Renovation Gone Very Wrong

She shoved me again. I stumbled, staring straight up at the chandelier.

Dozens of pounds of crystal swayed above me, barely hanging on. The wires sparked—tiny, sharp zzzts slicing the air.

The workers paled.

"This isn't safe, Ms. Scambley! Someone could get seriously hurt!"

"Don't be dramatic! I picked that chandelier myself—there's nothing wrong with it! Turn it on. My friends want to see it shine. If something happens, I'll take full responsibility!"

The electrician—clearly ticked but stuck—froze. His paycheck came from her.

Before he could move, Mona's friends shoved past and yanked the breaker.

The second the switch flipped, I grabbed Mona's wrist and dragged her under the chandelier with me.

"Ms. Scambley, a light this gorgeous? We HAVE to enjoy it together."

Zzzzzaaap—

Sparks cracked. The overhead lights stuttered, the room flashing between bright and blackout.

Clang!

One of the steel cables snapped with a sharp pop.

The chandelier tilted hard. Crystals burst midair, raining down like glass hail.

Mona shrieked and shoved me off, scrambling across the floor in full-blown panic.

I backed away just as fast, heart pounding.

Half a second later—boom—the chandelier slammed into the spot we'd just been standing. Shattered on impact.

A crystal the size of my fist landed inches from my foot.

Half a step more, and it would've cracked my skull.

Everyone stood frozen.

Mona, still shaking and pale, pointed at me from the floor, screaming, "Psycho! You psycho—you tried to kill me! That's a crime, you know?!"

I brushed myself off and looked down at her. "Funny. That's exactly what I was about to ask you. You forced me to stand there—I just returned the favor.

"If we're assigning blame, it's all yours. Maybe think twice before pulling reckless stunts. It'd be a shame if this brand-new house turned into a crime scene."

Mona jabbed a finger at me. "Y-You bitch! Just wait! I'm firing you and bringing in a real supervisor!"

Her friends helped her up, heels wobbling as they hustled her out.

Exactly what I expected.

I'd already spread the word through my contacts the moment I started gathering proof.

I convinced the original supervisor to bail and warned others off the job.

Mona couldn't find a replacement and went quiet for two days.

Still hated seeing me, though.

Too bad. I was the supervisor. Without my sign-off, she couldn't charge a cent to the card Daxton gave me.

Then one day, she waltzed back in, smug all over her face, holding a reimbursement form.

"This covers the rest of the renovations. Total's $2.6 million. Go confirm the payment."

The budget I gave Daxton? $1.3 million—plenty.

Now she was asking for double.

Where the hell was the extra going?

I opened the list and skimmed it:

Along with the earlier junk, she'd tacked on:

• Air-shipped spring water system from the Alps – $220,000

• Italian hand-gilded wallpaper – $375,000

• Bathtub used by "French royalty" – $1,850,000

Totally fake or insanely overpriced—some marked up tenfold.

I looked at her. "This list serious?"