Chapter 4

The following afternoon, I arrived at the Grand Summit Hotel and headed to the third-floor lounge.

An upscale ladies' charity tea was in full swing.

A flock of women decked out in glittering jewelry and pastel dresses held porcelain teacups, chatting and laughing softly.

Sarah wore her finest embroidered dress and a strand of fake pearls, sitting dead center like a queen bee, bathing in the compliments raining down on her.

"Oh, Sarah, you're so blessed. Kevin is such an ambitious young man! Just deciding to pack up and tour the world like that!"

Sarah beamed, waving her hand with practiced modesty.

"Oh, please, boys will be boys! When they have a vision, good parents just have to support them. He actually just touched down in Paris yesterday—he already texted me a picture in front of the Eiffel Tower!"

She unlocked her phone, dramatically swiping through stock photos she had clearly grabbed off the internet.

Right as her bragging hit its peak—BAM!

The double doors of the banquet hall were kicked off their latches with explosive force.

I marched into the room with a crowd behind me.

At the front of the group was a man in a wheelchair, his face pale and contorted with righteous fury—Leo, whom I had dressed up for the occasion.

Behind me were a dozen day-laborers I had hired from outside a home improvement store, dressed in scuffed work clothes, looking completely distressed.

"George! Sarah! You pair of cold-blooded monsters, get out here!"

My voice tore through the hall like a siren, rattling the crystal chandeliers and making china clatter against the saucers.

The entire room froze in shock. Dozens of socialites turned their heads simultaneously.

The smile on Sarah's face froze solid.

Sarah recognized me before she saw Leo. I wanted the women around her to see it happen. The color drained from her face.

"Y-You... you people..."

I pointed to Leo before she could speak.

"I'm Maya Miller. I'm the daughter she told you was dead. She and my father took fifty thousand dollars from the man in this wheelchair to sell me as a bride overseas."

"He paid them. I got away. So they told everyone I was dead, collected a million dollars from the insurance company, and handed the money to my brother."

Behind me, the hired extras began wailing on cue.

"Pay what you owe! You can't steal from honest folks!"

"Selling your own flesh and blood and pocketing the blood money—do you people even have souls?!"

In his wheelchair, Leo delivered an Oscar-worthy performance, pounding his cast-wrapped leg and sobbing openly:

"I trusted them! They told me their daughter was rebellious and needed a strict household abroad, so I tried to help arrange it! Who knew this entire family was a gang of con artists?! My leg... my leg was shattered by their deadbeat son when I went to ask for my money back!"

Selling a daughter.

Insurance fraud.

Gambler son.

Broken bones.

Every single phrase landed like a grenade among these pristine, high-society women.

The looks they directed at Sarah shifted from polite confusion to utter disgust, contempt, and malicious glee.

"Dear Lord... is this real? They actually sold their own daughter?"

"I knew it! How could that slacker son of hers afford a private world tour? It's blood money from his poor sister!"

"Unbelievable... and she sat there acting like she was better than all of us..."

The venomous whispers stripped away Sarah's pristine facade piece by piece, exposing the rot underneath.

She trembled violently from head to toe, pointing a shaking finger at me, her lips flapping without producing a sound.

The social status she worshiped like a religion was torn to shreds by my bare hands, thrown onto the polished marble floor, and trampled underfoot.

"You... you ungrateful little monster..."

She choked out those few words before her eyes rolled back into her head, and she collapsed backward onto the floor.

My father, George, finally barreled through the onlookers, rushing over to catch Sarah's limp body.

Taking in the chaotic scene, his face flashed with rage and shock, but beneath that, pure dread took root.

I met his bloodshot glare and walked slowly toward him.

Around us, panic reigned—waiters were calling 911, and guests were recording everything on their phones.

I simply stood there, staring coldly at the man who gave me life, the father who personally threw me to the wolves.

Leaning down to his ear, I whispered in a voice only the two of us could hear:

"Don't worry, Dad. You're next."