Chapter 1 - The Toast on the TerraceThe crisp autumn wind swept off the mirror-like surface of the lake, carrying with it the effervescent scent of chilled Dom Pérignon and the hollow, echoing laughter of people who believed they had won the game of life.
From my perch inside the sleek, black-tinted Lincoln Navigator parked three hundred yards down the winding private drive, I watched the glittering lights of the estate flicker through the ancient oak trees. The grand terrace—the very place where Cordelia had sneered at me during our wedding reception three years ago—was now bathed in amber fairy lights. Rich men in tailored Italian suits and women draped in diamonds mingled near the infinity pool, raising their flutes to toast the new master of the house: my ex-husband, Flynn.
Two weeks.
It had been precisely fourteen days since Cordelia had shoved me down those fourteen hardwood stairs, shattering my tibia and fracturing my collarbone. Fourteen days since Flynn had stepped over my bleeding, broken body on the cold marble foyer, picked up the property deed like a trophy hunter inspecting a kill, and walked away without a single shred of remorse.
They thought they had outsmarted me.
They thought my signature on the expedited transfer agreement was the pathetic, whimpering surrender of a defeated woman who had lost her family, her home, and her dignity. Cordelia had spent the last fortnight hosting high-society brunches, bragging to her country club cronies about how she had “finally purged the dead weight from the family bloodline” and secured the five-million-dollar lake house for her son’s impending remarriage to a tech heiress.
Let them celebrate. Let them drink the expensive champagne. Let them bask in the warm, blinding glow of a victory built entirely on sand.
Because beneath the manicured lawns, behind the massive mahogany library walls, and locked deep within the structural foundation of the estate lay a legacy my grandfather, industrialist and reclusive billionaire Harrison Vance, had spent twenty years engineering.
My phone buzzed softly on the passenger seat. It was a text message from Phoebe, my grandfather’s estate attorney and the only person in the world who knew the true horror of what Flynn had just accepted.
“The transfer deed has cleared county records, Sloan,” Phoebe wrote. “His signature is fully authenticated and legally binding. The trap is officially armed. Are you sure you want to go through with this?”
I looked down at my right leg, encased in a hard black orthopedic cast, resting awkwardly on the floor mats. A slow, cold smile curved the corners of my mouth.
May you like
“I’ve never been surer of anything in my life,” I whispered to the empty car.
I turned the ignition, shifted into gear, and gently pressed down on the gas pedal. It was time to pay my ex-husband a little housewarming visit.
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