Chapter 1 - The Red Envelope in the Champagne Fountain
The heavy mahogany doors of the grand ballroom swung open, letting the crisp winter air collide with the scent of expensive perfume and roasted chestnuts. Sixty pairs of eyes, all belonging to high-society investors, corporate board members, and ruthless gossip columnists, turned toward me.
I didn't scurry to the shadows. I walked straight down the center aisle of the ballroom, my heels clicking rhythmically against the Italian marble.
Celeste and Grant rushed in right behind me, their faces flushed from the freezing terrace wind. Celeste immediately shifted her expression into a mask of maternal concern, though her eyes burned with pure malice.
"Oh, look, everyone! My lovely stepdaughter has decided to join the festivities," Celeste announced, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness as she tapped a crystal glass with a silver spoon. The room fell silent. "We all know how fragile she has been since her father passed, and now, losing dear Mother Beatrice... it’s been a lot. Let’s give her some space, shall we?"
A few older investors nodded sympathetically. They thought I was a broken orphan about to be gently escorted to a psychiatric facility.
"I don't need space, Celeste," I said, my voice echoing clearly through the microphone system near the band. "In fact, I think everyone here deserves a front-row seat to the final holiday gift Grandma Beatrice prepared for us."
Grant stepped forward, trying to grab my elbow. "Don't do this here," he hissed under his breath, his grip tightening. "You took the check. Sign the papers in the library and leave with your dignity."
"My dignity is perfectly intact, Grant. Yours, however, is about to become public property." I smoothly pulled my arm away and walked directly to the massive ice sculpture serving as a champagne fountain. Resting at the base of the ice structure was a stack of beautifully wrapped boxes covered in bright red paper and dark velvet ribbons.
Celeste laughed, a sharp, ringing sound that felt entirely performative. "Dearest, if you brought Christmas presents, you could have just left them under the tree. There's no need to interrupt the investors' presentation."
"These aren't ordinary gifts," I said, lifting the first box. I handed it directly to Arthur Pendelton, the senior chairman of the family enterprise and Grandma Beatrice’s most trusted advisor. "Open it, Arthur. Consider it a token of transparency."
Arthur looked confused but pulled the ribbon. As the lid came off, his expression hardened from curiosity to absolute shock. He didn't find chocolates or expensive watches. Inside was a neatly bound legal document bound in blue court paper: a fully processed, certified petition for absolute divorce based on marital fraud and severe infidelity, accompanied by color photographs of Grant and Celeste in a compromised position at a luxury resort three weeks prior.
"What is the meaning of this?" Arthur gasped, looking up from the papers to Grant, then to Celeste.
"Oh, there's more," I said, distributing the remaining red boxes to the principal board members. "Go ahead. Open them."
Laughter erupted from my throat—a clear, unburdened sound that caused Celeste’s smile to completely freeze. Within seconds, the entire room was filled with the rustle of paper and horrified gasps. The gossip columnists were already snapping photos of the documents.
"You crazy bitch!" Grant roared, abandoning his polished persona entirely. He lunged toward me, but two security guards—men I had personally hired and briefed an hour before the party—stepped in his path.
"Are you going to explain these photos, Grant? Or should we talk about the document resting inside the grand prize box?" I pointed toward the largest box sitting directly beneath the main portrait of Grandma Beatrice.
Celeste stepped forward, her face pale beneath her heavy makeup. "This is my house! You have no right to display this trash here. Guards, remove her immediately!"
May you like
The guards didn't move an inch. They stood like stone statues, facing Celeste.
"Actually, Celeste," a deep voice boomed from the back of the room. Mr. Harrison, Grandma Beatrice’s lifelong personal estate attorney, walked through the crowd holding a leather briefcase. "She has every right. Because as of three days ago, you don't own a single brick of this estate."
