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
“Leave.”
The word, spat by my mother-in-law, Beatrice Howard, hung in the icy air of the hallway.
My husband, Reginald, stood beside her, shoulders hunched, refusing to meet my gaze. His eyes were fixed on the wallpaper pattern, as though it held the answer to his lifes greatest question.
“Reg?” My voice was barely a whisper.
In my arms, five-year-old Oliver clung to my coat, his sobs muffled against my shoulder.
“I cant do this anymore, Charlotte,” he gritted out, still not turning. “Im tiredtired of the debt, your penny-pinching, the crying. Tired of everything.”
Beatrice stepped forward, her usually pinched face now resembling a plaster mask. “Hes being perfectly clear. Youre dead weight now. A millstone around his neck. Its because of you and your wretched child that our business is in ruins!”
She shoved me toward the open door, where the bitter wind clawed at my skin.
“But where will we go? Its winter We have no one here.”
“Thats no longer our concern,” she snapped. “You shouldve thought of that before leeching off my son. He deserves bettera wife who brings money into the house, not drains it.”
Reginald finally looked at me. His eyes were hollow, unfamiliar. No remorsejust exhaustion and irritation. “Im leaving you, Charlotte. And him too.”
He nodded at Oliver, and my heart shattered like brittle ice.
“But hes your son”
“A burden,” Beatrice hissed, thrusting a hastily packed bag 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 only sniffling quietly against my shoulder.
I stared at the peeling door, behind which lay my old life. The cold seeped into my bones, but I barely felt it.
One thought burned clear in my mind:
They had thrown us out into the snow. Decided they could erase us like a scribbled mistake in a notebook.
I didnt yet know about the inheritance from a distant aunt, due to arrive in a week. Didnt know the money would change everything.
I only knew one thing.
One day, they would regret this night. They would beg for my help.
“I wont forgive. Ever.”
The first few hours passed like a fever dream. I hailed a taxi, giving the driver the first cheap hotel I could think of on the outskirts of London.
My purse held a handful of crumpled notes. Enough for one night. Maybe two. After that? Nothing.
Oliver fell asleep instantly, worn out from tears and fear. I sat on the edge of the stiff bed, watching snowflakes whirl outside.
By morning, I made my final mistakeone born of naïve hope that Reginald still had some shred of humanity left. I called him.
Beatrice answered.
“What do you want?” Her voice dripped with venomous glee.
“Put Reginald on. I need money. Just for now. For Oliver.”
A cruel chuckle crackled down the line.
“Money? Youll get nothing from us. Reginald and I celebrated your departure last night. Champagne. He said he could finally breathe again.”
A pause, savouring the moment.
“Youre history. Forget this number.”
The line went dead.
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. The money dwindled. I eyed pawnshop signs, weighing what my modest wedding ring might fetch.
Then, as I sat on a park bench watching Oliver play, realising we had nowhere to go that evening, my phone rang.
An unknown number.
“Charlotte Elizabeth Whitmore?” A dry male voice.
“Yes, speaking.”
“Edward Harrington, solicitor. I must inform you that your great-aunt, Margaret Whitmore, has left you her entire estate.”
I sat in stunned silence. Great-Aunt Margareta woman Id met twice as a child.
“What estate?” I managed.
He named a sum. A number with so many zeros my mind short-circuited. Then added two central London flats and a countryside house.
“Charlotte? Are you there? Youll need to come in to finalise the paperwork.”
I watched Oliver build a snowman. The wind ruffled his fair hair.
The phone slipped from my numb fingers into the snow.
I picked it up. Dialled Reginalds number. Again, Beatrice answered.
“I told you not to”
“Tell your son,” my voice was calm as a frozen lake, “that hes made the worst mistake of his life.”
I hung up before her screeching protests could begin.
The tears dried. The pain faded. Replaced by something else. Hard as steel.
I looked at my hands. No, I wouldnt pawn the ring. Id buy the entire wretched pawnshop. Then Id buy their precious little family businesstheir beloved auto repair shop, “Elite Motors.”
And Id ensure they never saw it coming.
A year later.
In a private dining room at an exclusive Mayfair restaurant, a woman no one would recognise as the former Charlotte Whitmore sat perfectly poised.
Ash-blonde hair instead of mousy brown. A tailored trouser suit in place of worn jeans. A cool, assessing gaze where fear once lived.
Id become someone else. Legally, I remained Charlotte Whitmore. But to the business world, I was Angelique 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, a new home brimming with toys, a governess. I wanted to erase that night from his memory.
The rest of the time, I rebuilt myself. Stylists, therapists, intensive business courses. I forged myself into someone who could crush them without blinking.
Across the table sat Alistair Crawforda corporate raider with sharks eyes and a flawless reputation.
My solicitor Harrington had recommended him with: “If you need a building demolished, call a demolition crew. If you need a business destroyed, call Alistair.”
“Their business, ‘Elite Motors,’ is floundering,” he reported, flipping through files. “Debts to suppliers. Barely staying afloat.”
“I want them ruined,” I said, sipping water. “Swiftly and painfully.”
Alistairs grin was predatory. “Three-phase plan. First, 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 misfortune, not malice.”
The plan unfolded.
A gleaming new garage, “Premier Auto,” opened opposite Elite Motors, offering diagnostics at half-price. Their best mechanics defected for triple the pay.
Alistair relayed their reactions: first rage, then panic. Price cuts only dug them deeper.
Then, suppliers demanded immediate repayment, threatening lawsuits.
Reginald scrambled. Beatrice tried securing loans, but banks refused.
The final straw came when Reginald, desperate, found my old social media page. Beneath a photo of Oliver and me smiling, he commented for all our mutual contacts to see:
“All smiles while leeching off me. A worthless wife and broodmare. Good riddance.”
Reading those words, I knew: no mercy remained.
Alistair called them the next day.
“Good afternoon. My client, Ms. Frost, is aware of your difficulties. Shes prepared to buy your business.”
Silence on the line.
“Buy it?” Reginald croaked.
“Yes. For a nominal sumenough to cover your most pressing debts. She doesnt wait. Decide by tomorrow or sink further.”
I listened to the recording in my office overlooking the city.
They were trapped.
I knew theyd agree. Then Id walk into that shabby office. And look them in the eye.
I entered without knocking.
Reginald and Beatrice sat at a paper-strewn deskaged, haggard, their faces etched with defeat. They looked up at the elegant blonde in the designer suit and saw only power.
They didnt recognise me.
“Angelique Frost,” I introduced myself, shaking Alistairs hand.
Reginald stumbled to his feet, forcing a smile. “Reginald. This is my mother, Beatrice. Were grateful for your offer.”
Documents were signed in silence. They didnt even read them, just scrawled signatures where Alistair pointed. Their hands trembled.
As Alistair gathered the papers, he nodded. “Its done. Funds will clear within the hour. Vacate by tomorrow.”
He left us alone.
Beatrice leaned forward, sycophantic hope
