The whispers had reached me first. Servants talk when they think no one is listening. I’d caught enough to know that my ex-boyfriend—my so-called “first love”—was stirring poison into his father’s ear, hoping to paint me as manipulative, unworthy, and dangerous
But if he thought I’d sit quietly while he wove his little schemes, he had underestimated me.
I smiled sweetly at the mirror, applying a stroke of crimson lipstick, the kind that left dangerous promises on crystal glasses and men’s skin alike. Let him plot. Let him think he is clever. Tonight, the game ends.
At dinner, the air was electric. His father—the man who owned every inch of me with just his eyes—sat at the head of the table, regal in his dark suit. The son sat two seats down, looking far too smug for his own good. He tho
