The ballroom of the Harrington estate in Long Island was a study in excess. Crystal chandeliers the size of small cars hung from the ceiling, casting a fractured, unforgiving light on the guests.
Jonna stood near a pillar, holding a glass of soda water she pretended was gin. Flint had abandoned her the moment they walked in, pulled into a circle of grey-haired men discussing yield curves.
"That dress," a voice drawled from her left. "It's so... brave of you."
Jonna turned. Beatrice and Catherine, Flint's cousins-in-law, stood there like twin vultures in couture. Beatrice swirled her champagne, her eyes raking over Jonna's outfit.
"Last season, isn't it?" Beatrice smirked. "I suppose vintage is making a comeback for those on a budget."
Catherine chimed in, stepping closer. "Speaking of budgets, how is your father? I heard the creditors are circling again. Are you still funneling your allowance to him?"
A few guests nearby turned, hiding their smiles behind crystal flutes. They were waiting for the blood. The outsider, the purchase, the liability.
Jonna swirled her water. The ice clinked softly. She looked at Beatrice, then at Catherine. The fear she usually felt in this room was gone, replaced by the reckless energy of someone with nothing left to lose. This was no longer about survival; it was about control. She needed to remind them who she was before the main event.
She stepped into Beatrice's personal space. "My father is fine," she said softly. "But Beatrice, while we're discussing finances... how is that account in the Bahamas doing? The one ending in 4092?"
Beatrice froze. Her smile faltered.
"I used to be a fixer, remember?" Jonna whispered, her voice sweet as poison. "I recall seeing a transaction log involving that account and a certain... pharmaceutical supplier. Does your husband know where the charity funds went?"
Beatrice's face drained of color. The glass in her hand tilted dangerously.
Jonna didn't wait. She turned to Catherine. "And you, Cat. How is the tennis coach? Did his rotator cuff heal? It must be strenuous work, private lessons three times a week at the Motel 6 off the highway."
Catherine gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. The infidelity was her deepest secret, one that would get her cut from the will instantly.
"You wouldn't," Catherine hissed.
"Try me," Jonna said, stepping back. She raised her voice slightly, enough for the onlookers to hear. "Thank you both for your concern. You're so kind."
The two women stood paralyzed, looking like they had seen a ghost.
Heavy footsteps approached. Flint appeared at Jonna's side, sensing the shift in the atmosphere. He looked at his cousins, noting their pale faces, then at Jonna's sharp smile.
"Is there a problem?" Flint asked, his voice low.
Beatrice opened her mouth, likely to accuse Jonna of rudeness, but her eyes darted to Jonna and she shut it.
Flint looked at Jonna. He didn't know what she had said, but he saw the way the room was looking at them. He reached out, his hand settling firmly on the small of her back. It was possessive, a branding iron.
"Jonna is the lady of this house tonight," Flint said to his cousins, his tone icy. "Watch your tone."
The room went silent. Flint Harrington didn't love his wife, everyone knew that. But he protected his assets.
He guided Jonna away toward the main table. "What did you say to them?" he muttered near her ear.
"Just exchanging pleasantries," Jonna replied, feeling the heat of his hand through her dress. It made her skin crawl.
"Don't cause a scene," he warned. "Florida is about to speak."
They reached the head table. Florida Boyle, the Harrington matriarch, sat at the center like a withered queen. She picked up a silver spoon and tapped it against her glass. The sharp, ringing sound cut through the chatter instantly.
Jonna sat down. Across the table, Aunt Victoria was staring at Flint's lap with a bizarre mixture of concern and calculation. Jonna almost laughed.
Florida cleared her throat. "Family. Sit. I have an announcement regarding the future of this company."
