Chapter 3 - The Exposed Feud
Downstairs, the sound of champagne flutes clinking and boisterous laughter carried up the spiral staircase.
Evelyn Miller was giving a toast to her triumphant family, boasting about how the "Miller legacy" was finally taking its rightful place at the top of the city's elite society.
Heavy footsteps mounted the stairs. Derek was coming back to check on his trophy bride.
I stood three feet from the bedroom door, completely calm, my hands folded smoothly in front of my dark tailored suit.
The brass handle turned. Derek pushed the door open, a smug, cruel smirk plastered across his face. He held a glass of bourbon in one hand, expecting to find me sobbing on the edge of the mattress.
When his eyes met mine, his smirk faltered.
"What are you doing standing there?" Derek sneered, stepping into the threshold. "Did you wash your face, little girl? Good. Now get back downstairs and apologize to my mother for making a scene."
I smiled softly. "I'm not going downstairs to apologize, Derek."
He frowned, taking an aggressive step forward. "Excuse me? You listen to me—"
Before he could finish his sentence, I reached out, grabbed his lapels, and shoved him backward with all my momentum. Derek lost his balance, stumbling over the heavy velvet ottoman behind him, and crashed onto the carpet, spilling dark bourbon across his shirt.
Before he could react, I backed out into the hallway, pulled the heavy oak door shut, and turned the exterior deadbolt key I had quietly taken from his desk two weeks ago.
Click.
"Hey! Open the door!" Derek roared, slamming his heavy fists against the solid oak wood. "Genevieve! Open this damn door!"
"You should have checked the lock before you used it, Derek," I called through the panel, my voice icy and calm. "Enjoy the quiet."
I turned on my heel and walked down the grand staircase toward the dining hall where twenty-two members of the Miller family sat enjoying their catered feast.
When I stepped into the archway, the room went completely silent. Evelyn Miller set her wine glass down, her sharp eyes narrowing in disgust as she noticed I had dressed in a pristine suit rather than crying in my room.
"Genevieve," Evelyn drawled, her voice dripping with poison. "Where is my son? And why aren't you serving the dessert?"
I pulled my phone from my pocket, tapped the screen, and connected directly to the mansion's sixty-inch smart display mounted above the marble fireplace.
The family dinner screen flickered, replacing their slideshow of wedding photos with a live federal banking audit ledger highlighting the forged $2.5 million transfer request—bearing Evelyn’s personal digital signature.
May you like
A collective gasp echoed across the table.
"That," I said, pointing directly at the glowing screen, "is wire fraud. And in roughly twenty minutes, the federal marshals will be here to discuss it with you, Evelyn."
