Chapter 2

Serena POV:

I looked down at the familiar face inside the Rolls-Royce. Raindrops slid down my cheeks, yet my chest warmed with a steadiness I hadn't felt in three years.

The rear door swung open. Winston Foster stepped out, opening a large black umbrella and angling it firmly over my head to block the freezing drizzle.

"Winston. How did you know I was here?"

My voice rasped as I looked at the chief butler of the Montgomery family, the man who had watched me grow up on our private estate.

Winston bowed slightly, his sharp eyes tightening at the sight of my rumpled dress.

"Lady Serena, the family's security network never left your side. Master Alistair has been counting the days until you ended this absurd marriage to that hockey player."

My lips twisted as Harrison's disgusted glare flashed through my mind. The warmth in my chest hardened into frost.

"Under the late patriarch's terms, your three years of living incognito as a charity orphan have expired," Winston said firmly. "You are required to return and take control of Angle Capital's sports empire immediately."

I took a half step back, my heel splashing in a shallow puddle on the pavement.

"I just signed divorce papers, Winston. Looking like this, I'm not ready to go back to the estate and face my brothers' questioning."

Winston didn't look surprised. He reached inside his tailored suit jacket, pulled out a gold-stamped black velvet box, and offered it to me with both hands.

"Master Alistair anticipated your refusal. He instructed me to return this to you at minimum. It is your unlimited black Centurion card. Furthermore, our intelligence team already investigated last night's gala. This silver encrypted flash drive contains the full hallway surveillance and financial records proving who bribed the waiter to spike your husband's drink. It is yours to handle."

Winston pressed the brass clasp. Against the dark velvet, the heavy metal black card and the silver USB drive gleamed under the gray sky.

I stared at the card that represented the supreme financial power of North America's top sports conglomerate. Drawing in a slow breath, I reached out and plucked both items from the box, gripping the cold metal between my fingers.

"Thank Alistair for me," I said, sliding the card and drive into my clutch. "Tell my brother I'll take over Angle Capital, but I'm doing it on my own terms."

Winston inclined his head.

"Master Alistair has already cleared the Chief Public Relations Director position at Angle Capital for you. Everything is at your disposal."

I declined Winston's offer to drive me, waited until the Rolls-Royce merged back into the wet traffic, and turned toward another five-star hotel at the end of the block.

Walking straight up to the front desk, I slapped the heavy metal black card onto the marble counter.

"Your top presidential suite."

The desk manager had been eyeing my wrinkled gown with a sneer, but the moment his eyes dropped to the engraved insignia on the black card, the color drained from his face. He bowed ninety degrees at the waist and scrambled to process the keycard.

Once inside the sprawling penthouse suite, I unzipped the evening gown that belonged to Harrison's meek little wife and dropped it straight into the trash bin.

I soaked in the oversized tub for a full hour, letting the scalding water scrub away Harrison's cold scent and the humiliation of the past three years.

Stepping out in a plush robe, I called Boston's most exclusive private styling agency and ordered them to bring this season's haute couture collection to my suite within the hour.

Sixty minutes later, a dozen assistants wheeled racks of designer garments into the living room, turning the space into a private showroom.

I sat before the vanity mirror while the lead colorist dyed my hair-which I had lightened to a dull ash-brown just because Harrison once mentioned he liked soft colors-back to the rich, dark chestnut of the Montgomery bloodline.

I selected a sharp, tailored black pantsuit paired with three-inch red-soled stilettos.

Standing up, I looked in the mirror. The woman staring back had cold blue eyes and the razor-sharp posture of a corporate predator. The submissive Mrs. Kensington was dead.

I picked up my phone from the glass table. A bank notification popped up confirming the six-figure styling charge, followed by an available balance with an endless string of zeroes.

Tossing the phone into a new black Birkin bag, I slipped on a pair of oversized sunglasses, pulled open the suite door, and walked down the hall.

Just as I reached the elevator bank, my phone rang with a shrill tone. Beatrice Kensington flashed across the screen.

Looking at the name of the mother-in-law who used to make my stomach churn with dread, I felt nothing at all. I swiped to answer.

"Serena, what kind of pathetic game are you playing? Harrison just called and said you left a divorce note on his desk!" Beatrice's shrill voice blasted through the speaker like machine-gun fire.

I didn't say a word, my heels clicking calmly against the floor as I stepped into the empty elevator cab.

"You think playing hard to get will make my son look twice at a penniless orphan like you? Get your ass back to the villa and apologize to Harrison right now, or I'll freeze every single supplementary credit card you have!"

A cold laugh escaped my throat as the elevator doors began to slide shut.

"Keep your pathetic credit cards, Beatrice. Use them to buy your son a burial plot."

I ended the call and watched the floor numbers descend toward the street level.