Chapter 7 - The Unwelcome ArrivalThe murmur of conversation died down in waves, starting near the entrance and rippling outward until the entire room fell into a stunned, suffocating silence.
Grant’s glass froze halfway to his mouth. The champagne flute slipped slightly, a few amber drops splashing onto his expensive wool sleeve. His eyes went wide, bulging in sheer, primal horror as he stared across the foyer.
“A—Ava?” Grant choked out, his voice cracking violently in front of his esteemed business associates. “How... how are you here? You’re supposed to be in Paris!”
I offered him a sweet, perfectly calm smile, walking slowly across the imported Persian rug toward the living room archway.
“Paris was lovely, Grant,” I replied, my voice carrying effortlessly through the hushed room. “Though the return flight was remarkably short once I realized my luggage didn't need to come back with me.”
Vivian pushed her way through the paralyzed crowd, her diamond necklace rattling against her collarbone as her face twisted into an ugly mask of panic. “You—you ruined the party! You were supposed to stay away! Grant, call security! Have this woman removed from the property immediately!”
“Security?” I laughed softly, stopping ten feet away from my husband. “Mother Miller, you might want to check whose name is actually on the deed before you start ordering evictions.”
Grant slammed his champagne flute down onto a mahogany side table, the crystal shattering into three jagged pieces as amber liquid spilled across the polished wood. He marched up to me, his face red with fury, dropping his public facade entirely.
“You manipulative little bitch,” Grant hissed under his breath, leaning down so the guests couldn't hear every word. “How did you get back? What did you do?”
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“I didn't do anything, Grant,” I said loudly enough for the front row of guests to hear every syllable. “You did it all yourself. Every forged signature, every wire transfer, every digital override... captured in pristine 4K metadata and backed by federal evidentiary logs.”
Grant’s face turned the color of ash. “You’re bluffing.”
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