Chapter 3 - The Price of a Heel
The East Dining Room felt as though all the oxygen had been sucked out of it.
Libby Kemp took half a step backward, her hand instinctively clutching the five-carat emerald diamond ring on her finger. Her face, which had been flushed with arrogant satisfaction moments ago, was now as white as the linen tablecloths.
She knew who Victor Vance was. Her father, Judge Kemp, had explicitly warned her three months ago: “If you ever see Victor Vance in a room, you do not speak, you do not look at him, and you get out of his way.”
Dylan Burroughs swallowed hard, stepping in front of Libby, trying to project the authority of the Burroughs name.
"Mr. Vance," Dylan said, his voice tight, his palms sweating. "There's been a misunderstanding. The dog... we didn't know the animal belonged to you. He ran into the private event. The waitress was disruptive, and—"
"I didn't ask the boy," Vance interrupted smoothly, not even glancing at Dylan.
His silver eyes locked directly onto Libby.
"I asked," Vance repeated, stepping forward, his boots clicking softly against the floor, "which one of you put your foot on this girl."
Libby’s lips trembled. "She... she brought a filthy, bleeding animal into my engagement party! She ruined my gown! I was just—"
"You kicked her," Vance said.
It wasn't a question.
Vance looked down at Libby's feet. He looked at the three-inch steel heels covered in red Italian leather. He noticed the slight smear of blood near the point of the right heel.
"Do you know what this dog is to me, Miss Kemp?" Vance asked softly, taking another step toward her.
Libby shook her head frantically, tears of sheer terror swelling in her eyes. "No... Mr. Vance, please... I didn't know—"
"His name is Buster," Vance said. "My wife, Sarah, adopted him eight years ago from a shelter in South Harrow. When she died of cancer three years ago, this dog sat beside her bed until her breath stopped. For four days, I have had sixty men combing this state for him. I haven't slept. I haven't eaten."
Vance stopped two feet from Libby.
"And while I was looking for him," Vance continued, "a girl who makes twelve dollars an hour carrying plates wrapped her arms around him, carried ninety pounds of bleeding meat across a kitchen, and took a steel heel to the ribs so he wouldn't have to suffer another blow."
Vance turned his head slightly toward his lead tactical officer.
"Karl."
"Sir," the officer replied, stepping forward instantly.
"Call Dr. Mercer. Tell him my personal medical helicopter is to land in the park across the street in four minutes. Have him prepare the emergency trauma suite at Saint Jude's for both the dog and the girl."
"Understood, Boss." Karl immediately pulled out a satellite phone and began speaking rapidly into it.
Dylan Burroughs took a desperate step forward. "Mr. Vance, look... I'm willing to pay for the dog's vet bills. I'll cover the girl's medical care. I'll write a check for a million dollars right now to your foundation—"
Vance finally looked at Dylan.
The look was so devoid of human mercy that Dylan’s voice died instantly in his throat.
"You think your money pays for this, Burroughs?" Vance asked gently. "Your father runs four shipping docks on the east side. He owes twelve million dollars on his equipment leases to Vance Financial. By eight o'clock tomorrow morning, those leases will be called in full. Your warehouses will be seized. Your family is broke, Dylan. You just don't know it yet."
Dylan’s jaw dropped. He stumbled back against the table, knocking over a crystal glass that shattered against the floor. "You... you can't do that over a waitress!"
"I am not doing it over a waitress," Vance said. "I am doing it because you sat in that chair, drank fifty-year-old scotch, and watched a defenseless girl get beaten on the floor while you did nothing. You are weak, Dylan. And Harrow Falls has no use for weak men."
Vance turned back to Libby.
His gaze dropped to her red heel.
"Take off the shoes, Miss Kemp," Vance said softly.
Libby blinked through her tears. "W-What?"
"Take off the shoes. Both of them."
"Mr. Vance, please!" Libby sobbed, her composure completely shattered as she clutched Dylan's arm. "They're Louboutins! They cost two thousand dollars—"
"If those shoes are still on your feet in five seconds," Vance whispered, "Karl will remove your feet with them."
Libby let out a sharp, hysterical shriek. She kicked her feet out, tearing the red designer shoes off her feet, letting them tumble uselessly across the hardwood floor.
Vance didn't touch them with his hands. He stepped forward, placed the heavy heel of his bespoke leather boot over the red shoe that had struck Molly, and pressed down.
CRACK.
The Italian leather split; the three-inch steel heel snapped like a dry twig under his weight. Vance ground the broken shoe into a pile of twisted leather and splintered metal against the floorboards.
He looked up at the forty guests at the table, who were trembling in their seats.
May you like
"Dinner is over," Vance announced quietly. "Leave."
Forty people stood up at once, knocking over chairs, leaving their coats, their purses, and their half-eaten meals behind, trampling over each other to escape through the shattered front entrance into the rain.
