Chapter 165: The Argument
"You're being too emotional," Ian said, pulling Monica away from the recruitment office.
"They insulted you! Those scumbags think they're better than everyone!" Monica raged, still shouting at the recruitment office from afar like a madwoman. Bystanders gave her a wide berth, watching from a distance and whispering to each other.
"Mind your damn business!" Monica snapped at the onlookers.
"They didn't really say anything that bad," Ian tried to calm her down.
He hadn't even made up his mind about enlisting. He'd just gone to ask a few questions. The recruiter was right—he was still too young.
Monica's explosive reaction confused Ian. But as he watched her fighting for him, raising hell at the recruitment center, a strange warmth welled up in his heart.
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"Monica took you to the recruitment office?!" Fiona jumped off the couch the moment she heard, eyes wide in shock. Her voice rose several octaves—like an enraged lioness.
"That crazy witch! What the hell was she thinking? Sending you to your death?! And you actually went with her? Do you have any idea what could've happened? You could've ended up dying at the hands of terrorists!" Fiona scolded, trembling with fury.
"I wasn't actually going to enlist—I just wanted to take a look," Ian explained.
"No. I have to talk to her. I won't let her keep endangering my child!" Fiona had had enough—she was ready to finally burn the bridge.
Until now, Fiona had held on to the last shred of respect for Monica. No matter how awful she was, Monica was still the children's biological mother.
So when Monica privately met with the kids, Fiona didn't interfere. She had no right to stop a mother from seeing her children.
But dragging Ian to the recruitment office? That crossed the line. Way over the line.
Fiona made up her mind—Monica would never be allowed near any of the kids again.
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Monica and Roberta lived nearby, and it didn't take long for Fiona to find them. The moment they met, all hell broke loose—an all-out shouting match erupted in the house.
Knock knock knock.
Debbie opened the door. A woman in a formal suit walked in behind her, looking around the house with cautious eyes. The sound of yelling from the other room made her grip her purse tighter, her knuckles white. She swallowed hard.
"Who the hell are you?" Fiona barked mid-argument, eyes snapping to the stranger. She was in no mood for politeness.
"I... I'm Brittany from Child Protective Services. We received a report and are here to conduct an evaluation," the woman said, voice shaking despite her effort to stay composed.
This wasn't a pleasant job. It never was. It might be easier assessing families in rich neighborhoods, but this was the South District slums—anything could happen. People here were desperate and unpredictable.
After all, her job was to tear families apart. If she determined the home was unfit, CPS would remove the children and place them with new families.
Sure, the mission was noble—ensuring every child had a safe and healthy environment—but that didn't change the fact that she was there to break up someone's home.
In the wrong household, she could get hurt. This was America—land of the free, home of legal firearms. One hysterical, drugged-up mother could do the unthinkable to protect her child.
And with the yelling already shaking the walls, Brittany was genuinely afraid that Fiona might just pull a gun on her.
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"A report?" Fiona froze at Brittany's words. She knew exactly what CPS did.
"You two..." Fiona turned slowly to glare at Monica and Roberta. Only they could've made the report.
Monica looked away, unable to meet her eyes. Roberta, on the other hand, smirked smugly.
"I'm sorry," Monica muttered, lowering her head.
Fiona trembled with rage. If she weren't terrified of Roberta—who had the build of a grizzly bear—she'd have lunged at Monica and clawed her face off.
"You did this, Monica!" Fiona shouted, voice shaking.
"Fuck!" Lip cursed under his breath.
Ian stared at Monica, disbelief written all over his face. He couldn't believe she'd stoop so low.
"Ian, I was trying to stop Roberta," Monica tried to explain.
Ian took two steps back. This was too much. She had gone too far.
---
Meanwhile, far away in New Mexico, Frank had no idea what chaos was unfolding back home.
"You two are all dressed up?" Frank asked as he stopped by Walter's place. He saw Walter ironing a shirt, a suit hanging nearby, and Skyler laying out an evening gown.
They weren't just doing laundry. Clearly, they had plans.
"Remember Elliott? He's throwing a birthday party. Sent us an invitation," Walter explained.
"Of course I remember," Frank nodded.
Walter's old college buddy—the one who claimed to be a platonic best friend but ended up stealing Walter's girlfriend and cuckolding him. They'd actually talked about him during a recent drinking session. Frank remembered vividly.
"But didn't you say you two haven't been in contact for years? Why the sudden invite?" Frank asked, puzzled.
"I don't know," Walter shook his head. "I didn't want to go, but Skyler insisted."
"She knows them well?" Frank asked.
"She's met them before, but not that well. She just said things have been so stressful lately, and she wants to relax a little," Walter replied.
Walter was already feeling suffocated—with his cancer diagnosis, Skyler's pregnancy, and the looming costs of treatment—there was a constant heaviness in the house.
When the invitation came, Skyler had been determined to go. Walter didn't want to argue over something so minor, so he relented.
"Elliott didn't know you were here, so he didn't invite you," Walter added.
"No big deal," Frank waved it off.
But as he watched Skyler from behind, a frown crept onto his face. Something didn't sit right.
He understood the desire to unwind. Walter's illness, the tension, the stress—it made sense.
But attending that guy's birthday party?
Elliott, who stole Walter's girlfriend and became a millionaire, while Walter was left struggling?
How could anyone relax at a party like that? Wouldn't it just be awkward, humiliating, and tense?
Imagine—your old best friend, now a rich tycoon, married to your ex, living in a mansion, driving sports cars, flashing designer watches, and eating lobster…
While you're over here calculating every dollar for a $10 takeout meal, praying for discounts and coupons.
How the hell is that relaxing? That's just salt in the wound. It's enough to push someone over the edge.
Frank didn't know exactly what was going on—but something about this whole situation felt off.
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