Unraveled

Chapter 4: The Witch of Wall Street v. The Salem Seven

Agatha despised being late. Every minute she wasn't in the office felt like she was losing ground, like the day was slipping from her grip before it even started. She didn't just want to keep up—she wanted to conquer each day, crush it beneath her heel. But today had been different. Today, she'd woken up with Nicky wrapped around her, clinging to her as if holding on tightly enough would make her stay.

His little arms, wrapped like a boa constrictor around her waist, squeezed with all the love and desperation a five-year-old could muster. And the moment she felt his grip, she knew it was going to be one of those mornings.

It had been a battle from the start: first, a meltdown over a pair of socks that didn't fit just right, then she didn't cut his toast the way he liked, which led to a complete refusal to ride with the driver to school. Every moment felt like she was dragging him out of quicksand, and through it all, she could feel the weight of his frustration. But she couldn't blame him. He was his mother's son—he had the same flair for dramatics, the same spiral when things slipped out of his control, and the same intensity, burning with the heat of a thousand suns.

He was, in many ways, her recompense for how she had acted all her life. Every tantrum, every stubborn refusal, felt like a mirror reflecting her own relentless need for control. And now, at five years old, Nicky had the same fire, the same relentless energy. Yesterday she had missed dinner and bedtime—big moments in his little world. He didn't understand why his mother couldn't be there. He just knew she wasn't.

So, when he lashed out, she let him.

It was familiar—deserved.

In the end, she just gave in. Afterall, it was his last day with her before he went to his fathers for the week.

So, she let him ride with her, even though it meant going in the opposite direction of the office. She sat in the back, scrolling through her phone, reading emails, pretending not to notice him still sulking next to her. Her time was ticking away, the demands of work looming closer, but she didn't mind.

Not today.

Beside her, Nicky was fiddling with something—probably one of the files she had tossed into her bag last minute. She was used to him doodling on her documents, often using them as makeshift canvases while she worked. Once, he'd drawn over a contract and when she brought it back to the associate who wrote it covered in crayon, she pointed out the "mistakes" her son had marked, just to remind them to stay humble.

"She's pretty," Nicky said, his small voice cutting through the quiet of the car.

Agatha's eyes snapped up from her phone, her brow furrowing in confusion as she looked ahead, out the window.

"Who is pretty?"

She didn't see anything, so she looked down at him and her stomach dropped when she saw what he was holding—Rio Vidal's personal file. Open. Her son's tiny fingers were tracing the edges of Rio's photo, his innocent eyes studying the image intently.

Agatha's heart skipped a beat, an unexpected surge of emotion hitting her as she tried to process the sight of Nicky holding Rio's file. How did he—?

"Who is she?" he asked, his little voice curious, blue eyes—just like hers—staring up at her expectantly.

Agatha rarely found herself speechless, but now, with her son's innocent question hanging in the air, she struggled to find the right words. Her mind raced. Who is she?

"She is—" Agatha hesitated, searching for an answer that wouldn't betray the truth. She couldn't very well tell her son that this woman was her newest challenge, her latest game—someone she intended to crush under the weight of impossible expectations. That kind of cruelty didn't fit in a world where her son was watching.