Chapter 3
At exactly 11:45 AM, the luxury condo on Lake Shore Drive was packed to absolute capacity.
Thirty of Chicago’s most pretentious upper-crust socialites stood around the sprawling marble living room, holding crystal flutes of vintage champagne and murmuring gossiping whispers about Fiona’s grand sixtieth jubilee.
Fiona sat regally on the imported Italian leather sofa, draped in genuine mink furs despite the autumn breeze, wearing an expression of supreme, toxic vanity. Her face was caked in expensive makeup, paid for by the salary I earned while she sat at home writing passive-aggressive Yelp reviews about local coffee shops.
Julian stood beside her, sweating profusely through his custom-tailored Tom Ford suit, repeatedly checking his Rolex with mounting panic.
“Where in the hell is Sloan?” Julian hissed under his breath, his eyes darting toward the front door as he cornered his mother near the fireplace. “She left at six-thirty this morning to get specialty ingredients. She isn’t answering her phone, her cards are locked out, and there’s nothing in the kitchen except a box of generic saltines!”
Fiona’s face hardened into a bitter, venomous scowl. Her diamond-encrusted rings clicked sharply against her champagne flute.
“I told you that ungrateful little peasant couldn’t handle a simple task!” Fiona snapped loudly enough for several nearby socialites to turn their heads. “She’s probably running away because she’s too lazy and incompetent to cook for my special day! When she walks back through that door, I want you to strip her of her keys, throw her bags into the street, and call the police for theft of marital property!”
Before Julian could reply, the heavy oak front door clicked.
The loud, metallic sound of the deadbolt sliding open echoed through the dead silence of the entire room. Every single head snapped toward the entryway.
Julian’s face lit up with vicious, triumphant vindication. He strode forward, rolling up his sleeves, ready to unleash a torrent of physical and verbal abuse in front of his mother's elite friends.
“You miserable, worthless—” Julian roared, throwing the door wide open.
He stopped dead in his tracks. The words completely evaporated in his throat. His jaw dropped so low it nearly hit the floor, and his complexion instantly turned the sickly, chalky color of spoiled milk.
Standing in the doorway wasn't Sloan, the exhausted, broken servant wife he had locked in the kitchen just hours ago.
Standing there was Sloan, dressed in an immaculate, razor-sharp crimson Chanel suit, flanked by two towering, broad-shouldered private security guards in full tactical gear, and right behind them—carrying a massive stack of official, red-ribboned legal documents—was Darcy, looking like an angel of death holding a scythe.
May you like
Behind Darcy stepped three camera crews from major Chicago news networks, carrying high-definition broadcast equipment with blazing red recording lights.
“Happy Sixtieth Birthday, Fiona,” I said, my voice cutting through the stunned silence of the room like a cold steel blade. “I brought the feast.”
