Chapter 1

The click of the lawyer’s pen was the loudest sound in the room. Final. Mom’s shoulders slumped. Dad, Richard, just stared straight ahead, a muscle twitching in his jaw. Then Sophia, my younger sister, burst into tears. Loud, theatrical sobs. “Daddy!” she wailed, rushing to him. “Don’t leave us! But if you have to… I’ll go with you.” She sniffled, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, looking like a tragic six-year-old martyr. “Emilia is older, she can take care of Mom. I’ll go with you, Daddy. I know… I know your new friend, Ms. Vanderbilt, she… she might need someone younger around. I’ll be good.” Ms. Vanderbilt. The New York society queen Richard had snagged. Sophia already knew the name. I just watched, silent. Because I remembered. Last time, Sophia had clung to Mom. She’d read Mom’s old diaries, discovered Grandma Eleanor was the matriarch of an East Coast financial dynasty. Sophia, desperate to be a debutante, a society princess, had sworn to “take care of Mom.” She hadn’t expected Mom to refuse any contact with Grandma, to work as a cleaner during the day and at a greasy diner at night to raise her. Sophia had hated the tiny, roach-infested apartment Mom rented near her school so she could walk. Hated that she couldn’t have new designer dresses every week. Her resentment festered. And me? I’d gone with Richard. He was a charming, well-known artist then, a darling of the gallery scene. He’d married into what he thought was money with Mom, but Grandma Eleanor saw right through him and cut Mom off. When that well ran dry, he found Isabella. Isabella, the ice queen of a fashion empire. Childless. Looking for an heir. Richard offered me up. I became the golden girl. Ivy League scholarship. National equestrian champion. Junior figure skating prodigy. All under Isabella’s relentless, crushing "guidance." Sophia had seethed with jealousy. When I came back to New York for an exhibition skate, she found me backstage, exhausted. She smiled, then stabbed me. Seven times. “Now it’s my turn, Emilia,” she’d whispered. Then darkness. Until I woke up. Here. Today. Divorce day. Again. Sophia, six years old, eyes shining with a cunning that didn’t belong on a child’s face. She looked right at me, a tiny, triumphant smirk playing on her lips. *This time, I win,* her eyes screamed. She had no idea. She was choosing a life far worse than any she could imagine with Mom. A life I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. Except, perhaps, her. I looked down, hiding the flicker of pure hatred in my own eyes. Richard was looking at Sophia, a strange expression on his face. He’d always preferred me. I was the overachiever, the one with more "potential." Sophia was pretty, but flighty. “Sophia, you want to come with me?” he asked, a hint of surprise in his voice. He thought I’d be the one to choose him. He knew Isabella’s team of "experts" had already vetted us. I was the prime candidate for her "heir project."