The crystal chandelier cast dancing shadows across the dining room as Beckett studied me from across the table. His eyes, sharp as surgical scalpels, missed nothing—or so he thought.

"You seem different tonight, Mariah," he said, swirling his scotch. "More... composed."

I took a deliberate sip of wine, letting the rich cabernet coat my tongue. "Do I?"

"It's not like you to be so calm about Ivory's move." He leaned forward, his cufflinks catching the light as he adjusted them—his tell before delivering a blow. "I'm concerned about you."

There it was. The same concern that had once seemed genuine but now rang as hollow as a cheap bell.

"Concerned?" I echoed, keeping my voice soft. "That's sweet of you."

He signaled to the server, who appeared with a glass of water and two small white pills on a silver tray. "These will help with your nerves. Just some vitamins."

The server placed them beside my plate and disappeared. I stared at the pills, my heart hammering against my ribs. Even after all these years, I recognized them instantly—the same sedatives that had started my descent into oblivion in my previous life.

"Take them," Beckett urged, his voice dripping with false tenderness. "They'll make you feel better."

I reached for the pills, my fingers trembling slightly—not from fear, but from rage carefully controlled. As I lifted them to my lips, I palmed them with a sleight of hand I'd practiced mentally a thousand times.

"Water?" I asked innocently.

He nodded, watching as I pretended to swallow the pills with a sip of water. The capsules dissolved against my palm, hidden from his view.

"Good girl," he said, his smile not reaching his eyes. "You'll feel better soon."

I smiled back, thinking of the napkin folded neatly in my lap, the pills now safely tucked inside its folds.

---

The penthouse was silent at 2 AM, Beckett's snores echoing from our bedroom. I slipped out of bed, my bare feet silent against the marble floor.

In the powder room, I carefully extracted the pills from the napkin and sealed them in a ziplock bag. The fluorescent light cast harsh shadows as I studied them—two small white discs that could have been my downfall.

"Not this time," I whispered.

I made my way to Jackson's room, stepping carefully over the creaking floorboard near his door. His desk lamp cast a soft glow across the space as I reached for the copy of "To Kill a Mockingbird" on his shelf—a book I'd given him for his sixteenth birthday.

With practiced movements, I opened the hollowed-out section inside the cover and slipped the bagged pills inside. Evidence. Insurance. Ammunition.

As I closed the book, Jackson stirred in his sleep. "Mom?" he mumbled.

"Just checking on you," I whispered, tucking the blanket around his shoulders.

"Be careful," he murmured, half-asleep.

I kissed his forehead. "Always."

---

The doorbell rang at precisely 10 AM the next morning. I was in the library reviewing financial documents when Presley announced Ivory's arrival.

"She says she's here to measure the drapes, ma'am," my assistant added, her disapproval poorly concealed.

"Send her in," I replied, closing my laptop.

Ivory swept into the room like she already owned it, her Louboutin heels clicking against the hardwood floors. She wore a cream Chanel suit that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent.

"Mariah, darling," she cooed, air-kissing near my cheeks. "I hope you don't mind me dropping by. I wanted to get a head start on making the Hamptons estate feel like home."

"Of course not," I replied smoothly. "Though I believe Beckett mentioned next week for your move-in."

"Oh, I'm just eager." She ran her fingers along the leather-bound books lining the shelves. "After all, it's not every day a woman gets to step into her rightful place."

Her eyes landed on me, calculating and cold. "I do hope you'll be reasonable about this transition. For everyone's sake."

"Reasonable?" I echoed, rising from my chair.

"Let's be honest, Mariah." She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "You're old news. Beckett needs someone who can keep up with him now. Someone younger."

I smiled coldly. "Speaking of young, how is Arlo? I've always found his eye color fascinating—such a unique shade of green. Almost... familiar."

The color drained from her face. "What are you talking about?"

"Nothing." I turned back to my laptop. "Just making conversation."

She left shortly after, her heels clicking rapidly across the marble foyer.

---

"Call the police!" Ivory's voice echoed through the penthouse that evening. "She stole it!"

I found them in the living room—Ivory standing triumphantly beside a trembling Gracie, Beckett watching with narrowed eyes.

"What's happening?" I asked calmly.

"This thief," Ivory pointed at Gracie, "stole my diamond bracelet. I found it in her bag!"

Gracie's eyes were wide with panic. "I didn't take anything!"

"Enough," Beckett said coldly. "Call security."

"Actually," I interrupted, "before you do that, perhaps we should review the security footage."

