The interior of the Maybach smelled like expensive leather and stale cologne.

Cora sat stiffly in the back seat. Leland had forced her into a heavy, violet gown. The fabric was thick and conservative. The neckline choked her collarbone, and the tight sleeves restricted her arms. It was designed to make her look invisible.

Leland sat next to her. He adjusted his silk tie and glared at her.

"You keep your mouth shut today," Leland warned, his voice a low growl. "You stand next to me, you smile, and you don't speak unless spoken to."

Cora closed her eyes and leaned her head against the window. She ignored him completely. The dress was annoying, but she could work with it.

The Maybach slowed down as it approached a massive wrought-iron gate. They were in the Hamptons. The sprawling estate was packed with luxury cars. Outside the velvet ropes, a swarm of paparazzi flashed their cameras, desperate for a shot of the famed but brittle Vance family.

The car stopped. The driver opened the door.

Leland plastered a fake, loving smile on his face. He stepped out and turned around, holding his hand out to help Cora.

Cora stepped out of the car. She completely ignored his outstretched hand and walked right past him.

Leland's hand hung in the empty air. His smile twitched. He cursed under his breath, quickly dropping his arm and rushing to catch up with her. He grabbed her elbow, his fingers digging painfully into her skin, and marched her toward the grand ballroom.

The ballroom was suffocatingly crowded. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over the elite guests.

Cora stood near a pillar, her eyes scanning the room. She memorized faces, watching who talked to whom, mapping out the family hierarchy. Her gaze flicked briefly to Marge, who was working the room with her usual venom, her injured wrist now wrapped in a discreet, flesh-colored compression brace that she tried to hide with a heavy gold bracelet. The injury was clearly still a problem, but Marge was masking it for the public.

A young man with bleached blonde hair and a flushed face stumbled toward her. He was holding a glass of champagne. His eyes were glassy and predatory.

This was Jagger. Leland's nephew.

Jagger stopped right in front of her. He looked her up and down, his eyes lingering on her chest. He didn't bother hiding his disgust.

"Well, if it isn't the family charity case," Jagger slurred, leaning in close. His breath smelled like expensive vodka and vomit.

Cora's eyes darkened. She tightened her jaw but didn't move.

Jagger leaned in closer. "You know, Heloise, you're looking a little tense. Maybe you need a real man to loosen you up."

Cora felt a surge of pure disgust. She took a half-step back.

Jagger laughed, a nasty, wet sound. He stepped forward, closing the distance. He reached his hand out and grabbed her thigh, his fingers squeezing the thick fabric of her dress.

Cora's reflexes flared. She slapped his hand away instantly. Her eyes burned with lethal intent.

Jagger looked shocked for a second, then his face twisted into an ugly sneer. He thought she was just the weak aunt he could bully.

Cora's eyes darted to the side. Through the large glass doors, she saw a group of paparazzi pressing their lenses against the glass, trying to get shots of the interior.

A plan formed in her mind instantly.

She didn't punch him. Instead, she reached out and grabbed a full glass of red wine from a passing waiter's tray.

Without a second of hesitation, she threw the dark red liquid directly into Jagger's face.

The wine splashed across his eyes and soaked into his pristine white tuxedo shirt.

Jagger gasped in shock. He wiped the wine from his eyes, his face turning purple with rage. "You stupid bitch!" he roared.

He raised his hand, balling it into a fist, ready to strike her.

Several guests nearby gasped and turned to look.

Cora didn't flinch. Instead, she grabbed the thick fabric of her violet dress right at the thigh.

As Jagger's fist started to come down, Cora's fingers accurately found the top of the stitching on the dress's high side slit. She yanked upward with all her strength. Riiiiiip. The already fragile seam snapped under the sudden tension, and the tear split violently all the way up to her upper thigh, exposing her bare leg.

The moment the fabric tore, Cora threw her head back and let out a piercing, terrified scream.

The sound cut through the ballroom music like a siren.

Every single head in the room snapped toward them. The paparazzi outside went crazy, their camera flashes strobing like lightning through the glass doors.

Cora dropped to her knees. She clutched the torn fabric of her dress against her chest. She pointed a trembling finger at Jagger, who was still standing there with his fist raised and wine dripping from his face.

She looked at the crowd with wide, tear-filled eyes, playing the perfect victim of a violent sexual assault.

The ballroom erupted into chaos.

"Oh my god, he attacked her!" a woman screamed.

Leland shoved his way through the crowd. His face was pale with horror. He saw the cameras flashing and realized the magnitude of the disaster.

He ripped off his suit jacket and lunged forward to cover Cora.

Cora scrambled backward, dodging his jacket, making sure the cameras got a clear shot of her torn dress and Jagger's aggressive stance.

Clarence, the elderly patriarch of the family, slammed his cane against the floor. "Get the press out of here! Now!" he bellowed, his face red with fury.

