Chapter 3

Aimee POV:

At eight fifteen, the welcome gala officially began.

The lights dropped, and a few searing follow spots cut precisely into the center of the main stage.

Hank and Felicia walked Breann out between them, one on each arm, dressed to the nines. Easton and Clint flanked them like loyal guards, and the true bloodline stood at the center of it all, the way a constellation surrounds its brightest star.

Below the stage, the flashes of dozens of New York's top news outlets merged into a single white daylight, shutters crashing like a downpour.

"Distinguished guests, ladies and gentlemen." Felicia took the microphone with effortless grace, her face arranged in the flawless smile of a great lady, tears glinting at exactly the right corner of her eyes. "Eighteen years ago, an accident left the Whitfield family's true flesh and blood lost to the world. Today, God has finally returned our pearl to our arms."

Applause and murmurs of admiration rolled through the room.

Felicia turned, stroked the top of Breann's head with deep affection, then straightened, and her gaze swept over the packed tables and came to rest, faintly, on table twenty-four.

She took a red legal document from her assistant and held it high for every long lens in the room.

"As a responsible mother, and to set right what was wronged, I hereby declare, in my capacity as sole trustee, a major resolution of this family!"

The room held its breath.

"I have executed the final binding instrument. Effective immediately, the adopted daughter Aimee's distribution rights under her nineteenth-year trust are fully revoked!"

Felicia's voice rang out, sharp with the pleasure of passing sentence. "From this moment, every trust dividend and every property income formerly held in her name is transferred, in full and without compensation, to the true heir: Breann Whitfield!"

"As for Aimee—" Felicia's mouth curved coldly. "This family raised her for eighteen years and has done more than enough. From now on, she enjoys not one shred of Whitfield protection."

A gasp went through the room. The elite leaned into each other, eyes turning toward the dim back rows.

Breann nestled against Felicia, covering her face and weeping, while the corner of her mouth lifted in triumph inside the shadow.

But stripping me of my property was clearly not enough to satisfy their need to break the last bone in my spine.

Hank took the microphone from Felicia and stepped forward.

"So that all of New York may witness the magnanimity and decency of the Whitfield family," Hank's voice boomed through the hall, generous as a god granting alms to insects, "tonight we give Aimee one final chance to correct her mistakes."

Hank raised his arm and pointed a thick finger straight at table twenty-four beside the kitchen corridor.

"Now, let the adopted daughter Aimee come to the stage. In front of every camera here, she will read her welcome address and offer her sister sincere repentance and blessing."

The white follow spot overhead swung around instantly, like a cold scalpel, slicing through the darkness of the hall and pinning me, hard and merciless, to table twenty-four.

Guests around me drew back, afraid of catching whatever bad luck clung to me.

Every long lens, every contemptuous stare, every whispered remark turned in that instant into a tide of malice that closed over my head.

On stage, Hank looked down at me with the menace of a man who has never been contradicted. Clint stood at the edge of the platform, cold pressure in his eyes. Easton had his hands in his pockets, wearing the smirk of a man settling in to enjoy a show.

I sat in that blinding glare and rose slowly to my feet.

The hands of the watch on my wrist slid, without a sound, to eight twenty-eight.

Deep in my skull, the remote memory resonance anchor emitted a very faint hum, as though something cold were spreading quietly through the core of my soul.

I smoothed the hem of my dark suit, and beneath the slow dissection of a thousand eyes, I walked step by step toward the execution platform.