The Dinner, the Locket, and the Fire
“Your mama’s dead. So what? Serve my guests—or sleep on the street.”
The words didn’t just hang in the air—they cut through the kitchen like a knife. Kyrie Payton, my husband, laughed—a cold, jagged sound that made ice crack in my chest. I stood frozen, hands trembling over a roasting pan, tears streaming as I salted the food with my grief.
Four hours earlier, the world had shifted.
The hospital call came at noon. My mother, Eta, was gone. Her voice, her hands, her warmth—gone. For four hours, I had sat on a stool, staring at a blank wall, until the front door slammed. Kyrie returned, tie loosened, face twisted in contempt.
“Are you deaf?” he barked. “Today is the day Thaddius Vance, my new CEO, is coming. Where’s the duck? The appetizers?”
“My mother… died today,” I whispered, voice cracking.
Kyrie froze for a moment, then sneered. “Expected. She was old. Move on.”
I tried to reason. “Call them. Cancel. We have a death in the family.”
He stepped closer, towering over me. “Vance isn’t the kind of man you say no to. You have two hours. Make it look like a party, not a funeral.”
I had nowhere to run. No keys to my mother’s apartment, no money, just the February wind howling outside the window. I chopped, I cooked, I plated—hands trembling, tears soaking my black dress.
When it was time, I chose the only thing I could: a strict, high-necked black dress. My silent rebellion.
The Dinner from Hell
At seven sharp, the doorbell rang. Kyrie flung it open.
“Mr. Vance, what an honor!” he gushed.
A tall, solemn man with a silver-handled cane entered, eyes piercing. Thaddius Vance. He scanned the room, finally resting his gaze on Kyrie.
Kyrie introduced me. I barely whispered a greeting, retreating to the kitchen.
Dinner was torture. Kyrie bragged, poured cognac endlessly, joked. I served silently, tears dripping on the collar of my black dress. Under the table, he kicked my ankle. Pain shot up my leg. I muffled a cry.
“What’s wrong?” Thaddius asked.
“She’s clumsy,” Kyrie lied. “Overly sentimental. Saw a dead stray cat this morning. Women, right, Mr. Vance?”
Thaddius didn’t answer. His eyes were on me, intense, searching.
“More wine?” I asked, voice trembling.
As I reached forward, my sleeve slipped, revealing an antique silver locket engraved with a phoenix and crossed keys. Thaddius froze, hand snapping out to catch my wrist. The wine bottle shattered on the floor.
“Silence!” he roared. Kyrie shrank back.
He pulled me closer, studying the locket. “Where did you get this? This crest…?”
“It’s… Mama’s,” I whispered.
He looked at me like a ghost. “What was your mother’s name?”
“Eta Griggs.”
“Thirty years…” His voice cracked. “I’ve been looking for her thirty years.”
Then he turned to Kyrie, fury igniting.
“You forced my niece to serve dinner today—while her mother died?!”
Kyrie stammered. “N-niece? She’s just a… seamstress.”
Thaddius slammed his cane. “You are not just fired, Payton. You’re finished.”
Kyrie’s final act of defiance: he hurled a crystal vase, smashing it against the wall, then bolted, locking the door behind him. His screams filled the hall as he called the police with lies.
Funeral Ransom
At the cemetery, gray and windy, Kyrie appeared with a lawyer, demanding control over my mother’s burial, holding a forged power of attorney.
“You monster,” I whispered.
“You sign my terms, or your mother stays in the morgue,” he sneered.
Thaddius intervened. “Revoke the POA, Zanab.”
I stood tall. “I revoke it now.”
Kyrie’s lawyer paled. Security escorted them away. The coffin went into the ground. But Kyrie’s war was far from over.
Back at my apartment, he had ransacked everything. But amidst the chaos, a folder: To my beloved wife. Inside, debt notices he had created—$150,000 stolen from me over three years.
The trail led to Lache Williams, his mistress. He’d siphoned my life away, all for greed and power.
The Fire and the Final Trap
Kyrie tried to finish me with flames, setting my apartment ablaze. I jumped from a fifth-floor ledge, clutching my mother’s diary and phone. Outside, police captured him, soot-streaked and laughing.
Three days later, he attempted an insanity defense. But with Thaddius filming, and his mother confessing at my mother’s grave, the truth shattered his lies.
Six months later, the trial ended. Kyrie got 25 years.
Rising from the Ashes
I visited him one last time, sliding a paper through the glass partition:
Invoice: Dinner Service for Thaddius Vance — $800. Waitress & Chef fees included.
“I deducted this from the sale of your car. We are even,” I smiled.
Kyrie screamed as guards dragged him away.
I walked into the sun. The apartment rebuilt. A new sign above the door:
ETA – Bespoke Fashion
I cut the ribbon. I had walked through fire—and I had risen.