Five Years, One Inheritance, and a Perfect Revenge (2 of 3)

He glanced at my closed laptop. “Work?”

I nodded. “Just merger files.”

He didn’t question it. He hadn’t for months. And he certainly didn’t suspect that I’d been feeding Victoria’s hidden surveillance cameras a 24-hour loop of fake audio ever since discovering them last winter.

Inside our walk-in closet, behind a hidden panel, lay my true world: encrypted drives, burner phones, and documents—years’ worth—linking the Harringtons to financial crimes, fraudulent transfers, even psychological manipulation of their own kin. Victoria called it therapy. I called it control.

James’s “therapist,” Dr. Whitley, was no healer. Thirty thousand a month to condition behaviour? He was a handler. I had the photos. The contracts. The offshore wire trails. And the SEC had it all now.

Tonight’s party was Victoria’s stage play. A perfectly curated guest list: politicians, judges, partners at Boston’s most prestigious firms. Not a single soul from my world. The message was clear—I belonged to them now.

But I had other plans.

I wore scarlet Dior instead of the blue Valentino she instructed. A small rebellion, but one that grounded me. I met Victoria’s gaze across the rooftop at Hestia Gardens, smiled sweetly, and let her usher me into the crowd.

“Darling Ivy,” she cooed. “Blue photographs better.”

“I thought I’d surprise you,” I replied.

She blinked. A flicker of unease passed behind her eyes.