Chapter 4

If you want to kill a queen— you don’t strike in the shadows. You wait until the ballroom lights are brightest. And tonight? Veronica was glowing. The charity gala she co-hosted every year had always been her throne room. Diamonds around her neck, fake tears in her eyes, cameras clicking like applause. A widow. A survivor. A benefactor. Bitch. I arrived thirty-five minutes late. Luca beside me in an all-black suit, tailored within an inch of his life. His hand at the small of my back as we entered—not possessive, but grounding. “Ready?” he murmured near my ear. “I was born for this,” I whispered back. The room turned. Heads swiveled. Gasps fell like pearls on marble. Because the girl they thought had disappeared… Just walked in wearing blood-red silk, a billion-dollar last name, and a smile sharp enough to slice a throat. I caught Veronica mid-laugh. Her expression froze. Slowly, she set down her champagne flute. “Well, well,” she said, voice sugary and venom-laced. “Look what the storm dragged back.” I leaned in, lips an inch from hers. “No storm, Veronica,” I purred. “I am the weather.” We mingled. Toasted. Danced around each other like knives in a velvet box. But I waited. Waited until her latest PR puppet—a minor celebrity with too-white teeth—asked her to say a few words about Richard Voss’s legacy. Perfect. She stepped up to the podium, dress shimmering under the lights, tears cued and blinking. “My husband believed in integrity,” she began. “In loyalty. In giving second chances to people who deserved—” I stood. Loudly. All eyes turned. “Sorry to interrupt,” I said, voice ringing clear. “But I think the crowd deserves the full version of that legacy.” Veronica went pale. Luca moved behind me. Silent. Solid. “Go ahead,” I said sweetly. “Tell them how my father died the same week you tried to have me committed.” Gasps. One woman dropped her wine glass. Veronica laughed, brittle and sharp. “Lyla, darling, I know grief affects people differently, but let’s not embarrass ourselves—” “Oh, I’m not grieving,” I said, stepping forward. “I’m inheriting.” Murmurs spread like fire. And then I pulled the ace from my clutch: A printed copy of the forensic audit Luca had completed. Tracing funds from her charity… directly into her private account in the Cayman Islands. “Oops,” I said. “Must’ve slipped past your accountant.” Veronica reached for the mic. I beat her to it. “By the way, you may want to update the donor list,” I added. “Because starting tonight, Voss International won’t be funding thieves.” Mic drop. Literal. I walked off the stage as security moved in. Luca’s arm found my waist again as he leaned close, breath hot at my temple. “You’re terrifying when you smile like that.” “Still want to work for me?” He smirked. “Now more than ever.” And from across the ballroom, Veronica’s glare promised war. Too late. The war already started. And I don’t lose anymore.