I turned my back on the immense and imposing facade of the Washington estate. I didn’t look back as I walked in the rain along the long, winding driveway, leaving my clothes ruined in the mud and not letting them see my last solitary tear.

Chapter 2: The Royal Facade

Six months passed.

To the Washington family, and to the elite social circles I courted so aggressively, Audrey Washington was a ghost. They assumed I had vanished into thin air, dragging myself back to whatever cramped, working-class apartment I’d left before Terrence, heir to the vast Washington Shipping Empire, supposedly lost his mind and married a pediatric nurse.

They continued living exactly as they always had. They threw lavish parties, bought new luxury cars, and flaunted their wealth, financed entirely from the corporate coffers of the family business. They believed that the robust prenuptial agreement they had made me sign—a document drafted by Howard, my father-in-law, designed to leave me penniless—had perfectly protected their hold on the family fortune after Terrence’s death.

They didn’t know that, for the past twenty-four weeks, every Tuesday morning, I hadn’t been working in a hospital. I’d been sitting in the sleek, glass-walled conference room of Vance & Associates, the most ruthless and prestigious corporate law firm on the East Coast, silently and methodically reviewing every financial statement, offshore account, and cargo manifest owned by the Washington Empire.

The time for mourning was over. The time for execution had arrived.

It was a cool Friday night in late autumn. The entrance to the Grand Plaza Hotel, in midtown Manhattan, was a chaotic symphony of wealth and vanity.

Flashes exploded incessantly as a legion of paparazzi crowded behind the velvet ropes. That night was the Washington Foundation’s annual benefit gala. It was a highly publicized and incredibly expensive event, designed not to help those in need, but to inflate the family’s public image and artificially inflate the price of Washington Shipping’s stock before a disastrous quarterly report that Howard was desperately trying to hide.

Howard Washington, my father-in-law, stood at the top of the red carpet. He was a tall, imposing man with silver hair and a tailored tuxedo, radiating the power of old money. He smiled broadly, shaking hands with a state senator and a group of key institutional investors, perfectly playing the role of a benevolent patriarch.

A midnight black Maybach glided smoothly to the curb, its heavily tinted windows reflecting the chaotic flashes of cameras. The mere presence of the vehicle, far more exclusive than the standard limousines dropping off the other guests, immediately drew the attention of every camera and reporter.

A uniformed driver got out, walked around the back, and opened the door.

I went down.

I wasn’t wearing the practical, worn canvas shoes or the cheap cardigans they remembered. My foot, encased in a towering, stiletto Christian Louboutin heel, touched the red carpet.

I wore a custom-made emerald green silk dress that hugged my figure perfectly and draped gracefully behind me. The color made the fire in my eyes stand out. Resting on my collarbone was a flawless diamond necklace, valued at several million dollars, a jewel that had been kept in the Washington family vault for three generations.

She was no longer the frightened, grieving nursing student who had been thrown into the mud. She was the embodiment of absolute and terrifying power.

As I walked down the red carpet, the photographers went wild, shouting at me to look at them. But as soon as I stepped through the heavy brass doors and into the enormous, gleaming ballroom, another sound took over.

Silence.

The ambient murmur of hundreds of elite guests, the clinking of champagne glasses, the soft background jazz… it all died suddenly and abruptly when people turned to look.

Near the center of the room, holding a crystal glass of vintage champagne, stood Eleanor.

When her eyes met mine, she shuddered. The glass slipped a fraction of an inch from her hand, the expensive liquid swirling dangerously close to the rim. Her perfectly Botoxed face hardened in a mixture of profound confusion and immediate, visceral indignation.

Beside her, Chloe dropped the canapé she was holding.

Eleanor didn’t hesitate. She handed her glass to a passing waiter and advanced towards me with long, furious, aggressive strides, her heels echoing on the polished marble like a burst of gunfire.

“What the hell are you doing here, Audrey?” Eleanor hissed through her perfectly coated teeth. She stopped inches from my face, desperately trying to keep her voice low so as not to disturb the wealthy donors watching us. “Who did you scam to buy that dress? Did you steal that necklace? Get out of here before I have you arrested!”