My Death Was Never About You

I was the Whitmores’ biological daughter, lost to the slums.

To survive, I’d worked nights in clubs—singing, dancing, drinking with customers, even flirting with them.

They despised that sordid past. To them, I was a filthy burden on the Whitmore name.

The only daughter they had ever acknowledged was Chloe.

Their delicate, beautiful, beloved art prodigy.

Fine. Then I would show them just how rotten a soul could hide inside that pretty angel.

And drag them all to hell.

Chloe’s painting had been stolen. The robber had slashed her right hand, cutting down to the bone.