Security guards rushed in. Two of them grabbed Jagger, wrestling him to the ground as he screamed that he didn't do it.

Amidst the screaming and the flashing lights, Cora kept her head down. She pressed her face into her hands, pretending to sob.

Behind her hands, a cold, satisfied smile spread across her lips. The Vance family's public image was bleeding out on the floor.

The security guards formed a wall, pushing the frantic guests back.

Cora used the chaos. She let out another fake sob, shoved Leland's hands away, and bolted toward the grand staircase.

She ran up the carpeted steps, leaving the screaming ballroom behind. The second-floor hallway was dead silent and empty.

Cora stopped running. Her panicked expression vanished instantly. Her face returned to a mask of cold calculation. She grabbed the torn edges of her dress and tied them into a tight knot at her hip, freeing her legs for movement.

Heavy, angry footsteps pounded up the stairs behind her.

Cora didn't turn around. She listened to the rhythm. It was Jagger. He had broken away from the guards.

Jagger rounded the corner. His white shirt was stained red. His face was contorted with pure hatred.

"You lying whore!" Jagger spat. He lunged at her, throwing his arms out to grab her throat.

Cora moved with terrifying speed. She kicked off her right Jimmy Choo stiletto and caught it in her hand.

She pivoted on her left foot, dodging his clumsy grab. As Jagger stumbled past her, Cora slammed her back against the wall and brought her right hand up.

She pressed the sharp, metal tip of the stiletto heel hard against the side of Jagger's neck, the cold point threatening to pierce his skin.

Jagger froze instantly. The cold metal dug into his skin. A drop of sweat rolled down his temple. He held his hands up in the air, his breathing ragged.

Cora leaned in close. She didn't yell. She spoke in a whisper that chilled the air.

"Three," Cora counted. "Two."

Jagger looked into her eyes. He saw no hesitation. He saw a killer.

"Okay! Okay!" Jagger whimpered. His knees shook.

Cora pulled the heel away. Jagger didn't look back. He scrambled down the hallway and practically fell down the back stairs to escape her.

Cora watched him go. She turned and walked barefoot down the hall. She saw a door with a gold plaque: VIP Dressing Room.

She pushed the door open and slipped inside. The room was dark, smelling of expensive perfume and hairspray. She sat on a velvet ottoman and reached down to put her shoe back on.

Suddenly, the handle of the adjoining door clicked.

Cora froze. The VIP rooms were connected by thin partition walls.

She heard the door open, followed by heavy, frantic breathing. The sound of fabric tearing and a woman's muffled moan filtered through the thin wall.

Cora rolled her eyes. She stood up, ready to leave quietly.

Then, she heard the woman speak.

"Julian, wait. My dress," the woman panted.

Cora stopped dead. Julian. The groom. The man who was supposed to be cutting his wedding cake downstairs.

"Forget the dress, Beatrice," Julian's voice replied, thick with lust.

Beatrice. Cora's mind raced. Beatrice was Preston's wife. Jagger's mother. The groom was sleeping with his new sister-in-law.

Cora pressed her back flat against the partition wall. She barely breathed.

The sounds of their affair ended quickly.

"We have to be quick," Julian muttered, his breathing still heavy. "With everyone's attention on Jagger and that stupid scene downstairs, this is the best time we have to talk."

"Clarence is getting suspicious," Beatrice whispered, her voice tight with anxiety. "He asked about the offshore accounts yesterday."

"Let the old man ask," Julian scoffed. "I've already paid off the CFO. The trust funds are being routed through the Caymans as we speak."

Cora's eyes widened. Trust funds.

She reached into her small clutch and pulled out her phone. She flipped the silent switch, opened the voice memo app, and hit record. She pressed the phone's microphone directly against the crack in the partition wall.

"Once the accounts are drained," Beatrice laughed softly, "Leland and the rest of those idiots won't have a dime. It will all belong to us."

"And Jagger," Julian added. His voice dropped lower. "Our son deserves the best."

Cora's heart hammered a steady, victorious beat. Jagger was Julian's bastard son. This wasn't just a scandal. This was a nuclear bomb.

She watched the red recording timer tick past four minutes. Every word of their financial treason and incestuous affair was captured in high-definition audio.

"We need to get back down there," Julian said. The sound of zippers and rustling fabric followed.

Cora waited until she heard the adjoining door open and close.

She pulled her phone away. She hit stop, saved the file, and immediately uploaded it to a secure, encrypted cloud server.

She slipped the phone back into her clutch. She looked at her reflection in the dark mirror. Her dress was ruined, but she had just acquired the weapon that would destroy the Vance family.

She opened the door and walked out into the hallway.

Leland was pacing near the top of the stairs, running his hands through his hair. When he saw her, he rushed forward and grabbed her wrist.

"Where the hell have you been?" Leland hissed. "The press is going crazy!"

