Chapter 4 - The Society's Rejection
Word travels fast in New York high society, but bad news travels at the speed of light. By mid-afternoon, the annual Autumn Charity Gala at the Plaza Hotel—an event Vivian Ashford had hosted for twelve consecutive years—was in absolute chaos.
Celeste Vale stood in front of the grand mirror in the VIP powder room, reapplying her red lipstick with a hand that wouldn't stop shaking. Her phone had buzzed forty-seven times in ten minutes. Every major designer who had previously begged her to wear their gowns had blocked her number. Her luxury apartment lease, co-signed by Grant, had just been terminated due to 'landlord default.'
“It’s fine,” Celeste whispered to her reflection, her voice frantic. “Grant will fix it. He’s an Ashford. The Ashfords always win.”
The heavy mahogany door of the powder room clicked open.
Celeste turned, expecting her society cronies. Instead, she saw me.
I was wearing a simple, breathtaking midnight-blue silk gown that hugged my frame, completely concealing the faint bruises on my shoulders. On my wrist, the diamond tennis bracelet caught the light, and on my arm hung my fourth brother, Lucas—a man whose face was regularly graced the cover of Forbes and GQ, and who happened to be the primary financial backer of half the philanthropic foundations in Manhattan.
Celeste’s eyes widened in sheer terror. “You... what are you doing here? This is a private event! Security!”
“Security?” Lucas chuckled, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. The heavy click of the lock echoed like a gunshot. “Celeste, sweetie, look around. The security guards downstairs were just escorted out by my private detail. You’re not dealing with a society tea party anymore.”
Celeste backed up against the marble sink, her chest heaving. “Grant will protect me! He loves me!”
I stepped closer to her, my heels clicking rhythmically against the floor. I stopped just a foot away, looking down at her with a chilling, serene calm.
“Grant is currently sitting in a holding cell at the Midtown precinct answering questions about corporate embezzlement, tax evasion, and wire fraud,” I said softly. “And you, Celeste? You signed your name as a co-conspirator on three shell companies used to siphon funds from my husband’s accounts. My brother Marcus has all the receipts.”
Celeste’s face turned ghostly white. “You... you framed us! You tricked us!”
“No,” I corrected her, my voice dropping an octave. “You walked right into a trap of your own greed. You thought I was a quiet little housewife you could step on while wearing your fake tears and stolen silk. But you forgot rule number one of New York: never steal from someone whose family built the foundations you're standing on.”
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Lucas stepped forward, holding out a thick manila envelope and dropping it right into the sink next to her cosmetics.
“That’s a civil lawsuit for thirty million dollars in damages, plus a criminal referral for fraud,” Lucas said smoothly. “You have twenty-four hours to leave the state of New York. If you ever breathe the same air as my sister again, I won't use lawyers. I’ll use gravity.”
