Elliana sat behind the heavy oak desk in the study. She pulled a black leather notebook from the drawer and laid it flat on the surface.

She picked up a fountain pen. Her fingers were steady.

She wrote the name Beatrice Astor-Wexler at the top of the page and drew a thick, dark circle around it.

She remembered the scandal from her past life. The Astor-Wexler gala was the most exclusive old-money event in New York. The centerpiece of the estate was a famous oil painting called Autumn. Everyone in the inner circle knew the dark truth about that painting. It was the exact piece of art Beatrice's ex-husband had bought for his stripper mistress before the messy, public divorce. It was a symbol of ultimate humiliation.

Kyle was desperate to break into the elite social circle. She just needed the right push.

Elliana pressed the pen hard against the paper. She wrote the word Autumn and drew three stars next to it in red ink.

Below it, she wrote a detailed, entirely fabricated analysis. She wrote that Beatrice cherished the painting above all else. She wrote that praising Autumn as a symbol of pure, untainted love and loyalty was the absolute key to winning Beatrice's favor and securing a permanent spot in high society.

She left the notebook open in the dead center of the desk.

Her ears picked up a faint sound. The soft rustle of fabric brushing against the wood paneling outside the study door. A shallow breath.

Marta was listening.

Elliana picked up her phone. She dialed the voicemail of an old classmate from RISD. She waited for the beep.

"Hey, it's Elliana," she said. She pitched her voice higher, making it sound excited and slightly arrogant.

She paced the room, ensuring her voice carried perfectly through the door. "Yes, I'm preparing for the Astor-Wexler gala. I finally figured out how to get Beatrice's attention. It's the painting in the main hall. Autumn."

She paused, letting the silence hang for a second.

"Exactly," Elliana continued loudly. "You just have to tell Beatrice that the painting represents pure love and loyalty. If you use those exact words, she will instantly accept you into her inner circle. It's the ultimate secret."

She stopped talking. She waited.

Outside the door, the floorboards creaked softly. Rapid, light footsteps hurried away down the hall.

Elliana ended the call. She walked to the door and yanked it open.

She saw the hem of Marta's grey uniform disappear around the corner at the far end of the corridor.

Elliana let out a short, cold laugh. She stepped back into the study and closed the door, turning the deadbolt with a loud, heavy click.

She walked to the window and parted the blinds with two fingers. She looked down at the back gardens.

Marta was standing behind a large hedge, hidden from the security cameras. She was holding her phone, her thumbs flying across the screen. A smug, greedy smile was plastered on her face.

The bait was taken. The poison was in Kyle's hands.

Elliana turned away from the window. She walked over to the crystal decanters on the side table. She poured two fingers of amber whiskey into a heavy glass.

She raised the glass toward the empty room in a silent toast.

She tipped her head back and swallowed the liquor. The alcohol burned a hot trail down her throat, warming her chest.

She walked back to the desk. She picked up the notebook, ripped the page out, and tore it into tiny, unrecognizable shreds.

She dropped the pieces into the metal trash can. She watched them fall like snow. Marta was the only witness to the trap, and a maid's frantic, baseless testimony would hold absolutely zero weight in Devontae's eyes once the damage was done. By destroying the page now, when Kyle destroyed her own life at the gala, there would be no physical evidence tying the fake information back to Elliana.

She set the empty glass down. Her eyes hardened. It was time to deal with her husband.

The antique grandfather clock chimed eight times.

Elliana sat on the edge of the velvet sofa in the dimly lit living room. Clara was sitting on the thick rug near the coffee table, carefully piecing together a five-hundred-piece landscape puzzle.

The heavy oak front door was violently shoved open. A gust of cold autumn wind rushed into the foyer.

Devontae stomped into the house. His face was flushed. The overwhelming stench of cheap, sweet perfume and stale alcohol rolled off his clothes, instantly polluting the air in the room.

He ripped his silk tie from his neck and threw it blindly toward the sofa.

He marched toward the wet bar. He did not look down. His heavy leather shoe slammed directly into the center of Clara's puzzle, kicking the pieces across the rug in a chaotic mess.

Clara shrieked. She scrambled backward, pressing her small back against the base of the sofa, her eyes wide with fear.

Devontae stopped. He looked down at the ruined puzzle, then glared at his daughter.

"Why is this garbage in the middle of the floor?" he yelled, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. "Learn some damn manners and stay out of my way!"

Elliana's blood turned to ice.

She stood up. She stepped over the coffee table and positioned her body directly between Devontae and Clara.

"Are you out of your mind?" Elliana's voice was low, vibrating with pure hostility. "Did you have a bad day playing pretend in the city, so you come home to terrorize a child?"

Devontae's eyes widened in shock. He stared at her, unable to process the tone of her voice. The meek, compliant woman he left this morning was gone.

He took a step forward, his chest puffed out. He pointed a thick finger right at her face. "You are a useless mother. You sit in this house all day and you can't even teach her basic discipline."

