THE HIDDEN HEIR'S VENGEANCE

CHAPTER 4 : Revenge for Torn Paper

Matthew Thomas strode into the hospital corridor, heading for the main exit while staring at the translucent blue panel. Suddenly, a dangerous idea surfaced in his mind.

“ARC system, locate my beloved mother-in-law, Carol Lane,” Matthew ordered, the corner of his lips curling into a thin, chilling smile. “I want to know where that snake is nesting this afternoon. Precision down to the millimeter.”

[Processing command…]

[Accessing satellites…]

[Intercepting public CCTV networks…]

[Phone signal triangulation: Complete.]

Within three seconds, a three-dimensional map of New York City materialized in front of Matthew. A red dot pulsed aggressively in the most elite shopping district.

[Location confirmed : MAISON DE L’OR BOUTIQUE. FIFTH AVENUE.]

A cold smile etched itself onto Matthew’s lips. “ARC system,” he said softly. “Call an Uber Black. Destination : Fifth Avenue.”

[COMMAND RECEIVED. VEHICLE ARRIVING AT MAIN LOBBY IN 2 MINUTES. PAYMENT AUTOMATED FROM NEW ACCOUNT.]

“Good,” he murmured.

Matthew stepped out through the automatic doors of Mount Sinai Hospital. Cold New York wind slapped his face, but he did not feel chilled. Inside him, a new fire had been lit.

He was no longer Matthew, the parasitic son-in-law. He was the keyholder, and Fifth Avenue would be his first stage.

Cold autumn wind swept along Fifth Avenue, Manhattan. The most prestigious street in the world was filled with the roar of supercars, iconic yellow taxis, and the hurried footsteps of New York’s elite.

Here, money was not merely currency. It was oxygen. Skyscrapers loomed like steel giants, gazing down with arrogant disdain.

Amid the glittering chaos, Matthew Thomas stepped out of the taxi. His appearance stood in stark contrast to the displays of Bergdorf Goodman and the surrounding high-end boutiques.

His old-season Brioni suit was wrinkled, torn at the shoulder from the accident, and still bearing faint stains of dried blood. His hair was slightly disheveled. Yet his face was flawless, not a single mark remaining thanks to the system’s recovery.

Several pedestrians in fur coats and bespoke suits stepped aside as he passed, covering their noses or whispering with the familiar disdain of Upper East Side residents.

“Look at that man. Are homeless people bold enough to enter this area now?” A blonde woman whispered to her friend.

“Where’s the NYPD? This is ruining my shopping mood.”

Matthew did not care. His eyes stayed fixed forward, following a golden navigation line visible only to him, suspended in the air and guiding him through the crowd.

[TARGET DETECTED: CAROL LANE.]

[LOCATION : ‘MAISON DE L’OR’ BOUTIQUE. FIFTH AVENUE.]

Matthew’s lips curled into a mocking smile. “Arguing? A woman who just threw away a billion-dollar project is haggling over a handbag.”

He quickened his pace. When Matthew stepped toward the entrance of Maison de L’Or, the most exclusive boutique guarded at the door, a massive security guard in a black uniform immediately blocked him.

“Hold it right there, Sir,” the guard said with a thick Brooklyn accent, raising a hand against Matthew’s chest. “The staff and delivery entrance is in the back alley. This is VIP only.”

Matthew stopped. He looked at the guard, then at the store manager standing behind the glass door with a sour expression.

“Move,” Matthew said quietly. His voice was not loud, but it carried a freezing weight, like winter wind cutting through Central Park.

“Listen, buddy, I don’t want to call the cops. Leave now before—”

“I said move,” Matthew repeated, raising his hand to reveal an old Patek Philippe Nautilus on his wrist, the last remnant of his former glory. “Or I’ll buy this building and make you unemployed within ten minutes.”

The threat sounded insane coming from a man in torn clothes, but Matthew’s gaze was razor-sharp, radiating the aura of an apex predator. The guard’s instinct wavered. That moment of hesitation was enough for Matthew to slip past him.

Inside the boutique, the atmosphere was hushed, warm, and scented with premium leather. In the VIP corner stood Carol Lane, holding a rare Himalayan White Birkin bag while arguing with a pale-faced sales associate.

“What do you mean I have to join a waiting list?” Carol’s shrill voice shattered the boutique’s elegance. “I’m Carol Lane. My husband built half this city’s skyline. You’re telling me this bag is reserved for Mrs. Vanderbilt? To hell with her!”

“But Mrs. Lane, our policy is very strict,” the associate tried to explain politely.

“Carol,” Matthew called.

The baritone voice froze her in place. She turned slowly, her eyes widening in shock when she saw her son-in-law standing there in accident-stained clothes.

“You…” Carol stumbled back a step, nearly dropping her Chanel handbag. “Matthew? You were supposed to be… Viviane said you were in a coma at Mount Sinai or dead. Why are you here?”

“Disappointed?” Matthew walked closer, his steps calm on the thick carpet. He stopped two meters in front of her. “Unfortunately, hell wasn’t ready to take me. They said I still had unfinished business with a devil in New York.”

Carol’s expression shifted from shock to furious red. She glanced around, noticing other customers, the wives of Wall Street bankers, beginning to watch.

“How dare you show up here looking like trash?” Carol hissed, putting on her sunglasses and reclaiming her arrogant mask. “Did the concussion make you forget your place? What do you want? Money for your hospital bills? Or are you begging Viviane not to divorce you?”

Matthew did not answer. He turned toward the sales associate Carol had been berating.

[PRODUCT ANALYSIS COMPLETE.]

[TARGET ITEM : ‘HIMALAYAN’ COLLECTION. RARITY : TIER S.]

OPERATIONAL FUNDS SUFFICIENT. ALPHA TRANSACTION EXECUTION RECOMMENDED.]

“Miss,” Matthew called to the associate.

She hesitated, glancing at the approaching manager, then at Carol, and finally at Matthew. “Yes, Sir?”

Matthew pointed at the white crocodile leather bag still clutched tightly by Carol. “The bag that old woman is holding. How much is it?”

Carol’s eyes bulged. “Old woman? Watch your mouth, you useless parasite!”

“It’s… it’s a collector’s edition, sir,” the associate said nervously. “The price is eighty-five thousand dollars.”

“Cheap,” Matthew said flatly, his finger shifting to another bag behind the bulletproof glass display. “Then that burgundy one, the black one on the top shelf, and the matching long wallet and limited edition silk scarf.”

Matthew Thomas pointed out the five most expensive items in the main display.

“Wrap them all,” he ordered.

Silence fell over the boutique. Even the manager now walked toward them with open suspicion.

Carol burst out laughing, loud and scornful. “Oh my God, Matthew. You’ve completely lost your mind. Wrap them all? How are you paying? Food stamps? Or are you planning to charge Lane Corp again? Just so you know, I blocked all your corporate card access this morning!”

“Who said I need Lane Corp’s pocket change?” Matthew replied calmly, reaching into his torn jacket and pulling out his phone. The screen lit up with the slowly rotating ARC logo, invisible to everyone but him.

“Manager,” Matthew said, “bring the payment terminal here. Now.”

The store manager, Pierre Dubois, an arrogant Frenchman, eyed Matthew skeptically. “Sir, the total is three hundred fifty thousand dollars. We do not accept personal checks from strangers, and if your card is declined, I will call the NYPD for disturbance of the peace.”

“Go ahead,” Matthew challenged.

The manager snorted, retrieved the wireless payment terminal, and shoved it toward Matthew. Carol folded her arms, smiling broadly, ready to savor the moment when Matthew would be humiliated and dragged onto the Fifth Avenue sidewalk.