Cora looked down at his hand on her wrist, then up at his panicked face.

"Fixing my dress," Cora said flatly.

The morning sun streamed through the massive windows of the Vance estate living room.

Cora sat on the white leather sofa, her legs crossed. She held a porcelain cup of black coffee in one hand and a financial magazine in the other. She looked completely relaxed.

The heavy front doors swung open.

Leland walked in. He reeked of cheap cologne and stale alcohol. Clinging to his arm was a young woman in a skin-tight pink dress. Her blonde hair was teased high, and her makeup was heavy.

This was Brandi. Leland's mistress.

Leland had brought her to the main house to reassert his dominance after the humiliation at the wedding. He wanted to see Cora break.

Several maids were dusting the room. They froze, lowering their heads, pretending not to see the scandalous scene.

Brandi swayed her hips as she walked over to the sofa. She sat down right on the armrest next to Leland, crossing her legs to show off her thighs. She looked at Cora with a smug, challenging smirk.

Cora didn't look up. She slowly turned a page of her magazine.

Brandi's smile faltered. She hated being ignored. She dramatically raised her right hand and fluttered her fingers near her face.

"Oh, Leland, honey," Brandi cooed in a high-pitched, grating voice. "This bracelet is just so heavy. It's exhausting wearing it."

She thrust her wrist forward, right into Cora's line of sight. A thick, gold bracelet covered in diamonds glittered in the sunlight. It was shaped like a panther.

"Cartier," Brandi announced loudly, making sure the maids heard. "Limited edition. One hundred and eighty thousand dollars. Leland says I'm the only woman who deserves it." She looked at Cora's bare wrists and laughed. "I guess some wives just aren't worth the investment."

Leland puffed his chest out. He pulled a cigar from his pocket and bit the end off, waiting for Cora to burst into tears.

Cora finally lowered her magazine.

She looked at the bracelet. Her eyes locked onto the stones for exactly two seconds. With her advanced degree in gemology, it took her less than a heartbeat to spot the flaws.

Cora let out a soft, breathy laugh. She set her coffee cup down on the glass table.

She stood up and walked over to Brandi. She looked down at the mistress.

Suddenly, Cora's hand shot out. She grabbed Brandi's wrist in an iron grip.

Brandi yelped in pain. "Hey! Let go of me!"

Leland frowned and took a step forward. "Heloise, back off-"

Cora ignored him. She used her free hand to tap a manicured fingernail against the largest "diamond" on the panther's head.

"Notice the fire," Cora said. Her voice was loud and clear, carrying across the entire living room. "See how the light refracts blue and yellow? A natural South African diamond reflects white and gray. This is Moissanite. Cheap, synthetic Moissanite."

Brandi's face paled. She tried to yank her arm away, but Cora held it tight.

"It's the lighting in here!" Brandi stammered.

Cora twisted Brandi's wrist over, exposing the inside of the band. She pointed her finger at the engraved logo.

"Look closely," Cora commanded. "An authentic Cartier piece has a hidden security mark inside the 'C'. This one is blank." Cora traced the letters. "And the engraving of the logo is wrong. The tail of the letter 'r' should have a nearly imperceptible, elegant curve. This one is completely straight. It's a detail only the highest-end forgeries miss."

A maid standing near the fireplace let out a loud snort, quickly covering her mouth to stifle her laughter.

Cora delivered the final blow. She hefted the bracelet slightly. "And the weight is completely wrong. This isn't eighteen-karat gold. It's gold-plated brass. The plating is already rubbing off on the clasp."

She let go of Brandi's arm and took a step back. Reaching over to the glass coffee table, she pulled a tissue from a dispenser and meticulously wiped every single finger, looking at Brandi like she was carrying a disease.

Brandi clutched her wrist against her chest. Her face was stark white. She looked up at Leland, her eyes wide with panic. "Leland? You said..."

Leland's face went from pale to a deep, ugly crimson. The cigar fell from his lips and bounced on the rug.

He had bought the fake on the black market for five hundred dollars. He thought his stupid, uneducated wife would never know the difference. Now, he was exposed as a cheap fraud in front of his staff.

His fragile ego shattered.

"Shut up!" Leland roared at Brandi.

He lunged forward and slapped Brandi hard across the face. The sound cracked through the room.

Brandi screamed and fell onto the floor.

"Get out of my house, you stupid cow!" Leland screamed, his veins popping.

Brandi scrambled to her feet, sobbing hysterically. She ran for the front door, her heels clicking wildly. She tripped, losing one shoe, but didn't stop. The heavy door slammed shut behind her.

Leland stood in the middle of the room, breathing heavily. His fists were clenched.

Cora picked up her coffee cup. She took a slow sip.

"Your taste in women," Cora said softly, "is exactly like your bank account. Cheap and fake."

She turned and walked up the grand staircase, leaving Leland standing in the ruins of his pride.