Chapter 3

Triple‑deadbolts of the penthouse clicked shut with solid mechanical thuds.

Jennie tossed her damp cashmere wrap onto the foyer floor, kicked off her Jimmy Choo stilettos, and walked bare‑foot across dark herringbone walnut planks. The four‑thousand‑square‑foot residence overlooking the reservoir lay in total silence.

She headed straight for the master bathroom, twisted the brass tap for scalding hot rainfall shower. Thick white steam swallowed the glass panel in seconds.

She unzipped her velvet gown and let it pool at her ankles. The misted mirror reflected her pale, deceptive silhouette. Beneath the fragile appearance lay a body forged through years of extreme training: ballroom poise, Krav‑Maga drills, and brutal stamina honed in illegal high‑speed street races.

She stepped under the scorching spray and closed her eyes, letting hot water wash away every trace of cheap club perfume.

The prophetic nightmare clawed its way back into her consciousness.

Thirty days of recurring torment: harsh fluorescent glare, stench of industrial bleach and rotting leaves, cold leather restraints on a psychiatric clinic bed outside Providence.

In the vision, Byron loomed over her, handsome features twisted into a vicious sneer while signing involuntary commitment papers. Beside him stood Krystal, clutching the Turner family‑crest ring, wearing the exact diamond necklace Arden had gifted Jennie for her eighteenth birthday.

"You never belonged here, Jennie," Krystal had hissed with venomous triumph. "You are a nameless orphan who stole my life for twenty‑two years. Now sleep."

Then came the icy syringe. Paralysis creeping into her lungs, suffocating agony as her heart ground to a halt in darkness.

Jennie snapped her eyes open. Her breathing stayed steady and cold through her nostrils.

"Never," she whispered into steam.

She stepped out, wrapped herself in an oversized white terry‑cloth robe, dried her hair half‑way and walked into the study.

She approached floor‑to‑ceiling bookcases and pressed her thumb to a hidden biometric scanner carved into oak trim. A narrow steel panel swung open revealing a safe: an air‑gapped military‑grade laptop, three satellite phones and a stack of black titanium offshore banking cards.

She booted the machine and typed her twenty‑four‑character alphanumeric passcode. Complex corporate hierarchy diagrams lit her face in cool blue glow.

Four shell entities registered in Grand Cayman routed funds through nominee trusts in Zurich and Vaduz.

Over three years, Jennie had secretly intercepted her late father's independent offshore liquid trusts. The Cannons believed Jennie was a clueless socialite begging her fiancé for pocket change. In truth, she had channeled nearly forty million dollars in unsecured mezzanine bridge loans into Cannon Capital during their sub‑prime liquidity crunch.

On paper Byron was managing director and principal voting shareholder.

In reality, buried within hundreds of pages of offshore debt covenants, cross‑default clauses and pledged voting proxies gave Jennie 49 % effective voting control. She was their second‑largest shareholder, holding a financial guillotine suspended over Byron's neck.

One phone call could trigger margin calls and liquidate the Cannon empire inside twenty‑four hours.

Not yet, she thought coldly. A clean financial death was too merciful for Byron. He ought to lose status, pride and his precious freedom.

A red notification pulsed on her encrypted screen, an update from the medical director of the private Zurich clinic handling Gottlieb's cognitive therapy. The report was grim: Gottlieb's neural degeneration accelerated rapidly. The sole compound capable of stabilizing his memory receptors was an experimental neuropeptide still in FDA Phase‑III trials.

The exclusive global patents and manufacturing distribution rights belonged entirely to a biotech subsidiary under Sears Global.

Antone held her grandfather's life in his hands.

Jennie closed the offshore terminal and opened a dark‑web encrypted chat, entering a burner passphrase.

An anonymous Long‑Island‑based handle replied instantly:

[Black Ford GT prepped. Twin‑turbo supercharger tuned to 850 hp. Clean plates installed. Staged inside South Fork barn.]

Jennie typed back:

[Leave keys inside wheel well. Do not ping this address again.]

She shut down the system, snapped the temporary SIM card in half and dropped fragments into a glass of acidic solvent until the micro‑chip dissolved into slag.

She checked her personal iPhone resting on the nightstand. Seventeen missed calls, all from Byron.

Latest text sent twenty minutes prior:

Jennie, what the hell is wrong with you? Donita called me crying saying your boutique refused her entry. She is coming out to the Long Island estate tomorrow morning to collect that custom Chanel gown for the Met Gala preview. Hand it over without causing drama. Do not embarrass me again.

Jennie stared at the display, a slow breathtaking smile tugging her lips.

She tapped out her reply:

Of course, Byron. I will arrive at the estate by nine. Tell Donita she may take whatever pleases her, as long as it makes you happy.

She laid the phone face‑down, blew out the lavender bedside candle and slipped under Egyptian‑cotton sheets.

Tomorrow morning, Byron's arrogant sister would become the chisel to crack the Cannon family foundation wide open.