Chapter 3 - The Golden Sister's Arrival
The elevator ride was silent. Officer Vance stood to my left, his partner, Officer Diaz, stood to my right, both of them keeping their hands casually rested near their utility belts. The elevator didn't chime as it climbed; it simply hissed through the pressurized shaft, rocketing toward the forty-eighth floor.
When the double doors parted directly into the private foyer of Penthouse B, the sound hit me before the sight did.
Laughter. High, brittle, champagne-soaked laughter.
"Derek, honestly, if she doesn't use the Kelly bag, why does she even keep it in the dust cover? It’s completely selfish. Some people just hoard luxury because they don't have the bone structure to actually pull it off."
"Take it," Derek’s voice drifted from the primary suite down the polished travertine hall. "Take whatever you want, Suz. I told you, things are changing around here. She needs to understand who runs this household. A little splash of reality does wonders for a woman's attitude."
Officer Vance looked at me. His eyebrows rose slightly. I nodded toward the hallway.
We walked into the great room.
The space was breathtaking—or it had been, before my husband and his sister turned it into a staging ground for a garage sale.
Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the vast sweep of the Atlantic, casting pale, golden light across two white linen sofas. Suzanne was standing in the center of the room, wearing an emerald-green silk jumpsuit that she had charged to my Nordstrom account three months ago. She was holding two of my Hermès Birkin bags by their handles, swinging them back and forth like grocery sacks, while Derek stood by the kitchen island, a glass of chilled Pinot Grigio in his hand.
He had changed out of his work shirt. He was wearing his linen leisure pants, barefoot, perfectly relaxed.
The coffee mug he had thrown at my skull was sitting in the sink, unwashed.
"I think the ostrich leather goes better with my complexion," Suzanne was saying, turning toward the foyer mirror. "Don't you think, Der—"
She stopped.
The bags slipped three inches toward the floor, her manicured fingers catching them by the handles just before the corners hit the stone.
Derek turned around, an easy, condescending smirk already forming on his lips. "Skylar? Well, look who decided to come back and apologize. Did you—"
He saw the uniform.
Then he saw the second uniform.
Then, finally, his gaze traveled up from the floor to the thick, white medical dressing running from the hinge of my jaw down into the collar of the fresh navy-blue track jacket the hospital staff had given me.
The smirk didn't disappear immediately; it simply froze, like grease hardening in a cold pan.
"What is this?" Derek asked. He set his wine glass on the island. A tiny drop spilled over the rim onto the white quartz. "What did you do, Skylar?"
"Derek Vance?" Officer Vance stepped forward, clearing the distance between them in four measured, heavy strides.
"Yeah. Who are you? Why are you in my apartment?"
"Step away from the counter, sir. Place both hands behind your back."
Suzanne shrieked. It wasn't a sound of terror; it was a sound of high-society indignation, sharp and nasal. "Excuse me! What do you think you're doing? Do you know who my brother is? He’s a managing director at Vance-Creative! You can't just barge into a private residence without—"
"Ma'am," Officer Diaz said, her hand resting firmly on the clasp of her taser, "set the bags down on the floor and step away from the victim. Right now."
"The *victim*?" Suzanne’s eyes bugged out. She looked at me, her gaze raking over the bandage. "She had an accident! Derek told me! She knocked a mug over because she was being clumsy during an argument! Derek, tell them!"
Derek didn't speak. For the first time in the three years I had known him, the smooth, effortless confidence that had charmed me when we first met at a charity gala in Palm Beach vanished entirely. His skin turned the color of dirty skim milk.
"Skylar," Derek said, his voice dropping into that quiet, reasonable tone he always used when he was trying to convince me that gravity didn't exist. "Skylar, baby, don't do this. You're upset. I get it. It was an accident. The mug slipped. You know how slippery that ceramic gets when the steam rises. We don't need the police involved in our private marriage matters."
"You threw it," I said.
The great room seemed to suck all the air out of itself.
"I didn't," he lied smoothly, looking directly at Officer Vance. "She lunged at me. She was hysterical because my sister needed a short-term family loan. She grabbed my arm while I was drinking my coffee. The cup tipped. I tried to catch it. I burned my own wrist, see?"
He thrust his right arm forward.
There was nothing there except his platinum watch and a dusting of dark hair.
Officer Vance didn't even look at the wrist. "Mr. Vance, we have the forensic photographs from the trauma unit. We have the burn pattern analysis. Liquid thrown from an overhead arc does not pool on the clavicle from an upward grapple. Now turn around and put your hands behind your back before I add resisting without violence to your docket."
"Wait!" Suzanne lunged forward, trying to grab Derek's arm. "You can't arrest him in his own home! This is a multimillion-dollar penthouse! We have rights! Derek, call our lawyer! Call Peter!"
"He isn't being arrested in his home," a new voice said from the foyer.
Arthur Campbell walked into the room.
He looked immaculate. In his seventy-two-year-old eyes, there was no anger—only the terrifying, cold competence of a man who spent forty years destroying corporate predators for sport. Behind him stood two men in gray coveralls carrying commercial toolboxes, followed by Marcus, the head of building security.
"Arthur?" Derek blinked, his panic finally curdling into confusion. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"I am here representing the owner of Penthouse B," Arthur said mildly, pulling a slim leather folder from beneath his arm. "And as the managing trustee of the King Family Irrevocable Trust, I am serving you with an immediate notice of eviction, a formal revocation of residential license, and an absolute trespass warning for the entirety of the property known as 1000 Biscayne Boulevard."
Derek actually barked a laugh, though his voice cracked at the end. "You're senile, old man. This is my house. I live here. My name is on the doorbell!"
"Your name is on a piece of brass plastic outside a private elevator," Arthur replied, not even looking up as he opened the folder. "The deed is held by Biscayne Horizon Holdings. The trust purchased the unit on January 14, 2019. You married Skylar in October of 2021. You signed the post-nuptial schedule acknowledging that you hold zero equity, zero title, and zero tenancy protection in this unit."
Arthur looked at Marcus.
"Marcus, please inform Mr. Vance of the building board's emergency resolution."
Marcus, a burly retired marine who had never liked the way Derek spoke to the parking valets, stepped forward with his arms crossed over his chest. "As of twelve-fifteen today, sir, the board has revoked your guest privileges following a notification of violent domestic disturbance. Your fobs are dead. Your license plates have been removed from the automated gate system. If you return to this property after today, you will be arrested on sight for criminal trespass."
"No," Suzanne stammered, dropping the Birkin bags onto the floor as if they had suddenly caught fire. "No, that's impossible. Derek bought this place. He told me he closed on it right before the wedding! He told me—"
"Derek lied to you, Suzanne," I said, speaking clearly through the throbbing pain in my face. "Just like he lied to you about his marketing firm's revenue. Just like he lied to me when he promised he was a partner."
Officer Vance didn't wait for further conversation.
May you like
He took Derek's right wrist, twisted it behind his back with practiced, mechanical efficiency, and clicked the cold steel of the first cuff into place.
***
