Chapter 2 - The Master of the House
The sound of Vanessa’s cruel laughter followed me all the way to the French doors, but the moment I stepped inside the cool, marble-lined corridor of the west wing, the noise faded. Guests were still trickling out onto the lawn with their cocktails, whispering and recording the spectacle on their smartphones, thrilled to have witnessed a high-society humiliation.
I didn't rush. I didn't hang my head. I walked with my spine straight, the freezing water dripping from my navy dress onto the polished Italian limestone.
Daniel Brooks was waiting at the private service elevator, his face pale with fury. Beside him stood Marcus Vance, the head of estate security, whose jaw was set in rigid tension.
"Ms. Carter," Daniel breathed, his voice trembling with genuine distress as he pressed the keycard to summon the private lift. "I am so deeply sorry. If I had known she would dare lay a hand on you—"
"You couldn't have predicted she'd pick up a maintenance hose, Daniel," I said evenly, pulling the wet hair from my face. "Don't apologize for another woman's lack of class."
The elevator doors chimed and opened into the penthouse suite, an exclusive three-thousand-square-foot sanctuary that overlooked the entire sixty-acre estate. It was kept locked and reserved exclusively for my private use whenever I visited Connecticut.
"Get me a warm towel," I instructed as I stepped inside. "And bring up the contracts for today's event."
Within minutes, the executive staff was moving with surgical precision. Daniel handed me a thick plush robe while one of my personal stylists, who maintained the penthouse wardrobe, pulled out an impeccably tailored emerald silk jumpsuit with a structured cream blazer. It was an understated masterpiece worth more than Vanessa’s entire bridal trousseau.
As I stepped out of the private dressing room, towel-drying my dark curls, Daniel laid a leather-bound folder on the mahogany desk.
"Here is the paperwork for the Mitchell-Sterling wedding," Daniel said, adjusting his glasses. "Total booking fee was four hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Brandon Mitchell's father, Arthur Mitchell, paid a non-refundable deposit of one hundred and fifty thousand. The remaining balance of three hundred thousand was personally guaranteed by the bride, Vanessa Sterling, due at five o'clock today."
A cold smile touched my lips. "And what time is it now?"
Daniel checked his watch. "Five-fifteen, Ms. Carter. Her card declined twenty minutes ago."
"Did it really?" I leaned back against the desk, crossing my arms.
"Yes. Her personal bank flagged the transaction for insufficient funds. Furthermore, under section twelve of our private luxury contract, any guest or party causing intentional damage to the historic grounds, fountain fixtures, or staff property incurs immediate punitive fines and the immediate revocation of estate hospitality privileges."
I walked over to the floor-to-ceiling glass wall. Down below, on the manicured lawn, the party was continuing as if nothing had happened. My father, Richard, was strutting among Greenwich's elite with a glass of vintage scotch in his hand, laughing boisterously. My mother, Eleanor, was fawning over Brandon Mitchell’s wealthy relatives, basking in the reflected glow of high society.
And Vanessa was standing center stage near the terrace fountain, holding her champagne flute high, basking in the applause of people who didn't care about her.
They thought they were royalty today. They thought they had finally arrived at the summit of wealth and prestige, leaving their "failure" of an older daughter in the dirt.
"Daniel," I said softly, my voice cutting through the quiet suite.
"Yes, Ms. Carter?"
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"Cut the power to the garden terrace sound system. Close the open bar for all vintage reserves. And let Arthur Mitchell know that Rosewood Grand Estate is officially enforcing its breach-of-contract protocols."
Daniel’s eyes gleamed with quiet satisfaction. "With pleasure, ma'am."
