The gallery opening buzzed with Manhattan's elite, champagne flutes clinking against the backdrop of abstract sculptures that probably cost more than most people's homes. I adjusted my oversized sunglasses, scanning the crowd from my position near a particularly grotesque piece that reminded me of Atlas's ego. That's when I felt someone watching me.

A young woman in a sleek black dress stood twenty feet away, her dark hair pulled into a tight knot, her eyes—God, her eyes were Atlas's. But the expression in them wasn't his. Where Atlas looked at the world like he owned it, this girl looked at it like she was plotting its demolition.

She approached with deliberate steps, her heels clicking against the marble floor. Up close, I could see the tension in her jaw, the careful way she held her shoulders. She'd learned to carry herself like someone who expected to be attacked.

'I know who you are,' she said without preamble, her voice low enough that only I could hear. 'I've seen the photos in my father's study. The ones he keeps locked in his desk.' She paused, studying my face. 'You're Celine Taylor. The woman my stepmother murdered.'

I didn't flinch. Didn't deny it. Something about her directness made lying seem pointless.

'Mia,' she said, extending her hand. 'Mia Henderson. Atlas's daughter from his first marriage.'

I took her hand. Her grip was firm, confident. 'I know who you are too.'

A ghost of a smile touched her lips. 'Then you know I hate her. Reign. My father's perfect, poisonous wife.' The words came out sharp, practiced. 'She's been suffocating me for years, pretending to care while she tries to erase every trace of my mother from the house.'

We moved to a quiet corner of the gallery, away from the crowd. Mia's voice dropped even lower. 'I've been waiting for someone to come along and expose her. I just never thought it would be you.'

'Why?' I asked. 'Why would you help me?'

She looked at me like I'd asked something obvious. 'Because you're the only person who ever seemed real around here. Before the fire, I mean. I used to see you at family events. You were kind to the staff. You remembered their names.' Her expression hardened. 'Reign calls them 'the help' and looks through them like they're furniture.'

Over the next hour, Mia painted me a picture of the Henderson household. Security schedules. Reign's habits. The location of her private office, where she kept her personal files. The digital security systems that monitored every room except the master suite—a blind spot Mia had discovered years ago.

'Why do you think she killed your parents?' Mia asked suddenly.

I met her gaze. 'Because she wanted what was mine. My family's fortune. My fiancé. My life.'

Mia nodded slowly. 'And now you're back to take it all back.'

'I'm back for justice,' I corrected her. 'The rest is just collateral damage.'

She smiled then, a real smile that transformed her face. 'When you're done, can I have her walk-in closet? I've always wanted to burn it to the ground.'

Two days later, my phone rang with an unfamiliar number. The voice on the other end was silk wrapped around steel.

'Celine,' Reign said, her tone dripping with false warmth. 'I think it's time we talked.'

The restaurant she chose was exactly what I expected—Michelin-starred, exclusive, tucked away in a corner of SoHo where the tables cost more than rent. The kind of place that made its money from people who needed to prove they belonged somewhere.

I arrived first, dressed simply in a navy dress and minimal jewelry. No designer labels. Nothing that screamed money. I wanted to watch Reign's face when she realized I wasn't playing her game.

She swept in ten minutes late, a calculated move. Her assistant trailed behind her, carrying a shopping bag from Bergdorf's and a phone already raised to take photos. Reign herself was a vision in couture—a cream Valentino suit that probably cost more than most cars, her hair styled to perfection, her makeup flawless.

She air-kissed my cheeks like we were old friends, her perfume cloying and expensive. 'Celine, darling. You look...' She paused, her eyes scanning my outfit with practiced disdain. 'Well, you look like you've been through so much.'

I smiled and ordered tea.

'Let's not waste time, Reign,' I said quietly. 'We both know why we're here.'

Her mask slipped for just a moment, irritation flashing across her perfect features. 'Do we?' She settled into her chair, crossing her legs with practiced grace. 'I think you're confused. You've been through a trauma, and sometimes trauma makes people imagine things that aren't real.'

I leaned forward, my voice soft but clear. 'Tell me, Reign. How long have you been lying about your mother?'

The teacup froze halfway to her lips.

'What are you talking about?'

'Your mother. Diana Ortiz. The woman who supposedly took her own life after my father refused to help your family.' I watched her face carefully. 'That's the story you tell, isn't it? But it's not quite right, is it?'

Reign's smile tightened. 'I don't know what you think you know, but—'

'I know everything,' I said simply. 'Every lie. Every manipulation. Every step you took to destroy my family.'

The color drained from her face, just slightly. Just enough to tell me I'd found my mark.