Rising From The Grave As A Queen

Ivy Richardson POV

The Grandeur Hotel was supposed to be neutral territory, or so the Dillards thought.

They were blissfully unaware that Alaric Richardson owned the holding company that held the deed to this very land.

They were walking into a trap I had set before I even touched down in the city.

Dexter marched me through the lobby like a prisoner, his grip tight on my arm. I let him. He didn't know he was escorting a bomb, not a hostage.

My family-my old family-was gathered in the private lounge near the bar.

Donnell Dillard sat in a high-backed chair, looking like a king whose kingdom was crumbling into dust around him.

He looked frail. His skin was papery, his eyes hollow.

Good.

Aunt Carol was there, nursing a martini like it was the only thing keeping her venom diluted.

She was the family mouthpiece, a woman who thrived on gossip and other people's misery.

When she saw me, she dropped her glass.

It shattered on the marble floor, the sound sharp and jarring.

"Well, look who decided to rise from the grave," she sneered, her shock instantly replaced by malice.

"The prodigal daughter. Or should I say, the whore who ran away?"

The room went silent.

Donnell stood up, his face mottling purple with rage.

"Where have you been?" he demanded. "Do you have any idea the shame you brought on this family?"

He slammed a hand on the armrest. "We held a funeral for you! And Ainsley... poor Ainsley cried for weeks."

I stood in the center of the room, unmoved by their performance.

"I'm here for my mother's estate, Donnell. Sign the papers, and I'll leave you to your pathetic little empire."

Aunt Carol stepped forward.

She had always hated my mother. She hated that my mother was kind, and she hated me for looking exactly like her.

"You don't deserve a dime," she spat. "Your mother was a weak fool, and you're just a dramatic little brat who-"

She raised her hand.

It was a reflex. She had slapped me a dozen times when I was a child, and I had always taken it.

She thought this was the same Ivy.

Her palm connected with my cheek.

The sting was sharp, but the silence that followed was deafening.

I didn't hold my cheek.

I didn't cry.

Instead, I slowly reached for a bottle of champagne sitting on the nearest table.

"You shouldn't have done that, Carol," I said, my voice terrifyingly calm.

I gripped the neck of the bottle and swung.

It connected with the table next to her hip, shattering into a thousand diamond shards.

She screamed, jumping back as glass sprayed across the expensive rug.

I stepped over the debris, my voice rising.

"Ivy Dillard is dead! I buried her myself! Touch me again, and you lose the hand."

The lobby doors burst open.

The air in the room changed instantly. It grew heavier, charged with a lethal static.

Three men walked in.

Alaric Richardson took the lead, his presence filling the massive space with suffocating authority.

Arnulfo, his Consigliere, was to his left.

And to his right was Collin.

My husband looked like death incarnate.

He saw the red mark on my cheek. He saw the shattered glass.

He didn't look at me.

He looked at Aunt Carol, and for the first time in her miserable life, she understood what true fear was.

"Who touched my wife?" Collin asked.

His voice was a low rumble that vibrated through the floorboards, promising violence.

Donnell collapsed back into his chair.

He recognized Alaric. Everyone in the underworld recognized the Capo dei Capi.

And in that moment, they realized, with dawning horror, that the girl they had slapped was no longer theirs to abuse.

She belonged to the monsters now.