Chapter 1
My wrist stung where her nail had scratched it, but I didn’t move.
I just stared at the stainless steel trash can in the corner of the living room, the lid still rattling from how hard she’d slammed it.
I’d spent seven days on that drawing.
Every night after my six-year-old daughter Mia fell asleep, I’d sat at her tiny craft table with the sparkly crayons she’d gotten for Christmas, the ones she’d insisted I use because “rainbows need glitter to be real.”
I’d erased and redone each face a dozen times.
Tall Daddy in his navy suit, just back from his two-month business trip to Asia.
Me, with the messy bun Mia always said made me look like a “nice princess.”
Mia, with her two pigtails tied in the pink ribbons she refused to take off.
And in the middle, holding all our hands, Elena.
My stepmom.
The woman who’d moved into our house two years prior, who’d never once asked Mia how her day was, who’d called me a “disappointment” for getting pregnant at 22 and refusing to give Mia up for adoption.
I’d made the drawing as a peace offering.
I’d thought if I showed her I wanted us to be a family, she’d soften.
Maybe she’d stop side-eyeing Mia when she thought I wasn’t looking.
Maybe she’d stop making comments about how “unfit” single mothers were to raise Langford heirs.
Daddy had walked in ten minutes prior, still in his suit, his tie loose around his neck, exhaustion etched into every line of his face.
But when he’d seen me clutching the wrapped paper to my chest, Mia hiding shyly behind my leg, his eyes had crinkled at the corners.
“Is that for me, bug?” he’d said, using the nickname he’d had for me since I was small.
I’d nodded, stepping forward.
That’s when Elena had rounded the corner from the kitchen.
She wore her signature cream silk blouse, her heels clicking sharp on the marble floors, her long nails painted that deep, bloody red she favored.
The second her gaze landed on the wrapped paper in my hands, her face twisted like she’d smelled rotting meat.
“What is that garbage?” she snapped, not even glancing at Daddy.
I shrank back a little, but held the paper higher.
“It’s a drawing,” I whispered, my throat tight. “For you and Daddy. I worked really hard all week. Mia helped pick the crayons.”
Before Daddy could even push himself off the leather sofa, Elena was on me.
She snatched the paper out of my hands so fast her sharp nail raked a thin line down my wrist.
She didn’t unfold it.
Not even a single peek.
She turned on her heel, marched straight to the trash can by the kitchen island, lifted the lid, and dropped my drawing inside.
SLAM.
The metallic clang echoed so loud through the high-ceilinged room Mia flinched and grabbed the back of my shirt.
My whole body went cold.
“No!” I screamed, before I could think better of it.
I ran to the can before either of them could stop me, shoving both arms deep into the garbage.
My cream silk blouse— the nice one I’d bought for Daddy’s homecoming— got covered in cold coffee grounds, mushy banana peels, the soggy remains of Mia’s half-eaten pop-tart from breakfast.
I didn’t care.
My fingers closed around the crumpled wrapping paper and I hauled it out, gasping like I’d just pulled it from a fire.
I tore the paper open with shaking hands.
There it was.
Four stick figures under a bright rainbow I’d colored with every single sparkly crayon we owned, all holding hands.
Our family.
The family I’d wanted so badly to be real.
Tears poured down my face so fast I could barely see the crayon marks.
Mia made a small, hurt sound behind me and ran to my side, grabbing my soiled blouse in her tiny fists.
“Mommy,” she whispered, her lip trembling. “Why did she throw your picture away?”
I looked up at Daddy, holding the crumpled, coffee-stained drawing to my chest like a shield.
His face had gone completely white.
He stared at the rainbow, at the four little figures, at the dirt all over my shirt, at the tears on Mia’s cheeks.
His jaw tightened so hard the muscle jumped in his cheek, the way it always did when he was holding back rage so big it scared even him.
Slowly, he stood up from the sofa.
Elena crossed her arms over her chest, curling her lip like the drawing was still rotting in her trash can.
“It’s just a messy scribble,” she said coldly, nodding at the mess on the floor. “She can’t even draw a straight line. And now she’s got garbage all over my marble. This is exactly why I said she shouldn’t be bringing that child here—they’re both just slobs who don’t respect nice things.”
Daddy turned to look at her.
The tired, soft look in his eyes was gone.
In its place was something dark. Something furious I’d only seen once before, when a business partner had tried to cheat him out of the company he’d built from nothing.
He took one long step toward me.
Then he stood right in front of me, his big, broad body shielding mine and Mia’s completely from Elena, like he was a wall and she was a storm trying to break through.
He looked her dead in the eye.
And he roared so loud the windows in the living room rattled:
“OUR DAUGHTER DREW THIS FOR US!”
Elena’s face went slack.
Her red mouth fell open, but no sound came out.
For the first time since she’d moved into our house, since she’d started manipulating Daddy, spending his money, turning his friends against me, she had absolutely nothing to say.
She’d spent two years getting everything she ever wanted from him.
The designer clothes.
The private jets.
The title of Mrs. Richard Langford, wife of the billionaire founder of Langford Group.
She’d never once thought he’d choose me.
Choose us.
Over her.
I stood there behind him, Mia’s small hand clamped in mine, the crumpled drawing still pressed to my chest, and for the first time in two years, I let myself breathe.
I thought it was over.
I thought Elena would finally back down.
I thought we’d get our family back.
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I had no idea that in three weeks’ time, Daddy would be dead.
And Elena would take everything.
