The kitchen of the Sterling lodge was a masterclass in rustic opulence—copper pots that had never seen a stove, marble countertops cold enough to perform surgery on, and a wine fridge bigger than Louise’s first apartment.
Standing by the island, pouring herself a glass of Chardonnay with a hand that bore a ten-carat diamond, was Sarah Sterling.
Louise’s mother.
She hadn't aged a day. Her skin was pulled tight, her hair was a chemically perfect shade of blonde, and her eyes were as hard and blue as glacial ice.
"You look tired, Louise," Sarah said, not turning around. "But I suppose that happens when you lose your meal ticket."
Louise walked into the room, her blood running cold. "Hello to you too, Mother."
Sarah turned, sipping her wine. She looked Louise up and down with a critical
