Chapter 1 - The Kitchen Floor
The shards of crystal caught the cold light of the recessed kitchen ceiling, scattering tiny prisms across the imported Italian marble. I didn’t move immediately. I stayed crouched on the floor, the blood humming faintly in my ears, while Claudia’s sharp heels clicked away toward the foyer, her displeasure radiating like a physical chill.
Weston didn’t bend down to help me. He slipped his smartphone into his breast pocket, the smooth wool of his bespoke tuxedo straining slightly as he adjusted his cuffs.
“You heard my mother, Elowen,” Weston said, his voice stripped of any warmth we might have shared when we exchanged vows in a quiet registry office eight years ago, back before his father’s death, before the startup boom, before the Prescott name became synonymous with ruthless corporate acquisitions. “She’s right. Tonight isn't a family gathering. It’s the Centennial Gala for Meridian Heritage. The board, the institutional investors, the entire city’s financial aristocracy—they’ll all be there. You simply don't fit the room.”
“I’m your wife,” I said quietly, rising to my feet. I left the broken glass where it lay. Let the maid clean it. Let the house manager deal with the mess. For eight years, I had picked up every piece of literal and metaphorical debris in this house. No more. “We are listed together on the invitation.”
Weston laughed. It was a short, dry sound that lacked any humor.
“That was a formality, Elowen. A courtesy invitation sent out by the PR team. My date for tonight is Vanessa Sterling.”
The name landed like a physical blow, though I had suspected it for months. Vanessa Sterling, the daughter of Sterling Logistics, the shipping giant whose partnership Weston desperately needed to secure the upcoming municipal transport contract. Vanessa, who wore diamond tennis bracelets like casual accessories and spoke fluent French and German, who laughed at all of Weston’s boardroom jokes.
“Vanessa Sterling,” I repeated, testing the syllables on my tongue.
“She understands the stakes,” Weston said, turning toward the heavy oak front door where Claudia was already waiting, draped in vintage mink. “She belongs in that environment. You belong here. Wash the dishes, finish up the kitchen, and go to bed. Don't wait up.”
The heavy oak door clicked shut. The deadbolt slid into place with a definitive, metallic thud.
For a long moment, the kitchen was dead silent except for the low hum of the Sub-Zero refrigerator. I looked down at my hands. They were unadorned except for a simple platinum band—the one Weston had bought us when we were eating ramen on milk crates in a tiny apartment in Brooklyn, before he forgot what hunger felt like.
I reached up and pulled the pin from my hair, letting the dark strands fall loose around my shoulders. Then, I walked past the dining room table—where the untouched salmon sat cooling under silver domes—and picked up my encrypted burner phone from the charger on the pantry counter.
May you like
The screen blinked to life. A single notification flashed from my chief of operations at Veritas Capital: All assets are in position, Madam Chairwoman. The board is ready when you are.
I typed a single word back: Execute.