I pulled out my phone, tapping the screen several times. "Interesting. The cloud backup from ten minutes ago shows something quite... illuminating."

Ivory's face paled as I turned the screen toward them. The footage clearly showed her slipping the bracelet into Gracie's bag when no one was looking.

"Beckett," I said sweetly, "I believe we have a situation."

His eyes darted between Ivory and me, calculation replacing surprise. "This is ridiculous," he snapped at Ivory. "Apologize to Gracie and leave."

As Ivory stormed out, she shot me a look of pure hatred tinged with something else—fear. For the first time, she was seeing me not as a victim, but as a threat.

And she was right to be afraid.

I stood in Beckett's study, the crystal decanter of his favorite Macallan 25 catching the afternoon light. My fingers traced the elegant curves of the bottle as I unscrewed the cap, the rich aroma of aged scotch filling my nostrils.

"Such a shame," I whispered to myself, "that you'll never enjoy this again."

From my pocket, I withdrew a small vial containing a tasteless herbal supplement—one that, when combined with high stress and certain medications, was known to spike blood pressure dangerously. The compound had been difficult to obtain, but Judge Perry's connections had proved useful once again.

I carefully measured three drops into the decanter, watching them dissolve into the amber liquid. Beckett never drank more than two fingers at a sitting, but over time, the cumulative effect would be... significant.

"Just like before," I murmured, remembering the stroke that had left him partially paralyzed in my previous life. "History repeats itself."

I replaced the cap and returned the decanter to its place on the mahogany bar cart. The bottle of blood pressure medication sat nearby—the real pills now replaced with identical-looking sugar tablets. Another piece in my carefully orchestrated chess game.

The study door opened, and I quickly moved to the leather armchair, picking up the financial report I'd been reviewing.

"Still here?" Beckett asked, his tone suspicious. "I thought you'd be preparing for tonight's gala."

"Just finishing up," I replied calmly. "I want to make sure everything is perfect for your big night."

He approached, adjusting his cufflinks—his tell before delivering a cutting remark. "Wear the beige dress I selected. Nothing too... attention-seeking."

"Of course," I agreed, keeping my eyes downcast. "Whatever you think is best."

---

The mirror reflected a woman transformed. The bold red Valentino gown hugged my curves before cascading to the floor in a waterfall of silk. Diamond earrings—my mother's, not Beckett's gifts—glinted at my lobes, catching the light as I turned.

"Mrs. Ferguson?" Presley stood in the doorway, her eyes wide. "Beckett is asking for you downstairs."

"Thank you, Presley." I smoothed an invisible wrinkle from the dress. "And it's Ms. Perry, remember?"

The ballroom of the Plaza Hotel glittered with New York's elite. Crystal chandeliers cast a golden glow over the crowd as string musicians played softly in the corner. I paused at the entrance, feeling every eye turn toward me.

Beckett stood near the stage, champagne flute in hand, Ivory clinging to his arm in a pale blue gown that seemed washed out compared to my crimson. His face darkened when he saw me.

"Mariah," he hissed as I approached. "What the hell are you wearing?"

"Red," I replied innocently. "It's the color of passion, don't you think?"

Before he could respond, camera flashes erupted as photographers captured the moment. I turned slightly, allowing the light to catch the diamonds at my neck and ears.

"Mrs. Ferguson! Over here!" a reporter called.

Beckett's grip tightened on his glass. "You're making a scene."

"No, darling," I smiled, leaning in to kiss his cheek for the cameras. "I'm just being noticed."

---

The gala was in full swing when I spotted Richard Thornton, the most senior board member after Grandma Ferguson. He stood alone by the dessert table, studying the financial reports on his tablet.

"Richard," I greeted him warmly. "How lovely to see you outside the boardroom."

"Mariah." He nodded politely. "That's quite a statement you're making tonight."

"Is it?" I glanced down at my dress. "I suppose I'm just tired of blending into the background."

He studied me with new interest. "Beckett mentioned you've been... different lately."

"Did he?" I kept my voice light. "How interesting."

I hesitated, then leaned closer, lowering my voice. "Richard, I hate to be indiscreet, but have you heard anything about the SEC investigation?"

His eyebrows shot up. "Investigation? What investigation?"

"That's exactly what I asked Beckett," I replied, looking troubled. "Apparently there are questions about some of the offshore accounts. The Cayman ones, specifically."

Richard's expression shifted from surprise to concern. "I wasn't aware of any investigation."

"Neither was I," I admitted. "But given the stress Beckett's been under... I worry about his health. The doctor mentioned his blood pressure..."