Elliana did not flinch. She raised her hand and slapped his finger away with a sharp, loud smack.

"Don't point at me," she said coldly. "And don't bring your cheap whore's perfume into the room where my daughter breathes."

Devontae's face drained of color. He took a quick step back, his eyes darting away for a fraction of a second.

"I was at a business dinner," he shouted, his voice cracking slightly with defensive anger. "It's called networking."

Elliana let out a dry, mocking laugh. "Networking doesn't leave a bright red lipstick stain on your collar."

Devontae panicked. He immediately dropped his chin and slapped his hand over his left collarbone, trying to cover the nonexistent stain.

He realized his mistake a second later. There was no lipstick.

His face turned a violent shade of purple. The veins in his forehead throbbed. He raised his right hand high into the air, curling his fingers into a tight fist.

Elliana tilted her chin up. She stepped directly into his space. She stared unblinking into his eyes.

"Do it," she whispered. Her voice was pure ice. "Hit me. And tomorrow morning, the Wall Street Journal will have high-definition photos of my bruised face on the front page. Your board of directors will strip you of your CEO title before lunch."

Devontae's fist froze in mid-air. He saw the absolute, terrifying certainty in her eyes. She was not bluffing. She was waiting for him to strike.

He cursed loudly. He dropped his arm, spun around, and kicked the heavy glass coffee table with all his might.

The table flipped over. The thick glass shattered into a thousand jagged pieces, exploding across the floor.

Elliana spun around instantly. She dropped to her knees and covered Clara with her own body, shielding her from the flying shrapnel.

She stood up slowly, brushing a shard of glass off her sleeve. She pointed toward the hallway.

"Get out of my sight. Sleep in the guest room."

"This is my house!" Devontae roared, spitting as he spoke. "I sleep wherever I want!"

Elliana looked at him with utter disgust. "The property taxes on this estate are paid by my trust fund. You live here because I allow it. Now get out."

Devontae opened his mouth, but no words came out. He turned around and stormed down the hall, slamming the guest room door so hard the walls shook.

Morning sunlight poured into the formal dining room.

Elliana sat at the head of the long mahogany table. She calmly sliced into a piece of French toast, the silver knife clinking softly against the porcelain plate.

Devontae walked into the room. Dark purple bags hung under his eyes. His shirt was wrinkled.

He pulled out a chair opposite her and dropped his weight into it. He slapped his palms flat on the table.

"Give me the Astor-Wexler invitation," he demanded. His voice was rough and arrogant.

Elliana placed her knife and fork down. She picked up a linen napkin and dabbed the corners of her mouth. She looked at him with dead eyes.

"Why would I give the most exclusive social ticket in New York to a high-end escort?" she asked flatly.

Devontae slammed his fist on the table. The silverware rattled. "Kyle needs this opportunity to network for my company! She has potential. You are just jealous because she is younger and actually useful."

Elliana smiled. It was a cold, terrifying smile. She picked up her black coffee and took a slow sip.

Devontae gritted his teeth. "Give me the invitation, Elliana. I'll buy you that limited edition Birkin bag you've been whining about."

Elliana reached into the leather tote bag resting on the floor beside her. She pulled out a thick stack of legal documents and tossed them across the polished wood. They slid and stopped right in front of him.

"If you want the invitation, sign this," she said.

Devontae frowned. He picked up the first page. His eyes scanned the text, and his jaw dropped.

"Two hundred thousand dollars?" he yelled. "An early transfer from my trust to yours? Are you insane?"

Elliana crossed her arms over her chest. "That is the price. Buy it, or get out of my dining room."

She reached forward, grabbing the edge of the paper. "Actually, never mind. I'll just put the invitation through the paper shredder right now."

Devontae slammed his hand down on top of the documents, pinning them to the table. He glared at her, his chest heaving.

He calculated the risk in his head. Kyle had been begging for this ticket for weeks. If he didn't get it, she would make his life miserable. Two hundred thousand was a hit, but he could hide it in the company expenses.

He pulled a Montblanc pen from his jacket pocket. He flipped to the last page and signed his name so violently the nib tore through the paper.

He shoved the papers back toward her.

Elliana picked them up. She checked the signature, folded the document neatly, and placed it back into her bag.

She opened the small drawer built into the dining table. She pulled out a thick, cream-colored envelope sealed with gold wax.

She flicked her wrist. The envelope flew across the table.

It hit Devontae in the chest, slid down his shirt, and landed squarely in the center of his plate, soaking up a massive puddle of red ketchup.

Devontae gasped. He snatched the ruined envelope from the plate. The grease and ketchup smeared across the gold foil.

"You crazy bitch," he hissed. He kicked his chair back, turned, and marched out of the room.

Elliana watched him leave. Her stomach settled into a calm, satisfying rhythm.

Her phone chimed on the table. She looked at the screen. A notification from her lawyer confirmed the two hundred thousand dollars had cleared into her private account.

She stood up. It was time to pick out a dress for the slaughter.