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.

The Astor-Wexler estate loomed against the night sky, a massive stone fortress of old money and power.

Elliana stepped out of the black town car. She wore a sleek, floor-length black Tom Ford gown. It had no jewels, no sequins, just a razor-sharp cut that commanded absolute attention.

She tossed the keys to the valet and walked up the wide marble steps. Her Christian Louboutin heels clicked rhythmically against the stone.

She did not have a physical invitation. She didn't need one. She pulled up the digital family pass on her phone, scanned it at the security podium, and walked through the heavy brass doors.

The main hall was a sea of muted colors-blacks, deep navies, and silvers. The air smelled of expensive champagne and subtle, custom perfumes.

Elliana scanned the room. It took her less than three seconds to find Kyle.

Kyle was standing near a massive floral arrangement, wearing a bright, blindingly pink sequined dress. She looked like a cheap disco ball in a museum.

Kyle was holding the ketchup-stained invitation, waving it around as she tried to force her way into a conversation with three older women wearing pearl necklaces. The women looked at Kyle with thinly veiled disgust.

Kyle spotted Elliana. Her eyes lit up with malicious joy. She pushed past the women and marched straight toward Elliana, her heels stomping awkwardly on the carpet.

"Well, well," Kyle said loudly, shaking the paper invitation in Elliana's face. "Thank you so much for giving up your spot. Devontae insisted I represent the family tonight since I actually know how to talk to important people."

Elliana stood perfectly still. She looked at Kyle the way a scientist looks at a dying insect.

Kyle leaned in closer, dropping her voice to a harsh whisper. "Devontae was so generous last night. He told me you begged him to stay, but he couldn't stand the sight of you."

Elliana took a slow step backward. She raised her hand and elegantly covered her nose.

"You need to step back," Elliana said, her voice carrying clearly over the music. "Your perfume is so cheap and suffocating, it completely ruins the air in here. You are polluting a historical landmark with your desperate need for attention."

Kyle's face turned stark white. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish. She looked around, realizing several people had heard the insult and were smirking.

Elliana dropped her hand and looked past Kyle, toward the far end of the hall where Beatrice Astor-Wexler was holding court.

"It's a shame I didn't bring a gift," Elliana murmured, pretending to speak to herself. "Everyone knows praising that painting in the gallery is the only way Beatrice will acknowledge you."

Kyle's eyes snapped back to Elliana. Greed and triumph flashed in her pupils.

"You are such a coward," Kyle sneered, thinking she had the upper hand. "Watch and learn how it's done."

Kyle spun around. She grabbed the heavy fabric of her pink dress and practically sprinted toward the art gallery.

Elliana watched her go. A dark, cold thrill rushed through her veins.

She plucked a flute of champagne from a passing waiter's tray. She took a slow sip, letting the bubbles burst against her tongue.

She walked leisurely toward the gallery, staying near the walls. When she reached the arched doorway, she stepped behind a heavy velvet curtain, hiding herself in the shadows.

Inside the gallery, Kyle was aggressively pushing her way through a circle of billionaires to stand directly in front of Beatrice.

Beatrice looked at Kyle's pink dress. Her expression turned to solid ice.

Kyle cleared her throat loudly.

Elliana leaned against the wall, took another sip of champagne, and waited for the bomb to go off.