The Surgeon Heiress's Cold-Blooded Revenge

Morning light flooded the dining room, harsh and unforgiving. She walked in. She was wearing a silk robe she found in the closet. It felt like water against her skin. Cedric was already eating. He was reading the Wall Street Journal on a tablet. He didn't look up. "Coffee," he said, gesturing to the machine. She ignored him. She walked to the machine and made herself a double espresso. She took a sip. It was bitter. Good. Wenfield placed a plate of eggs benedict in front of her. She picked up the knife and fork. She cut the egg. The yolk spilled out. She dissected the bacon with surgical precision. Cedric slid a piece of paper across the marble table. "Your allowance," he said. "Buy something decent for tonight. We're seeing my grandmother." She looked at the paper. It was a check. Signed by Cedric Mullen. The amount line was blank. A blank check. The old Chantelle would have squealed. She would have filled in a number with six zeros and run to Bergdorf's. She looked at Cedric. He was watching her, waiting for the greed. Waiting for her to prove she was just another gold digger. She reached for the silver lighter sitting next to his cigarettes. Click. The flame flared up. She held the corner of the check to the fire. Cedric's eyes narrowed. The paper curled, turning black. The fire ate his signature. She held it until the heat licked her fingertips, then she dropped the ash into her empty coffee cup. "I don't take payments," she said calmly. "We have a contract. I'll play the wife. I don't need a tip." Cedric stared at the ash floating in the coffee dregs. He looked... impressed. Or maybe annoyed. "Fine," he said, standing up. He buttoned his jacket. "Harrison is sending a styling team. Be ready at six. Don't be late." He walked out. As soon as the elevator doors closed, she pulled a burner phone from her robe sleeve. She had lifted it from the pocket of the driver the night before. She dialed a number she hadn't called in three years. It rang four times. "Yeah?" A voice answered. Loud music thumped in the background. "Jules," she said. Silence. Then, "Edythe? Holy shit. You're alive? I thought Arthur turned you into glue." "Close," she said. "I need you to check something. Arthur's company accounts. Specifically the offshore ones." "I can do that. But you gotta pay the toll. Come to the Sterling Club. Tonight." "I can't. I have a... family engagement." "After," Jules said. "Back door. Midnight." "Fine." She hung up and hid the phone in a hollowed-out book on the shelf. The doorbell rang. The stylists. They wheeled in racks of clothes. Pastels. Florals. "Mr. Mullen suggested soft colors," the lead stylist chirped. "To impress the grandmother." She pushed the rack of pink aside. She went to the back. She pulled out a black velvet gown. It was backless, severe, and elegant. "This one," she said. "But... black? For a family dinner?" "I'm mourning my freedom," she said. "Do my hair up. Tight." When she walked out of the bedroom at six o'clock, Cedric was waiting in the foyer. He stopped checking his watch. His eyes traveled from her heels to the severe bun at the nape of her neck. She looked like a widow who had just buried a rich husband and got away with it. "You're wearing black," he said. "It's slimming," she replied. "Shall we?" He didn't argue. He offered his arm. She took it. His muscles were hard under the suit. They looked like a power couple. They looked like war.