The harsh morning light sliced through the gaps in the guest room blinds, burning Alyson's dry, sleepless eyes.
She sat up slowly, her muscles aching from the tension of the night before.
The phone on the nightstand was vibrating violently, the screen flashing with her mother Eleanor's name for the twelfth time.
Alyson let out a slow breath, her chest tight, and pressed the answer button.
Eleanor's shrill voice immediately pierced her eardrum.
"Alyson! Why weren't you at Kenton's birthday party last night? Tonight is your sister's welcome back dinner, and you need to get your ass back to Long Island right now!"
Before Alyson could form a single word of refusal, the line went dead.
She stared at the black screen, her stomach churning with a familiar, sickening dread.
She got out of bed and pulled on a minimalist, unbranded black silk shirt from a niche Belgian designer and matching trousers-a subtle testament to a refined taste she’d cultivated as Kenton’s wife—a polished armor provided by his wealth to mask the years of grime from the slums.
She walked out of the guest room into the silent penthouse.
Kenton was already gone, likely at the office, and the black card was exactly where he had left it.
She grabbed her car keys from the counter and took the elevator down to the garage.
An hour later, her car idled in front of the massive wrought-iron gates of the Holt family estate.
The gates swung open slowly, welcoming her into the nightmare she had been discarded from as a child, only to be dragged back into as an adult.
She walked into the grand French-style dining room.
The long mahogany table was covered in fresh white roses and polished silver.
Sitting near the head of the table, bathed in the light of the crystal chandelier, was Chelsea.
She wore a pristine white lace couture dress, looking every bit the delicate, cherished princess.
Warren Holt sat at the head of the table, his face softened into a rare, affectionate smile as he listened to Chelsea talk about her time in Europe.
The moment Alyson stepped into the room, the warm air turned to ice.
Eleanor marched over, her eyes raking over Alyson's black outfit with pure disgust. To Eleanor's untrained eye, the exquisite draping and silent luxury of the fabric were entirely invisible.
"Today is a happy day for your sister. Why are you dressed like you're going to a funeral?"
Alyson swallowed the bitter lump in her throat.
She walked to the far end of the long table and pulled out a chair.
"Sorry. This is all I have."
Chelsea immediately placed a hand over her collarbone, her eyes widening in perfect, practiced innocence.
"Mom, don't be mad at my sister. She's probably just in a bad mood."
Warren slammed his coffee cup down on the saucer, the porcelain clattering loudly.
"A bad mood? She stole your fiancé and three years of your life. She has no right to be in a bad mood," Warren snapped, his voice hard and unforgiving.
Alyson's hands dropped below the table.
She dug her fingernails so deeply into her palms that the skin nearly broke.
"Father, that drugged glass of champagne was handed to me."
"Enough!" Eleanor slammed her hand flat against the table. "Are you still trying to lie? If you weren't so jealous of Chelsea, none of this would have happened!"
Alyson looked at the two people who shared her blood—the same people who had signed the papers to abandon her to the foster system the moment she became an inconvenience.
The last fragile string connecting her to this family snapped, leaving a hollow, echoing void in her chest.
Warren cleared his throat, adjusting his posture.
"Chelsea is preparing to enter the Manhattan charity circle. You will use your title as Mrs. Whitaker to introduce her to the core board members."
"And," Eleanor added smoothly, "you need to create more opportunities for her and Kenton to be alone in public. You need to slowly give her position back."
A raw, ugly laugh ripped out of Alyson's throat.
The sound bounced off the high ceilings, sharp and completely out of place in the elegant room.
"You want me to pimp out my own husband to my sister?" she asked, pronouncing every word with deadly precision.
The crude word made Warren and Eleanor's faces turn a mottled red.
Chelsea's eyes instantly filled with tears. She bit her lower lip, looking utterly devastated.
"Sister, how could you say something so awful... I just want to make up for lost time."
Warren pointed a shaking finger directly at Alyson's face.
"You shameless, ungrateful brat! I don't know why we ever brought you back from the gutter!"
Alyson stood up so fast her chair scraped violently across the expensive rug.
She looked down at her parents, her eyes colder than the winter rain.
"Since the sight of me disgusts you so much, I won't stay here and ruin your appetite."
