The Son-in-Law Apocalypse Revenge

004

The laughter in Lumière was like a physical whip, lashing against Vanessa’s back. She stood frozen for a second, her face a mask of humiliated rage. People weren't just whispering; they were openly mocking her. 

"Selfish," someone called out. "Look at her face, she thought she hit the jackpot," another whispered.

Vanessa snapped. She stamped her feet against the marble floor, her heels clicking sharply. "You'll beg me, Desmond!" she shrieked, her voice cracking. "When you lose all that money and realize you’re still nothing, you’ll come crawling back!"

She didn't wait for a response. She turned and stormed out of the restaurant, her head held high in a fake show of dignity that fooled no one. Desmond didn't even turn his head to watch her leave.

The next morning, the sun barely touched the horizon before Desmond was awake. He sat at his small desk, the glow of his phone illuminating a face that looked years older than it had a week ago. His investments had climbed to $3,000,000.”

The screen was cluttered with notifications. Seventeen missed calls. Six from Vanessa, four from Maria, and seven from Victor Hawthorne himself. In his past life, seeing Victor’s name on his screen would have made his hands shake. Now, he just cleared the notifications with a single swipe.

He had bigger things to focus on. He needed a fortress.

An hour later, Desmond stood in front of an abandoned industrial complex in a desolate district on the outskirts of the city. It was a massive, ugly block of fifteen thousand square feet of reinforced concrete. To most, it was an eyesore. To Desmond, who remembered the original timeline, it was a sanctuary. This building’s independent power infrastructure and thick walls had allowed it to survive the first wave of the dimensional collapse while the luxury high-rises in the city center became glass-filled tombs.

Gerald Moss, the owner, stood beside him. He was a struggling veteran with grease-stained overalls and a skeptical squint. He looked at Desmond’s clean clothes and then at the rusted gate of the warehouse.

"Monthly lease is eight thousand, kid," Gerald said, spitting a bit of tobacco juice onto the dry dirt. "Upfront. You sure you can handle that? Most people just come here to film ghost hunter videos then leave when they see the bill."

Desmond looked at the reinforced pillars. He knew that in three weeks, money wouldn't be worth the paper it was printed on. He wouldn't have to pay a cent after the rifts opened.

"I can handle it," Desmond said. He pulled out his phone. "I’ll transfer three months' advance right now. But I need access immediately."

Gerald’s phone buzzed in his pocket barely ten seconds later. He pulled it out, his eyes widening as he saw the deposit notification. "Well... alright then. Keys are yours."

"I'm not done," Desmond said. "I want to hire you as property manager. I need someone who knows the bones of this place. I’ll pay you twenty-five hundred a week."

Gerald stared at him like he had grown a second head. "Twenty-five hundred? To watch a bunch of concrete? What exactly are you storing in there, son? Bodies?"

"Food supplies, equipment, general inventory," Desmond replied calmly. "Nothing illegal. Just a man preparing for a very long winter."

Desmond handed him a printed list. It wasn't a standard maintenance list. It was a security upgrade: reinforced steel plating for the loading docks, industrial-grade cooling units, and a secondary water filtration system.

"Can these be done within two weeks?" Desmond asked.

Gerald looked at the list, then at the massive payment on his phone. "For that kind of money? I’ll have a crew here by noon. I can get it done."

As Desmond walked back to his car, his phone buzzed again. This time it was a text from Victor Hawthorne.

Victor: Come to my study immediately. We need to discuss your activities.

In the original timeline, a summons like that would have filled Desmond with a dread so thick he couldn't breathe. He would have dropped everything to run to the Hawthorne estate. Now, he just checked his watch.

Desmond: I’ll be there in an hour.

The reply came back instantly.

 Victor: You’ll be here in ten minutes.

Desmond didn't even type a reply. He simply put the phone in his pocket and drove toward a nearby hardware wholesaler. He had business to attend to. He arrived at the Hawthorne estate exactly fifty-eight minutes later.

The audacity of hanging up on Victor and ignoring his "ten-minute" command was unthinkable for the old Desmond. But as he walked through the heavy oak doors of the Hawthorne mansion, he felt nothing but a cold, disconnected boredom.

He was led to Victor’s study. The door opened to reveal the entire family assembled like a tribunal. It was a scene he had lived through a dozen times, usually with him standing in the middle of the room while they took turns tearing his dignity apart.

