Chapter 1
The white paint hit Madeline Pierce before she had time to speak.
One second, she was stepping into the half-renovated living room of the mansion with a sealed plastic folder pressed against her chest.
The next, a full bucket of paint exploded across her face, hair, dress, and shoulders.
Cold liquid covered her eyes.
It ran down her cheeks.
It soaked the front of her elegant beige dress and splattered across the plastic floor covers beneath her feet.
Madeline staggered backward, both eyes squeezed shut, one hand reaching blindly for balance.
Across the room, Sloane Avery stood beside the paint buckets in designer heels and an expensive cream blouse, smiling like she had just corrected a mistake.
“He said this house is mine now.”
The living room smelled of dust, wet paint, and expensive betrayal.
Luxury sofas were covered in white sheets.
The unfinished walls were patched and raw.
Plastic sheets crinkled under Madeline’s feet as she tried to breathe through the shock.
She wiped paint from her eyelids with shaking fingers.
“Sloane—”
Sloane stormed forward and shoved her hard by the shoulder.
Madeline fell onto the plastic-covered floor beside the scattered folder.
The impact knocked the air from her lungs.
The empty paint bucket swung from Sloane’s hand.
Sloane looked down at her, lips curling.
“Now you look exactly like what you are — trash.”
Madeline stayed still for one second.
Not because she was broken.
Because she was counting.
Her breaths.
The camera angle.
The distance to the folder.
The front door.
The fact that Sloane had touched her first.
Then Madeline slowly sat up.
White paint dripped from her hair onto the plastic.
Her hands trembled as she reached for the sealed folder.
Sloane laughed.
“What are you doing? Looking for a tissue?”
Madeline opened the plastic flap.
Inside, untouched by the paint, was a clean property deed.
Official seal.
Recorded number.
Her name.
Madeline Anne Pierce.
Sole owner.
Sloane’s smile disappeared.
Madeline lifted her eyes.
Her voice was cold.
“Move out of my way.”
Before Sloane could answer, the front door opened.
Daniel Pierce walked in wearing expensive casual clothes, phone still in his hand, face already guilty before he understood what he was seeing.
Then he stopped.
His wife was on the floor, covered in white paint.
His mistress stood above her holding an empty bucket.
The deed lay between them like a loaded weapon.
Madeline placed it flat on the plastic-covered floor.
Daniel’s face went pale.
Madeline looked from him to Sloane.
“You poured paint on the owner of this house.”
Daniel swallowed.
“Sloane, what did you do?”
Sloane turned to him, suddenly panicked.
“You said it was ours.”
Madeline laughed once.
Quiet.
Painful.
“No. He said what he needed you to believe.”
She rose slowly to her knees, paint sliding down her dress, face calm now in a way that made Daniel step back.
Then she looked up.
Near the ceiling, above the unfinished fireplace, a small security camera blinked red.
Daniel followed her gaze.
So did Sloane.
May you like
Madeline’s voice cut through the room.
“And now the cameras have everything.”
