Chapter 3

Serena POV:

Stepping out of the hotel lobby into the crisp afternoon breeze, I bought an iced Americano from a boutique cafe on Newbury Street. My phone buzzed in my palm with an encrypted message forwarded by Winston: the family board had issued an ultimatum, threatening to revoke all sponsorship funding from the Kensington hockey franchise today unless I formally signed the executive takeover contract as Angle Capital's PR Director. I gripped the cold plastic cup, the hem of my black couture blazer snapping in the autumn wind.

As my heels hit the red-brick sidewalk of Newbury Street, a silver Maybach pulled up to the curb ahead. Beatrice stepped out, lifting her chin as she headed toward the Hermès flagship store.

Her eyes swept past me, then jerked back. Her haughty expression froze as she took in my bespoke suit and the limited-edition Birkin hanging from my forearm.

She marched straight toward me in her pointed heels, blocking the sidewalk, and glared down her nose with bright red lips pressed thin.

"Serena? You actually have the nerve to parade down Newbury Street wearing clothes you probably conned some old man into buying?"

Her loud, screeching voice immediately drew the attention of passersby near the boutique entrance.

I stopped walking, took a slow sip of my iced coffee, and looked at my former mother-in-law through my dark lenses without saying a word.

My silence made the vein in her forehead throb. Beatrice raised a manicured hand and pointed a trembling finger right at my nose.

"You ungrateful charity case! Harrison took you in off the streets when you had nothing, and you dare use divorce to threaten him?"

Three wealthy women standing by the boutique windows recognized Beatrice. They huddled together, whispering behind their hands and casting disgusted looks at me as if I were trash swept out of a mansion.

"March back to the villa and get on your knees to beg Harrison's forgiveness!" Beatrice barked, puffing up her chest as the crowd grew. "Otherwise, I'll make sure you can't even get a job washing dishes in Boston!"

I slid my sunglasses off with one hand, exposing my cold blue eyes. My lips curved as I took a single step into her personal space.

"Get on my knees?" I kept my voice low, yet every word carried clearly to the sidewalk crowd. "Beatrice, did you forget whose anonymous capital injection plugged the thirty-million-dollar hole in the Kensington family's cash flow last December?"

Beatrice's face stiffened. Panic flickered across her eyes as the surrounding socialites gasped and leaned in closer, hungry for the scandal.

"What nonsense are you spouting! Security! Throw this crazy woman off the street!" Beatrice shrieked, waving wildly at the uniformed guards posted outside the Hermès glass doors.

Two burly guards stepped forward hesitantly, preparing to block me. Before they could speak, I reached into my Birkin and pulled out the heavy black Centurion card.

Holding the metal card between two fingers, I extended it toward the store manager who had just rushed out to the entrance.

"Clear the floor. I'm buying every new-season piece in this store today. And as for her-"

I raised my free hand and pointed straight at Beatrice's pale face.

"Put her on your permanent global blacklist. I never want to see her set foot in this brand's stores again."

The store manager caught sight of the black card's private serial code and sucked in a sharp breath. She immediately bowed low at the waist.

"Right away, Madam."

With a sharp wave of the manager's hand, the two security guards pivoted on their heels and stepped directly in front of Beatrice, extending their arms toward the curb.

"Are you out of your minds? I am Mrs. Kensington! How dare you touch me!" Beatrice screamed, swinging her handbag at the nearest guard's chest.

The guards didn't flinch. They grabbed her by both elbows and marched her forcefully off the boutique's entrance steps, dumping her onto the brick sidewalk while shoppers pulled out their phones to stare.

I stood at the top of the granite steps, looking down at Beatrice sprawled on the bricks with her hair falling out of its pins.

"Remember how you look right now, Beatrice."

I turned my back on her screaming and walked through the glass doors, flanked by bowing sales associates who led me straight into the private VIP lounge.

Sinking into a velvet sofa, I ignored the leather-bound catalogs the manager placed on the table. Cleaning out a store was just warm-up.

My phone vibrated. I tapped the screen to open the encrypted employment contract from Winston for the Chief Public Relations Director post at Angle Capital.

Scanning the terms, I took the stylus and signed Serena Montgomery across the digital signature line-the real name I had buried for three years.

A chime confirmed the file transfer. The sponsorship revocation was temporarily stayed under my authority, placing the Kensington hockey empire's lifeline squarely in my palm.

I stood up, handed the black card to the manager to run the tab without bothering to have the clothes packed, and walked out the front doors.

The silver Maybach was already gone. I breathed in the cool afternoon air, stepped to the curb, and raised my hand to hail a yellow cab.

Sliding into the back seat, I gave the driver the address of the Kensington villa in Beacon Hill. There was one last item inside that house-a vintage sapphire necklace my late mother left me-and I wasn't leaving it in that filthy place for another night.