Victor sat behind his massive mahogany desk, looking like a king on a throne. Marianne stood beside him, her arms crossed. Tristan was leaning against a bookshelf, his phone out, likely recording so he could mock Desmond later. Vanessa sat in the corner. She looked pale, her eyes red-rimmed, but the moment she saw Desmond, her expression hardened into a glare.

"You're late," Victor said. His voice was like a slab of ice hitting the floor.

"I said one hour. It’s been fifty-eight minutes," Desmond said. He didn't wait for an invitation. He walked to the center of the room and remained standing, his posture straight and relaxed.

Victor’s eyes narrowed. He wasn't used to people counting the minutes with him. "Vanessa tells me you made quite a scene at Lumière last night. Spent over a million dollars on a catering order?"

"I placed an order," Desmond said. "Is that a problem? I thought the Hawthornes appreciated high-end dining."

“Is that what I was supposed for?”

"Where did you get that money?" Marianne demanded, stepping forward. Her voice was shrill with accusation. "You’ve been stealing from household accounts! That’s the only explanation. You’ve been skimming off the grocery budgets and the maintenance funds for years, haven't you?"

Desmond looked at her with genuine amusement. "I’ve never had access to your household accounts, Marianne. You made sure of that the day I moved in. Every dollar came from my own personal investments."

"Investments?" Tristan let out a sharp, mocking laugh from the bookshelf. "You expect us to believe that? What did you do, Desmond? Flip some trading cards? You turned your pathetic savings into millions overnight? Pull the other one."

"Four days," Desmond corrected him. "I put everything into AegisShield Biotech stock and a few related cryptocurrency positions. I bought in before the government contract announcement."

The room went quiet. Victor leaned forward, his business instincts suddenly overriding his anger. "What government contract?"

"The one announced this morning," Desmond said, his voice flat. "A CDC partnership for rapid-response facilities and atmospheric filtration. The stock surged another two hundred percent in the last six hours."

Victor’s face went through a rapid series of changes. He was a man who lived for the market, and the fact that his "useless" son-in-law had caught a whale that he had missed was a bitter pill to swallow.

"You got lucky," Tristan sneered, though his grip on his phone tightened. "A blind squirrel finds a nut once in a while."

"Lucky or not, the money is mine," Desmond said. "Is that all? I have a lot of work to do."

"Now, wait a minute, Desmond," Marianne said, her tone suddenly shifting. The sharp edges of her voice smoothed out into something sickeningly sweet. She stepped closer, a small, forced smile on her face. 

"There’s no need to be so defensive. We’re just... concerned. A young man with that much money can make mistakes."

"Concerned?" Desmond asked, one eyebrow raised.

"Of course," Victor added, clearing his throat. He stood up and walked around the desk. He placed a heavy hand on Desmond’s shoulder—a gesture that was meant to be fatherly but felt like a shackle. "We may have had our differences, but at the end of the day, you know we are family, Desmond. Family looks out for each other."

Vanessa stood up from her chair, her eyes burning with a sudden, predatory greed. She saw the way her father was looking at Desmond, and she followed suit.

"Dad is right," Vanessa said, taking a step toward him. "I was just stressed last night, Desmond. The divorce papers... maybe we were too hasty. We’ve been through so much together. If you’re really doing this well, we should be managing this as a family. We can put that money into the Hawthorne Trust. My father can help you grow it into something even bigger."

Desmond looked at the hand on his shoulder, then at Vanessa’s hopeful face, then at Marianne’s greedy smile. He felt a wave of nausea, not from fear, but from the sheer transparency of their rot.

"Family?" Desmond repeated the word like it was a foreign language. "That’s funny. I don't remember being family when you were calling me a 'dog' and a 'mule' for the last three years."

"Desmond, let's not be petty," Victor said, his grip tightening slightly. "A million dollars is a lot of money for a factory worker, but it’s just seed money for a Hawthorne. Think about your future. Think about the protection this family offers."

Desmond laughed. It was a short, sharp sound that echoed in the quiet study. He reached up and calmly removed Victor’s hand from his shoulder.

"I am thinking about the future, Victor. More than you can possibly imagine," Desmond said. He looked around the room one last time. "And in my future, there isn't a single Hawthorne in sight."

He turned on his heel and walked toward the door.

"Desmond! Get back here!" Victor roared, his face turning a dark purple. "You owe this family for everything we’ve given you!"

Desmond didn't even pause. He walked out of the study and through the mansion, the heavy front door thudding shut behind him. He had an hour of his life back, and he wasn't going to waste another second of it. He had a warehouse to fill, and the clock was ticking. Twenty days left.