Blurb：
Madeline Hollis, widow of the revered Dr. Graham Hollis, is supposed to be the picture of Oakhaven suburbia—cardigans, Debussy, and quiet respectability. But when she’s caught dancing manically on a chrome G-Wagen in a viral TikTok performance, her son watches in horror as the monster beneath emerges. As the car’s owner—a young rental businessman facing his wedding day disaster—confronts her, Madeline’s "slow burn" persona ignites a public scandal. With references to Aethelgard University Medical Center and a twisted "bride price" demand, this psychological thriller explores how grief unravels a family’s legacy. Perfect for fans of domestic suspense and character-driven chaos.Content：
§01The chrome wrap of the G-Wagen was blinding under the afternoon sun, a gaudy mirror reflecting the horrified faces of the crowd below.
And on its roof, my mother, Madeline Hollis, was dancing.
Not with grace, but with a terrifying, manic glee, her cheap heels digging into half a million dollars of German engineering like she was crushing cigarette butts on a dirty sidewalk.
She wore a slip dress that was more suited for a bedroom than a public street in Oakhaven, our quiet, respectable suburb.
Her makeup was a disaster—smoky eyes smudged into raccoon-like circles, foundation caked on like plaster, and lipstick the color of blood smeared far beyond the lines of her lips.
A garish silk scarf was tied around her hair, fluttering in the wind like a surrender flag from a lost war.
This wasn't my mother.
My mother was the woman who wore understated cardigans, who spent her weekends in the garden, whose greatest public performance was playing Debussy on the piano at our annual Christmas party.
My mother was the widow of Dr. Graham Hollis, a man so respected that Aethelgard University Medical Center had named a wing after him following his tragic death a year ago.
This creature on the roof of a ridiculously expensive car, she was a stranger.
A monster.
The car’s owner, a young guy who looked maybe a few years older than me, finally pushed his way through the jeering crowd.
He was pale, his hands shaking.
“Get down from there! The paint! The paint!” he yelled, his voice cracking.
My mother paused her grotesque dance, peering down at him with a condescending smile.
“And who are you to tell me what to do?” she slurred, though I knew she hadn't had a drink in years.
It was all an act.
It had to be.
The owner fumbled for his keys, holding them up as proof.
“This is my car! Please, just get down!”
My mother’s face twisted into a mask of theatrical betrayal.
She stomped her heel into the hood, hard, leaving a sickening dimple in the chrome.
“Don’t you yell at me!” she shrieked, pointing an accusatory finger.
“Can’t you see I’m using this? It’s not like I wasn’t going to give it back.”
The owner looked like he was about to have a stroke.
He pleaded, his voice now a desperate whisper.
“Please, ma’am. Just get down. We can talk about this.”
My mother, however, was not done with her performance.
She launched into another round of some viral TikTok dance, her movements jerky and unsettling.
She held the crowd captive for another agonizing minute before finally, dramatically, lowering herself off the car.
She grabbed her phone from the makeshift tripod she’d set up on the sidewalk and started to walk away.
The owner scrambled to block her path.
“Ma’am, you’ve damaged the hood. The paint is completely ruined.”
My mother batted her eyelashes at him, a grotesque parody of flirtation.
“Is this your way of asking for my number? I should warn you, I’m a slow burn.”
The poor guy’s face was turning purple.
“This is my wedding car! I need it for tomorrow! You’ve ruined it! You have to pay for the damages!”
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