with a mug.

She walked back into the living room.

Kaleigh saw her first. Her eyes went wide. "Beverley, what are you—"

Beverley didn't stop. She walked right up to the sofa. She raised the carafe and tilted it.

A stream of boiling hot coffee poured down onto Ellwood's chest and lap.

Ellwood let out a choked roar of pain. He jerked forward, instinctively shielding Kaleigh, taking the brunt of the scalding liquid on his shoulder and arm.

Kaleigh shrieked. A splash of the hot coffee hit her arm. She scrambled back, clutching her elbow, her face contorted in a dramatic grimace. "Ow! Oh my god, it burns!"

Ellwood looked up, his face red with pain and rage. "You psycho bitch!"

Beverley dropped the carafe. It shattered on the hardwood floor.

Ellwood tried to stand, but he was off balance, his skin already blistering.

Beverley stepped forward. She lifted her right foot. The stiletto heel of her black pump was sharp.

She drove it down into Ellwood's calf with every ounce of strength she had left. There was a sickening, wet thud as the heel punched through the fabric of his trousers and deep into the muscle beneath. Ellwood howled, his leg buckling. He dropped to one knee, clutching his calf, his face white with agony.

Beverley stood over him. She looked down at the man she had once loved, the man who had killed her son and mocked her grief.

"Aiden Stevenson is dead," she said, her voice colder than the rain outside. "I buried him today."

She stepped around him, ignoring Kaleigh's dramatic sobbing. She walked into Aiden's room and slammed the door. She turned the lock.