My husband and mother-in-law threw me out into the cold. But I came back, changed my appearance, and bought out their business for pennies. They didnt even recognise me
“Get out.”
The word, spat by my mother-in-law, Margaret Harrington, hung in the icy air of the hallway.
Beside her stood my husband, Edward, shoulders hunched, his gaze fixed on the wallpaper pattern as if it held the answer to his lifes biggest question.
“Eddie?” My voice was barely a whisper.
In my arms, our five-year-old son, Oliver, clung to my coat, sobbing.
“I cant do this anymore, Emily,” he forced out through gritted teeth, still refusing to look at me. “Im tired of being broke, of your constant scrimping, of the crying. Tired of all of it.”
Margaret took a step forward, her usually pinched face now a hardened mask.
“Hes being perfectly clear. Youre nothing but dead weight now. Because of you and your freeloading relatives, our business is sinking!”
She shoved me toward the open door, where the biting winter air rushed in.
“But where will we go? Its the middle of winter We have no one here.”
“Thats not our problem,” she snapped. “You shouldve thought of that before leeching off my son. He deserves better. A wife who brings money into the house, not drains it.”
Edward finally looked at meempty, unfamiliar eyes, not a trace of remorse, only exhaustion and irritation.
“Im leaving you, Emily. And him too.”
A nod toward Oliver, and my heart shattered into a thousand icy shards.
“But hes your son”
“A burden,” Margaret hissed, thrusting a hastily packed bag of our things into my hands. “Were starting fresh. Without you.”
The door slammed. The lock clicked with deafening finality.
Oliver and I stood alone on the dimly lit landing. He had stopped crying now, just hiccuping quietly into my shoulder.
I stared at the peeling door, numb, the cold seeping into my bones.
One thought burned clear in my mind.
They had just thrown us out into the freezing night. They thought they could erase us like a scribble in a notebook.
I didnt know then about the inheritance from a distant relative, due to arrive in a week. Didnt know Id soon have the means to turn everything around.
All I knew was this:
One day, theyd regret this night. Theyd beg for my help.
And I wouldnt forgive. Never.
The first few hours passed like a bad dream. I hailed a taxi and gave the first address that came to minda cheap hotel on the outskirts of London.
A handful of crumpled banknotes in my purse. Enough for a night, maybe two. After that? Nothing.
Oliver fell asleep instantly in the room, worn out from tears and fear. I sat on the edge of the stiff bed, watching the snow whirl outside.
In the morning, I made a mistakemy last mistake, born from the naive hope that Edward still had a shred of humanity left. I called him.
Margaret answered.
“What do you want?” Her voice dripped with barely concealed glee.
“Put Edward on. I need money. Just something to get by. For Oliver.”
A smug chuckle crackled through the receiver.
“Money? You wont get a penny from us. Eddie and I celebrated your departure last night. Opened champagne. He said he could finally breathe again.”
A pause, savouring the moment.
“Youre history. Forget this number.”
The line went dead.
Despair rose like a frozen lump in my throat.
A week passeda week of humiliation, fear, and cold nights in budget hotels. The money dwindled. I started eyeing pawnshops, wondering how much my modest wedding ring would fetch.
That was when the call came.
An unknown number.
“Emily Katherine Whitmore?” A dry, male voice.
“Yes, speaking.”
“My name is Charles Thornton. Im a solicitor. I must inform you that your great-aunt, Agatha Montgomery, has left you her entire estate.”
Silence. I barely remembered Agatha from childhood visits.
“What estate?”
He quoted a sum. So many zeros my mind short-circuited. Then he mentioned two central London flats and a country house.
“Emily, are you there? Youll need to come in to finalise the paperwork.”
I watched Oliver building a snowman outside, his fair hair tousled by the wind.
The phone slipped from my fingers into the snow.
I picked it up. Dialled Edwards number. Margaret answered again.
“I told you not to”
“Tell your son,” I said, my voice as calm as frozen lake, “he just made the worst mistake of his life.”
I hung up before hearing her outraged shrieks.
The tears had dried. The pain faded. Something else took its placecold, unyielding.
I looked at my hands. No, I wouldnt pawn the ring. Id buy the entire bloody pawnshop.
Then Id buy their precious little family business. Their beloved auto repair shop, their pride.
And Id make sure they never saw it coming.
A year later.
Inside an exclusive Mayfair restaurant sat a woman no one would recognise as the old Emily.
Ash-blonde hair instead of mousy brown. A tailored trouser suit in place of worn jeans. A cool, assessing gaze instead of fear.
Legally, I was still Emily Whitmore. But to the business world, I was Angelica Frosta name chosen in memory of that night.
The first months after the inheritance werent spent on revenge. They were for Oliver and me. The best doctors to erase his trauma. A new home filled with toys. A tutor.
The rest of the time, I rebuilt myselfobsessively. Stylists. Therapists. Business courses. Hostile takeovers. I moulded myself into someone who could crush them without blinking.
Across from me sat Alistair Graves, a corporate raider with shark eyes and a flawless reputation.
My solicitor had recommended him with: “If you need a building demolished, call a demolition crew. If you need a business destroyed, call Alistair.”
“Their business is Elite Auto Care,” he said, flipping through files. “Barely staying afloat. Debts piling up.”
“I want them ruined,” I said, sipping water. “Fast. Painfully.”
Alistair smiled. “Three-phase plan. First, we open a rival garage across the streetundercut prices, poach their mechanics. Thatll take months. Then, pressure suppliers to call in debts. Final act? Rumours of bankruptcy to scare off remaining clients.”
“Do it,” I said. “Make it look like bad luck.”
The plan unfolded perfectly.
“Premium Auto Services” opened opposite Elite Auto Care, offering diagnostics at half-price. Their best mechanics defected for triple the pay.
Alistair reported their reactions. First anger, then panic. Price cuts only sank them deeper.
Then, like clockwork, suppliers demanded immediate repayment, threatening lawsuits.
Edward scrambled. Margaret begged for loans, but banks refused.
The final straw?
Edward, desperate, found my old social media profile. Under a photo of Oliver and me smiling, he commented for all our mutuals to see:
“All smiles while living off me. Useless wife and leech. Good riddance.”
That moment, any hesitation died.
Alistair called them the next day.
“Good afternoon. My client, Mrs. Frost, is aware of your difficulties. Shes prepared to buy your business.”
Silence on the other end.
“Buy it?” Edward croaked.
“Yes. For a symbolic sumjust enough to cover your urgent debts. My client doesnt wait. Decide by tomorrow, or drown.”
I listened to the recording in my office, overlooking the city skyline.
They were trapped.
And I knew theyd say yes. Then Id walk into that room. Look them in the eye.
I entered their shabby office without knocking.
Edward and Margaret sat behind a desk buried in papers. Both aged, exhausted, eyes hollow. They looked up at the polished blonde in the expensive suit and saw only money and power.
They didnt recognise me.
“Angelica Frost,” I introduced myself, shaking Alistairs hand.
Edward lurched up, forcing a smile. “Edward. This is my mother, Margaret. We appreciate your offer.”
Documents were signed in silence. They barely read them, hands shaking.
When it was done, Alistair collected the papers. “Funds will clear within the hour. Vacate by tomorrow.”
He left.
Margaret turned to me, wheedling. “Mrs. Frost perhaps youd employ Edward? As manager? He knows the trade”
I slowly removed my sunglasses.
And watched recognition dawn. Edward paled, collapsing into his chair, mouth gaping like a stranded fish.
“Em Emily?”
Margaret gripped the table, face twisting. “It cant be”
“It is,” I said calmly. “Remember, Margaret
