"Keep it slow. I don't need to scrape this car in front of all these vultures."
The driver gives a curt nod and eases the Rolls-Royce down the slick cobblestone driveway. Rain hammers the windshield, the wipers thumping in a steady rhythm. Through the glass I see umbrellas dotting the lawn like a sea of black mushrooms, heads turning as soon as we roll through the iron gates.
Sterlings. They don't need a program to know who I am. They smell blood in the water, and I'm the fresh meat.
The car stops in front of the estate's marble steps, and the doorman rushes forward with an umbrella. I wave him off, pushing the door open myself. My heels click against the wet stone as I climb out, head held higher than I feel.
Behind me, another black Bentley pulls up. I catch sight of my brother Adrian stepping out, all smiles, shaking hands like it's a campaign rally instead of a funeral. His mother, Vivian Sterling, draped in pearls and widow's black, floats at his side like royalty greeting their subjects.
I mutter under my breath, "Perfect. The golden boy and his queen mother."
A cluster of guests lean close, whispering. I can practically hear it: She came. After all these years.
I tighten my grip on my clutch and walk up the steps, ignoring the stares, ignoring the whispers, ignoring the ghosts I swear are watching me from the windows above.
The voice drips down the marble steps like oil. Adrian blocks the doorway, his black umbrella held casually over his head, as if the storm is nothing but background music. His smile is politician-smooth, the kind that doesn't touch his eyes.
"Brother," I answer flatly, brushing past him. The word tastes like vinegar on my tongue, but I say it anyway. I want the guests to hear. I want them to remember the scandal.
He leans in just enough for me to catch the expensive bite of his cologne. "Stepbrother," he corrects softly, voice for me alone. "Let's not confuse anyone about who really belongs here."
I don't give him the satisfaction of a reaction. My heels echo in the entrance hall as I step inside.
The Sterling estate smells the same as it did when I was a child — money and mothballs. Crystal chandeliers blaze overhead, catching on gold frames of ancestors who never would have claimed me as one of their own. Rows of black-clad guests fill the pews of the private chapel, heads turning like sunflowers tracking the light. Only I'm not the light. I'm the storm cloud.
At the front, Vivian Sterling sits in the first row, draped in widow's black. Pearls gleam at her throat, a matching brooch winking against her veil. She doesn't look back at me, not yet. Her posture is perfect, a silent decree: I am the true Sterling widow. You are just a mistake my husband left behind.
The priest clears his throat, fumbling with his notes, but Adrian rises smoothly, a hand brushing his cufflinks as if he's on stage. Of course he is. He launches into a eulogy that sounds less like grief and more like a pitch deck.
"My father," Adrian begins, voice rich and mournful, "was a titan. A man who built an empire with his bare hands. A man who taught us all the value of discipline, of loyalty, of family."
I nearly choke. Family? This is the same man who sent my mother away with a check and a lawyer.
Applause ripples politely when Adrian finishes, because that's what you do at a Sterling funeral — you clap like it's the opera.
And then I feel it. Eyes. A gaze that isn't polite, isn't curious. It's sharper, heavier. I follow the pull to the back of the room.
Carlos Blackwood.
He doesn't sit. He leans against the stone pillar like the shadows belong to him, black suit cut sharp, hands in his pockets. He doesn't clap. He doesn't move. He just watches me.
And suddenly, the air feels different. Charged.
The priest clears his throat again, shuffling papers like he wants to vanish into them. "If anyone else would like to share a few words…"
Before I can stop myself, I stand. Gasps ripple. Adrian's smile freezes, then tightens at the edges.
My heels tap across the marble floor as I walk to the front. I don't look at Vivian. I don't look at Adrian. I face the crowd of black suits and veils and bored billionaires, every one of them waiting for me to embarrass myself.
"My father," I begin, my voice carrying farther than I expect, "was a man who knew how to build walls. Glass walls, steel walls, walls between himself and everyone who ever tried to love him."
A low murmur buzzes through the pews.
"He loved his empire. He loved control. But family?" I let the word hang. "Not so much."
Vivian shifts in her seat, pearls clicking as her head tilts just enough for the room to catch her disapproval. Adrian's jaw ticks.
I smile sweetly. "Rest in peace, Richard Sterling. I hope you find the walls less necessary where you are now."
Dead silence.
Then a cough from the back. A faint chuckle. Carlos Blackwood. The sound cuts through the chapel like a blade, and all at once I realize this man isn't just watching me. He's weighing me.
I walk back to my seat, pulse hammering, and the whispers start. Not polite this time. Hungry.
After the service, the family is herded into the library — mahogany, leather chairs, a fireplace still burning despite the heat of the crowd. The lawyer clears his throat, papers trembling slightly in his hands.
Vivian sits regal at the head of the table, Adrian at her right like the heir apparent. I take a chair halfway down, deliberately distant. Carlos leans against the wall in the corner, arms folded, watching. Always watching.
The lawyer begins. "As per the wishes of the late Richard Sterling…"
Property. Estates. Minor bequests. None of it matters until his voice sharpens.
"…and to my daughter, Isabella Sterling, I leave shares of Sterling Global. sixty-one percent."
The room erupts.
Vivian's pearls snap against her throat as her head whips toward me. Adrian half-rises out of his chair, face flushed, eyes blazing. The board members present shift in their seats, some hiding smiles, others glaring daggers.
I can't breathe.
The lawyer holds up a hand. "There is… one condition. The shares shall be hers only if she agrees to co-run the company for one year. Alongside my appointed Chief Executive Officer, Carlos Blackwood."
Every gaze in the room swings toward him. Carlos doesn't blink. Doesn't move. He only tilts his head slightly, as if he's been expecting this all along.
And me? My world tilts.
Adrian slams his fist against the table. "This is outrageous!"
Vivian's voice slices through the room, smooth and cold. "Richard has made a mistake. Isabella doesn't belong in Sterling Global."
All I can hear is Carlos's voice, low, steady, cutting through the chaos like it's meant for me alone:
"Welcome to the game."