He threw me out on the street after inheriting 75 million, believing I was a burden. But when the lawyer read the final clause, his triumphant smile turned into a face of panic.

The day Arthur died, the world stopped for me. I had lost a father I’d learned to love. But for Curtis, it seemed as if the world had just begun. At the funeral, he wept—oh yes, he wept with Oscar-worthy elegance, dabbing his tears with a silk handkerchief while glancing sideways at his father’s business associates, calculating the value of the suits they were wearing.

Two days after the burial, the mask fell off.

I arrived home after taking care of the cemetery arrangements, exhausted, my eyes swollen. I found my suitcases in the entryway. They weren’t packed carefully—my clothes were crammed in, sleeves dangling, shoes scattered on the floor.

“Curtis?” I called, confused.

He came downstairs. He wasn’t in mourning. He wore a crisp shirt, expensive watch, and held a glass of champagne. He looked radiant—and terrifying.

—Vanessa, sweetheart—he said, his voice dripping with sweet poison—I think it’s time for you to go your own way.

“What are you talking about?” I asked, dropping my keys.