Chapter 3

"Brandy."

One word. I said it quietly.

She froze mid-step. The Starbucks cup stopped halfway to her lips.

I watched the color drain out of her face in real time.

"That's not my name," she said.

"Brandy Jenkins," I said. "Odessa, Texas. Your father owed $40,000 to a local dealer and was three days away from handing you over to cover it. You were sixteen."

The lobby had gone completely silent.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Her voice was steady but her jaw was tight.

"The Halo Trust Fund," I said. "Anonymous donor. Except I'm the donor. I have every wire transfer, every tuition invoice, every lease co-sign going back ten years. The nose job. The veneers. The name change."

I tilted my head.

"Did you really think I wouldn't recognize my own investment?"

Something shifted behind her eyes.

The socialite act cracked — and what came through wasn't embarrassment.

It was rage.

"You want a thank you?" Her voice came out sharp and ugly.

"Is that what this is? You write a few checks and you think you own my whole life?"

"I think you walked into my company under a fake identity," I said. "That's what I think."

"I earned everything I have." She was shaking now.

"Every single thing. You were born in a penthouse and you have no idea what it feels like to survive on someone else's pity. Every dollar you sent made me sick."

"You want the truth? I'm glad I took it. I'd do it again."

She took a step toward me, chin up, voice dropping to something vicious and triumphant.

"And I don't need you anymore. I have Preston now. And when he takes over this company, everything you built — everything your precious grandfather bled for — is going to be ours."

I looked at her. "You think Preston can take my company."

"I think he already has." She smiled. "You've been gone a month, Sloane. Look around."

I looked around.

She wasn't entirely wrong.

New security at every entrance. New faces at the front desk. The espresso machines were gone, replaced with a sign about "wellness-aligned beverage policies."

Three employees I recognized from the senior floor were sitting in the lobby with cardboard boxes on their laps.

"Get her out," Genevieve said to the guards, like she'd been giving that order for months. "She's trespassing."

"I am the majority shareholder of this building," I said flatly.

"And I have a restraining order filed this morning citing workplace harassment." She pulled out her phone and showed me the document.

"Preston signed it. Your name is on it. You come within fifty feet of this office, you're in violation." She tilted her head, mimicking my earlier gesture.

"Did you really think he wouldn't prepare?"

The two guards grabbed my arms.

I didn't fight it.

One of them twisted hard — too hard, deliberately — and I felt my knee buckle as they shoved me toward the door.

The marble step caught me wrong and I went down, both palms hitting the floor, the impact cracking up through my wrists.

I stayed there for a moment. On my knees. On my own floor.

Around me, my employees looked away.

Genevieve crouched down to my level, voice soft enough that only I could hear.

"This is my house now, Brandy was a girl who needed saving." She stood back up.

"Genevieve Laurent takes what she wants."

The guards grabbed my arms again to drag me the rest of the way out.