The man and his mother cast me out into the freezing cold. But I, after changing my appearance, bought their business for pennies. They didnt recognise me
“Get out.”
The word, spat by my mother-in-law, Margaret Blackwood, hung in the icy air of the hallway.
Roland, my husband, stood beside her, shoulders hunched. He wouldnt look at me. His gaze was fixed on the wallpaper pattern, as though the answer to his lifes greatest question lay in its swirls.
“Roland?” My voice was barely a whisper.
In my arms, five-year-old Alfie sobbed, clinging to my coat.
“I cant do this anymore, Emily. Im tired,” he ground out through clenched teeth, still refusing to turn. “Tired of being broke, of your constant scrimping, of the crying. Tired of everything.”
Margaret took a step forward. Her face, usually pinched, now resembled a plaster mask.
“Hes telling you plainly. Youre nothing to him now. A dead weight. Because of you and your brat, our business is ruined!”
She shoved me toward the open door, where the bitter wind howled.
“But where will we go? Its winter Weve no one here.”
“Thats not our problem,” she snapped. “You shouldve thought of that before leeching off my son. He deserves bettera wife who brings money into the house, not just drains it.”
Roland finally looked up. His eyes were empty. No remorse, just exhaustion and irritation.
“Im leaving you, Emily. And him too.”
He nodded at Alfie, and my heart shattered into icy shards.
“But hes your son”
“A burden,” Margaret hissed, thrusting a hastily packed bag into my hands. “Were starting fresh. Without you.”
The door slammed. The lock clicked with finality.
Alfie and I stood alone on the dimly lit landing. Hed stopped crying, though quiet hiccups still shook his little frame as he buried his face in my shoulder.
I stared at the peeling door, numb. The cold seeped into my bones, but I barely felt it.
One thought burned clear in my mind:
My husband and his mother had thrown us out into the snow. They thought they could erase us like a scribble in a notebook.
I didnt know then about the inheritance from a distant aunt, the call that would come a week later. Didnt know Id receive money enough to change everything.
All I knew was this:
One day, they would regret this bitterly. They would beg for my help.
“I wont forgive. Never.”
The first hours passed like a fever dream. I hailed a cab, giving the first cheap hotel I could think of on the citys outskirts.
My purse held a few crumpled notes. Enough for one night. Maybe two. And then? Then, nothing.
Alfie fell asleep instantly, exhausted from tears and fear. I sat on the edge of the stiff bed, watching snowflakes whirl past the window.
That morning, I made a mistake. One last mistake, driven by the naive hope that Roland still had a shred of humanity left. I called him.
Margaret answered.
“What do you want?” Her voice dripped with poorly concealed glee.
“Put Roland on. I need money. Just enough to get by. For Alfie.”
A nasty chuckle crackled down the line.
“Money? Youll get nothing from us. Roland and I celebrated your departure last night. Champagne. He said he could finally breathe.”
A pause, savouring the moment.
“Youre his past. Forget this number.”
The dial tone.
I dropped the phone. Despair rose like a frozen lump in my throat.
A week passed. A week of humiliation, fear, and cold nights in budget motels. Money dwindled. I eyed pawnshop signs, wondering what my modest wedding ring might fetch.
Then, as I sat on a park bench watching Alfie play, realising wed nowhere to sleep that night, my phone rang.
Unknown number.
“Emily Victoria Hawthorne?” A dry male voice.
“Yes?”
“My name is Ignatius Whitmore, solicitor. I must inform you that your late great-aunt, Agatha Winthrop, has left you her entire estate.”
Silence. I barely remembered Great-Aunt Agatha.
“Estate?” I managed.
He named a sum with so many zeroes my mind short-circuited. Then added two London townhouses and a country manor.
“Emily, do you understand? Youll need to come in to finalise the paperwork.”
I watched Alfie build a snowman. The wind ruffled his fair hair.
My phone slipped from numb fingers into the snow.
I retrieved it. Dialled Rolands number. Again, his mother answered.
“I told you not”
“Tell your son,” my voice calm as frozen lake, “hes made the worst mistake of his life.”
I hung up before her screeching began.
The tears dried. The pain faded. Something else took its placehard as steel.
I looked at my hands. No, I wouldnt pawn my ring. Id buy the entire wretched pawnshop. Then Id buy their precious family businesstheir beloved auto repair shop, “Blackwood Motors.”
And Id do it so theyd never see the blow coming.
A year later.
In a private dining room of an upscale London restaurant sat a woman no one would recognise as the old Emily.
Ash-blonde instead of mousy brown. A tailored pantsuit replacing worn jeans. A cool, assessing gaze instead of fear.
Legally, I remained Emily Hawthorne. But to the business world, I was Angelina Frosta name chosen in memory of that night.
The first months after inheriting werent spent on revenge, but on Alfie and myself. Top doctors for his night terrors, a toy-filled flat, a tutor. I wanted to erase that night from his memory.
The rest of the time, I rebuilt myself obsessively. Stylists, therapists, crash courses in corporate takeovers. I forged myself into someone who could crush them without blinking.
Across from me sat Archibald Lowell, a corporate raider with sharks eyes and a flawless reputation.
Solicitor Whitmore had recommended him: “If you need a building demolished, call wreckers. If you need a business destroyed, call Archibald.”
“Their business’Blackwood Motors’is floundering,” he reported, flipping through files. “Debts to suppliers. Barely staying afloat.”
“I want them ruined,” I said, sipping water. “Swiftly. Painfully.”
Archibald smiled hungrily.
“A three-phase plan. First, open a rival garage across the streetundercut prices, poach their best mechanics. Two months. Then pressure suppliers to call in debts. Another month. Final strokerumours of bankruptcy to scare off remaining clients.”
“Do it,” I said. “Make it look like misfortune.”
The plan unfolded.
“Elite Auto Care” opened opposite “Blackwood Motors,” offering diagnostics at half-price. Rolands top mechanics defected for triple wages.
Archibald relayed their reactions: first anger, then panic. They slashed prices, sinking deeper into debt.
Then, as if orchestrated, suppliers demanded immediate payment, threatening lawsuits.
Roland scrambled. Margaret tried securing loansbanks refused.
The final straw came via social media.
Driven to despair, Roland found my old, forgotten profile. Under a photo of Alfie and me smiling, he commented publicly:
“All smiles while sucking me dry. Useless wife and broodmare. Good riddance.”
As I read those words, any lingering hesitation vanished.
Archibald called them next day.
“My client, Mrs. Frost, is aware of your difficulties. Shes prepared to buy your business.”
A stunned silence. Then Rolands voice:
“Buy it?”
“For a nominal sum. Enough to cover immediate debts. The offer expires tomorrow.”
I listened to the recording in my office, overlooking the city skyline.
They were trapped.
I knew theyd sign. Then Id watch them realise whod destroyed them.
I entered their shabby office unannounced.
Roland and Margaret sat slumped at a paper-strewn desk. Both aged, haggard. Their eyes lifted blankly to the elegant blonde in the designer suitseeing only money, power.
They didnt recognise me.
“Angelina Frost.” I shook Archibalds hand for show.
Roland lurched up, forcing a smile. “Roland. This is my mother, Margaret. We were grateful for your offer.”
They signed hastily, barely skimming the documents. Hands trembling.
As Archibald collected the papers, Margaret simpered:
“Mrs. Frost might you employ Roland? As manager? He knows the trade”
I slowly removed my sunglasses.
And watched recognition dawnfirst confusion, then horror. Roland paled, collapsing into his chair, fish-mouthed.
“Em Emily?”
Margaret clutched the desk, face contorting. “It cant be”
“It is,” I said calmly. “
