Ex-Convict To Mysterious Power

Chapter 7

Despite the short notice, by the time Amanda arrived at the mansion’s banquet hall that evening, every other member of the family was already there.

Her eyes swept the room. Everyone was deep in conversation, most of them pretending it was about the afternoon’s deal or some contract—but really, it was just a bunch of high-dollar bragging.

“You think Grandma’s finally announcing the heir tonight?” she overheard one of her cousins say from across the hall.

“It’s about time,” another groaned. “What’s with all the suspense? She’s not auditioning for a N*****x thriller.”

“I literally bought this gown an hour ago. Two million dollars. I refuse to look like background noise when she announces my brother as the heir!” another cousin shrieked, practically throwing her champagne flute into the air like it was a mic drop.

Amanda sighed. Yeah. So it was what everyone was talking about. The same tired topic, the same recycled ambition in new designer fits.

She turned on her phone and pretended to scroll through it—because God forbid she looks like she’s not too busy to care—when the hall suddenly went dead silent.

“Honey, what happened to your face?” Tiffany’s mother’s voice sliced through the quiet.

Amanda’s head snapped up.

“Mom…” Tiffany started, voice already wobbling like a soap opera audition. Amanda almost rolled her eyes. Drama queen in action.

“Mom…that rapist has been released from prison!” she wailed, sounding like she'd rehearsed it in front of a mirror.

“What…? What are you talking about?” one of the uncles asked, predictably on cue.

“Amanda went to pick him from the prison this afternoon. He—” she broke into crocodile tears. “How could Amanda do this to our family, Mom?”

Her mother rushed over, gripping Tiffany’s chin like it was some crime scene exhibit.

“Tell me what is happening, honey. Who did your face like this?”

If Tiffany was the drama queen, her mother was the queen bee. The type who could hijack a funeral and somehow make it about her childhood trauma with stale wine.

But Tiffany wouldn’t talk—just sobbed harder. Her mascara smeared like she’d been crying underwater… in black paint.

“Talk to us, Tiff. What happened to you?” another uncle chipped in, stepping closer with the urgency of a B-rated detective.

If this entire thing was a performance, Amanda thought, that smeared makeup deserved a trophy.

“Amanda went to bring her husband from the prison.”

The room gasped.

“She… she did what?!” a cousin gasped, with just enough fake horror to earn a role in a drama commercial.

“If that was all that happened, I wouldn't have made a deal out of it,” Tiffany sniffed, her voice now miraculously clear—just in time for the second act.

“Amanda brought that rapist to the clothing store she knew I'd be.”

“Because she knew Derek would be with me,” Tiffany sobbed dramatically, “she came to the store and started doing that her winking winking thing in front of him—acting all pitiful like she deserved someone better than her ex.”

Amanda blinked. Winking winking? Who even says that?

“I was just trying to tell her not to act like that in front of Derek, I swear I wasn't disrespectful—when that rapist slapped me.”

She turned her cheek to the room like a tragic actress delivering her final scene.

Gasps.

“He slapped you?”

“How dare you, you stupid girl!” Tiffany’s mother shouted at Amanda like she’d been waiting all week for a reason.

“Grandma must hear about this,” someone muttered like it was a death sentence.

“Amanda should be expelled from the family.”

“She’s been nothing but a parasite all these years!”

Amanda opened her mouth, tried to speak, tried again—but nothing came out. Just like when Cole was judged…when everything went downhill in one breathless second.

“Was it not two years ago?” one cousin suddenly said, stepping into the chaos. “She rejected my proposal just because grandma made her acting heir.”

“She’s so full of herself.”

“Total bitch. She made sure every guy I liked dumped me. Flirted with them like it was a game.”

“I can’t stand her! She had two cars and wouldn’t even offer me one. So selfish!”

Amanda's parents stepped into the hall right on cue, just in time to catch the end of the roast. They glanced at each other, tense. They knew the drill. One more scandal, and they were out. Grandma wouldn’t even blink.

They rushed forward like emergency negotiators.

“Please,” Amanda’s mother pleaded once the room simmered down, “let’s not do this to each other.”

“If there’s anything Amanda has done wrong, forgive her. Not for her sake,” her father added, voice trembling, “but for our sales. Please.”

“She can be a little foolish sometimes,” her mother offered, smiling weakly, “but…we all make mistakes.”

“Stop right there!” Tiffany exploded.

“Mistake? Did you just say mistake?” She spun towards Amanda’s mother, her voice slicing through the hall like broken glass. Then she scoffed, dramatic as always.

“If flirting with my boyfriend right in front of me was a mistake, then her whole existence is a damn accident.”

The room erupted again—now dragging Amanda’s parents into the growing chaos.

“She’s even got her parents on a leash now.”

“Having no child would’ve been better than raising this mess!”

“I might forgive her,” Tiffany said, cutting through the noise. “But on one condition.”

Everyone paused.

Tiffany stepped forward, pulling out her phone like she was about to livestream a public execution.

“Get on your knees. Make a video apologizing for what happened today. Post it on all your social media accounts. Then—maybe—I’ll consider forgiving you.”

Amanda froze. Her social media was the only thing she had left. A video like that would end everything. Game over.

“If you agree,” Tiffany smirked, thumbing her phone. “I’ll hit record right now—”

“Congratulations, Tiffany!” a voice rang out from the door. “You just broke the Guinness World Record for the most shameless human being alive.”

Heads turned.

Cole stood at the doorway, hands buried in his pockets, his expression the perfect cocktail of mockery and calm rage. Dressed sharp. Walking slow. Voice smooth like venom.

“One—you trashed your own reputation. Two—you played the victim card like your life depended on it. Three—you spun this circus and dumped the blame on Amanda like it’s some kind of charity project.”

He tilted his head, smirking.

“Tell me, who else deserves that award better than you?”

All heads craned toward the door, bodies pressed together like sardines to catch a glimpse of the speaker.

Many of the relatives recognized Cole instantly—he hadn’t changed much in three years—but that voice didn’t match the man they remembered.

No way it was Cole.

Not the same Cole who used to flinch at raised voices, the same man who practically melted under pressure.

Unless prison now offered deluxe packages that included free robotic confidence implants—where inmates could finally say out loud the things they only dared whisper in their heads.

“Who’s talking?” Tiffany’s mother whispered, squinting.

Tiffany straightened immediately, voice coated in fake composure. “Don’t be fooled, everyone,” she said quickly. “I would never stoop so low as to lie to you. This rapist really slapped me. His palm print is probably still branded on my face.”

She flicked her hair with flair. “And Amanda made the mall security throw me out like I was trash.”

Cole let her perform her whole circus act, unfazed. Then, calmly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. The screen lit up with a single image.

Tiffany—on her knees. Right beside her, perfectly visible, a phone. The same one that had sent those explicit images to #Hubby2.

“For the confused,” Cole said, raising the phone a little, “you can always check the trending posts online. Apparently, some kind-hearted New Yorkers have already pieced the full story together—threaded, captioned, and neatly pinned.”

“You fu—” Tiffany's voice cracked mid-cuss, her eyes blazing. But she stopped herself just in time.

Grandma had just walked in.