“My husband locked me in the kitchen and ordered me to cook sixty dishes for his mother’s birthday. By noon, he would be the one begging me to stay.” / Chapter 6 / 20

Chapter 6 - The Prelude at NoonBy 11:30 AM, the grand living room of Condo 42B was transformed into a showcase of stolen luxury.

Fiona had spared no expense on decoration—ironically using the secondary credit card linked to my primary account. Lush arrangements of white hydrangeas and eucalyptus overflowed from crystal vases. The thirty-foot dining table, draped in damask linen, sat barren except for gold-rimmed china plates and polished silverware.

Twenty-five guests had already arrived: neighborhood socialites, members of Fiona’s book club, and a handful of Julian’s "business associates"—wealthy men he desperately tried to impress in hopes of securing angel investment for his non-existent consulting ventures.

Julian stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows, wearing a tailored navy suit, holding a flute of vintage champagne. He smiled smoothly, nodding along as an elderly investor discussed commercial real estate. But every forty seconds, his eyes darted toward the empty, gleaming kitchen.

His jaw tightened.

It was 11:48 AM.

Fiona, dressed in an ice-blue silk gown that cost more than my first car, glided through the crowd like a queen receiving homage. But behind her practiced smile, her eyes were burning with rage. She wove through the guests and cornered Julian near the quartz island.

"Where is she, Julian?" Fiona hissed under her breath, her smile fixed for the room while her voice dripped with venom. "The guests are asking why there are no appetizers. Mrs. Gable just asked if we were fasting!"

"She's playing games, Mom," Julian muttered through gritted teeth, his knuckles turning white around his champagne glass. "She thinks because she stayed in the pantry all night she can make a point by being late. I'll deal with her the moment she walks through that door."

"You should have kept her locked in until the food was on the table!" Fiona whispered sharply. "If she embarrasses me today, Julian, I swear to God—"

The heavy oak front door of the penthouse swung open.

The chatter in the room quieted slightly as heads turned.

I stepped through the threshold.

I wasn't wearing an apron. I wasn't carrying flour-dusted bags or trays of prep work.

I was wearing a sharp, dark charcoal wool coat over a tailored cream turtleneck, my hair pulled back into a sleek, flawless knot. In my right hand, I carried three heavy paper grocery bags from Whole Foods—just enough to fulfill the visual illusion for a single second.

Fiona immediately marched toward me, her heels clicking loudly against the marble entry.

"It's about time!" Fiona snapped, not bothering to lower her voice enough to spare the nearby guests. "Look at this table, Sloan! It's empty! Where have you been for four hours?!"

Julian stepped up behind his mother, his face dark with a dangerous, promises-of-retribution glare. "Set those bags in the kitchen, Sloan. Now. We'll discuss your little stunt after the guests leave."

I set the three grocery bags on the entry console table.

"I brought the groceries," I said, my voice ringing out with crystal clarity—cool, steady, and entirely devoid of fear. "But I don't think you'll have much of an appetite."

Julian's brow furrowed. "What did you say to me?"

Behind me, the elevator chime echoed softly down the private foyer.