After My Sister Took My Husband, I Took Everything Back

Louis's penthouse smelled like coffee and conspiracy.

I stood at the window, watching the city wake below us. Somewhere down there, Victor was probably rehearsing his speech for tonight's gala. Practicing his smile. The one he'd wear while parading me around like a trophy he still believed he owned.

"The device is in place." Louis's voice came from behind me, steady and sure. "Marcus confirmed it an hour ago. VIP holding room, northeast corner. Gas leak simulation, controlled ignition. The fire suppression system will trigger within ninety seconds."

I turned. He stood by his desk, a passport in his hand. My face stared back from the photo page, but the name read Vera Silva.

"Vera," I said, testing the syllables. They felt foreign on my tongue. Good. Vanessa Jones needed to die tonight. Vera Silva could be anyone.

"Portuguese mother, American father. Art consultant based in Lisbon." Louis crossed to me, placed the passport in my palm. His fingers lingered against mine. "Bank accounts are established. The apartment overlooks the Tagus. You'll like it."

"We'll like it," I corrected.

Something shifted in his expression. Relief, maybe. Or fear that I'd changed my mind. "The jet leaves at two a.m. from Teterboro. By the time the fire marshal finishes his investigation, we'll be over the Atlantic."

I slipped the passport into my clutch, next to the lipstick I'd never wear again. "And Marcus?"

"Paid. Offshore account, untraceable. He thinks it's insurance fraud." Louis's jaw tightened. "He doesn't know about the body double."

The body double. A Jane Doe from the morgue, dressed in a replica of tonight's gown. Louis had arranged it through channels I didn't ask about. Some things were better left in shadow.

"Victor will identify me," I said. "He'll want to."

Louis's hand found my waist, pulled me close. "He'll identify what's left. Dental records match. DNA will be inconclusive due to the fire damage. By the time anyone questions it, you'll be gone."

Gone. The word tasted like freedom.

---

The Gala entrance blazed with camera flashes and manufactured glamour.

Victor's hand pressed against my lower back, possessive and cold. I'd chosen the dress specifically for this moment—blood-red silk that clung like a second skin, a neckline that plunged just enough to make the society pages. My hair swept up, exposing the curve of my neck. My grandmother's necklace—the real one, not Rosalie's stolen fake—rested against my collarbone.

Let them look. Let them remember.

"Smile," Victor murmured against my ear. "You're supposed to be happy."

I smiled. Turned into the cameras. Let the light catch the diamonds at my throat.

A reporter thrust a microphone forward. "Mrs. Hunter! You look stunning. Any comment on the rumors about The Alchemist's new fragrance?"

I felt Victor tense beside me. Felt his fingers dig into my hip.

"Fragrance is fleeting," I said, my voice carrying over the crowd. "Like life. You have to appreciate it while it lasts. Because once it's gone—" I paused, let the silence stretch. "You can never get it back."

The reporter blinked, uncertain whether I'd given her gold or nothing at all.

Victor steered me inside before she could follow up.

The ballroom dripped with excess—crystal chandeliers, ice sculptures, champagne towers that cost more than most people's mortgages. I scanned the crowd, found Rosalie immediately. She stood near the bar in emerald green, her laugh too bright, too desperate. Margaret Chen stood beside her, polite but distant.

Rosalie saw me. Her smile faltered.

I raised my champagne flute in mock salute. Watched her fingers fly to her throat, to my grandmother's necklace she wore like a prize.

Tonight, she'd lose everything.

"I need to speak with the Beaumont executives," Victor said, already scanning for his next conquest. "Mingle. Look beautiful. I'll find you before the auction."

He disappeared into the crowd.

I moved through the ballroom like a ghost, accepting compliments, deflecting questions. The VIP holding room waited in the east wing, past the silent auction tables and the coat check. I'd memorized the route. Twelve minutes from now, I'd excuse myself to powder my nose.

Eleven minutes.

Rosalie intercepted me near the champagne fountain. "Vanessa. That dress is... bold."

"I thought it was time to stop hiding." I met her eyes. "Don't you agree?"

Her smile tightened. "I don't know what you mean."

"Of course you don't." I leaned closer, close enough to smell my jasmine absolute on her skin. "Enjoy tonight, Rosalie. It's the last time you'll wear my work."

I walked away before she could respond.

Ten minutes.

The holding room door stood ajar, exactly as Louis promised. I slipped inside, locked it behind me. The space was small, windowless. A rack of furs, a vanity, a leather sofa.

And in the corner, hidden behind a false panel, the device.

I didn't look at it. Didn't need to.

I sat at the vanity, reapplied my lipstick with steady hands. In the mirror, Vanessa Jones stared back—brilliant, broken, about to be reborn.

Somewhere in the ballroom, Victor was closing deals built on my genius.

Somewhere in the crowd, Rosalie was pretending to be me.

I touched my grandmother's necklace one last time. Then I stood, smoothed my dress, and walked toward the door that would lead me to the service exit.

To Louis.

To freedom.

Behind me, the device began its silent countdown.