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He'd dared to insult the fool I was, but facing the reinstated head of the Foster dynasty was a different matter.
I gave him one contemptuous glance.
He ducked his head, forcing out a few tears, practically burying himself in Lydia's embrace.
"Vincent's right," he whimpered pathetically. "I'm not worthy to compare."
Lydia, ever ready to be his weapon, tensed for another verbal assault.
Luna grabbed her arm.
"Enough, Lydia. Let's just go."
Miles looked disappointed but plastered on an expression of wounded understanding.
"Yes, Lydia," he murmured, laying it on thick. "It's not worth fighting with Vincent over me."
The three of them climbed into the Maybach.
I timed it perfectly.
I slammed my foot down and drove my car straight into the side of theirs.
The impact jolted through my frame, a surge of vicious satisfaction momentarily easing the pent-up fury.
Wesley, who had been standing nearby puzzled as to why I hadn't let him drive, sucked in a sharp breath.
Miles scrambled out of the wrecked Maybach like a terrified rodent.
He rushed to the crumpled front end, clutching the mangled hood in distress.
Luna and Lydia stumbled out, legs shaky from the shock.
"Vincent Foster!" Lydia shrieked, voice trembling. "Are you insane?! Were you trying to kill us?!"
I blinked, feigning innocence.
"Of course not. My foot slipped on the accelerator."
Miles whirled around, his voice cracking with outrage.
"Do you have any idea how much this car costs?!"
Now was the perfect time to throw his own kind of logic back at him.
How could someone live the high life for four years and still radiate such cheap desperation?
"Since I paid for it with my money," I replied icily, "I know exactly what it costs."
"And since it was my property, I'd rather see it destroyed than let youkeep it."
The trio, covered in dust and grime from the collision, were forced to hail a cab.
I laughed, the sound ringing with pure, unfettered triumph.
Two weeks later, I reclaimed the Foster Manor House.
The luxury penthouse Miles had been living in was sold off promptly.
Luna and Lydia weren't destitute yet.
They had hoarded plenty of designer goods over the years.
Selling those off gave them enough to keep funding Miles's lifestyle, at least temporarily.
The problem was Miles.
Four years of luxury hadn't taught him refinement, only how to be a better parasite.
He blew whatever cash he got his hands on at the poker tables.
When it was my money, he'd spent freely, without a care.
Spending Luna and Lydia's dwindling funds proved trickier; their resources were finite.
With a little strategic nudge, Miles soon racked up significant gambling debts at the high-stakes tables.
The Lawson sisters, ever devoted to their "kind-hearted" Miles, were forced to liquidate more of their luxury cache to bail him out.
Only then did they realize they had nothing left to cover their exorbitant rent.
They were evicted from their upscale apartment.
Their new home became a cramped flat in a dingy tenement building.
It was no surprise when Luna came to me, hat in hand.
Her decline was visible.
Her clothes were ordinary, her face devoid of its usual haughty spark.
She fidgeted, avoiding my gaze.
"Vincent, I..." she began hesitantly.
I held up a hand, cutting her off.
"Want a loan? Fine."
"You, Lydia, and Miles can beg me for it."
"Who goes first?"
Luna shot to her feet, flushed with humiliation.
"Vincent Foster! If you don't want to lend the money, just say so!"
"No need to degrade us like this!"
I slammed my water glass down on the table.
"How is returning the favor degrading?"
"Wasn't it exactly what you did to me?"
Luna was speechless.
My old weakness for fools flickered; I offered impractical advice.
"Maybe you should just get jobs."
"Factory work, perhaps?"
"At least you wouldn't have to worry about a roof over your heads."
She refused to listen.
Snatching up her bag – a cheap knockoff now, I noted – she stormed out.
Luna and Lydia did eventually try to find work.
Their pre-collapse resumes still held some shine.
But with my influence discreetly applied, every door slammed shut in their faces.
Living hand-to-mouth in that squalor inevitably bred resentment.
Their once-indulgent affection for Miles evaporated.
As for Miles? He was predictable.
A social climber at heart, Luna and Lydia must have been blinded back then to see him as some pure, innocent soul.
The daily arguments escalated.
The inevitable outcome: Miles fled, absconding with whatever meager cash the Lawson sisters had left.
Fate, however, had little mercy for him.
His getaway car crashed.
He survived, but with both legs shattered.
Alone and uncared for.
The stolen money vanished quickly on medical bills and his usual vices.
Luna and Lydia, desperate and furious, reported the theft.
The police tracked him down.
I watched the ensuing spectacle of their mutual betrayal with cold amusement.
Wesley asked why I didn't deliver the final blow.
I was genuinely puzzled.
"Don't you think prolonged suffering is far worse than a moment of pain?"
"Miles is just the start."
"Luna and Lydia will taste plenty more bitter fruit in time."
Wesley thought of the broken man in the sanatorium – the former Foster patriarch – and the terrified relatives awaiting my judgment.
He wisely chose silence.
The first snowfall of the year began, dusting the city in white.
I whistled a jaunty tune, my mood genuinely light.
I'd done it.
Just as I'd planned.
Everything was settled before the year's end.