I trailed off as a server passed with champagne. Richard frowned, his eyes drifting to where Beckett stood with Ivory.

"Thank you for the concern, Mariah," he said finally. "I'll look into this."

As he walked away, I caught sight of Grandma Ferguson watching from across the room, a slight nod of approval barely perceptible in her rigid posture.

The seeds of doubt had been planted. Now I just needed to wait for them to grow.

The spotlight felt warm against my skin as I approached the stage. The gala had reached its crescendo—the moment when Beckett would announce Ivory's official integration into Ferguson Industries. My heels clicked against the polished marble steps, each step measured and deliberate.

I could feel Ivory's eyes boring into me from where she stood near the bar. She'd been drinking heavily since her humiliation with Gracie, her pale blue dress now rumpled, her makeup slightly smudged. The perfect picture of desperation.

"Mariah," the event coordinator whispered as I reached the stage entrance. "Mr. Ferguson asked me to tell you to keep your remarks brief. Just introduce him and Mrs. Oliver."

I smiled serenely. "Of course."

The microphone stood center stage, bathed in golden light. I took my place behind it, surveying the crowd of New York's elite. Camera flashes punctuated the hushed silence.

"Ladies and gentlemen," I began, my voice clear and steady. "It's my honor to welcome you to this special evening."

I felt rather than saw Ivory moving toward the stage, her heels clicking rapidly against the floor. In my previous life, I'd been blindsided by her "accident" during this very speech—a stumble that had sent me crashing down the steps, breaking my wrist and humiliating me before the entire board.

Not this time.

"As we prepare to celebrate the future of Ferguson Industries," I continued, "I'd like to invite my husband, Beckett Ferguson, to the stage."

I stepped slightly to the right, extending my hand toward the wings where Beckett waited. Ivory emerged from the shadows, her timing perfect—too perfect. She moved directly into my path, her foot extended just enough to hook my ankle.

The crowd gasped.

I pivoted gracefully, my red Valentino gown swirling around me like a flame. Ivory's eyes widened in shock as her plan backfired spectacularly. She stumbled forward, arms flailing, and crashed face-first onto the stage.

The silence was deafening.

Then came the sound of tearing fabric as her dress ripped along the seam, exposing her underwear to the horrified audience.

"Oh my God!" someone whispered loudly.

"Is she drunk?" another voice hissed.

I stood perfectly still, my expression one of practiced concern. "Are you alright, Ivory?"

She scrambled to her feet, clutching the torn fabric to her thighs, mascara streaking down her cheeks. The room erupted in whispers—not about me, but about Beckett's mistress.

---

"Disaster!" Beckett slammed his fist against the penthouse wall as we entered. "Do you have any idea what you've done?"

I removed my earrings carefully, placing them in their velvet box. "I've done nothing, Beckett. Ivory had too much to drink."

"Don't play innocent with me." He grabbed my wrist, his fingers digging into my skin. "The board members were whispering about offshore accounts. About the SEC."

I met his gaze steadily. "Perhaps they're concerned about your health. You seemed rather... flushed tonight."

His grip tightened. "What did you tell them?"

"Nothing they couldn't discover themselves." I pulled my arm free. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to pack."

"Pack?" He looked confused.

"For Seattle," I reminded him calmly. "You mentioned we're leaving tomorrow to pick up Arlo."

His eyes narrowed. "We're not going to Seattle."

"Then why did you tell Ivory—"

"Because I changed my mind!" he shouted, adjusting his cufflinks furiously. "We're going now. Tonight."

He pulled out his phone, jabbing at the screen. "I've already called the jet. We leave in two hours."

"Beckett, it's midnight—"

"Exactly my point." His smile was cold. "The press will be waiting at the airport. A united family front is exactly what we need after tonight's disaster."

I crossed my arms. "And if I refuse?"

His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "Then Jackson can say goodbye to his inheritance. Permanently."

The threat hung between us like a blade. In my previous life, this would have broken me. Now, it merely confirmed what I already knew about the man I'd married.

"Fine," I said simply. "I'll get ready."

As I turned toward the bedroom, I caught sight of Jackson watching from the hallway, his face pale with worry.

"Mom?" he called softly.

I gave him a reassuring smile. "It's alright, sweetheart. Just a business trip."

But as I packed my suitcase, my mind raced with plans. Seattle wasn't just about picking up Arlo. It was where Beckett's carefully constructed world would begin to crumble—and where mine would rise from the ashes.