Chapter 4: Taking What's Mine
I don't knock.
I push through the front door of the Hartwell estate like I own it—because technically, half of it should be mine.
Claire is in the foyer arranging flowers. She drops the vase when she sees me. Water spills across the marble floor.
"Elena—"
I don't stop. Don't even look at her. I head straight for the stairs.
"Elena, wait!" Claire's heels click frantically behind me. "You can't just—Richard!"
I'm already halfway up the staircase when Dad appears at the top.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" His voice booms through the house.
"Getting what's mine."
I keep climbing. He moves to block me, his body filling the landing.
"You need to leave. Now."
"Move."
"This is MY house—"
"This is my MOTHER'S house!" My voice cuts through his. "Or did you forget that she owned forty percent of this property? That it was supposed to come to me?"
His face reddens. "You have no right—"
"I have every right." I step forward until we're inches apart. "Now get out of my way."
"You ungrateful little—" He grabs my arm.
I look down at his hand, then back at his face. My voice drops to something cold and deadly calm.
"Let. Go."
"Richard." Claire is at the bottom of the stairs, her hand pressed to her mouth. "Maybe we should just talk about this—"
"There's nothing to talk about." I yank my arm free and push past him.
I know exactly where I'm going. Second floor, east wing. The biggest bedroom in the house—the one that used to be mine before they gave it to Vanessa when I turned sixteen.
My footsteps echo down the hallway.
"Elena, stop!" Dad is behind me, his voice shaking with rage. "If you take one more step toward that room, I will call security and have you thrown out of this house!"
I freeze. Turn slowly.
"Go ahead," I say. "Call them. And while they're on their way, I'll call the police and report that you're in possession of stolen property. Fifteen million dollars worth, to be exact. Including my mother's entire jewelry collection."
The color drains from his face.
"That jewelry was—"
"Left to me in her will. Every. Single. Piece." I pull out my phone and hold it up. "James Reeves has the documentation. Photographs. Appraisals. A complete itemized list. So please, Dad, call security. I'll call the police. We'll see who arrives first and who gets arrested."
Silence.
His jaw works. His hands clench into fists at his sides. But he doesn't move.
Behind him, Claire lets out a choked sob. "Elena, how could you? How could you be so selfish? We raised you! We gave you everything!"
I laugh. It's sharp and bitter.
"You raised me?" I look at her. Really look at her. "You tolerated me while you stole from me. There's a difference."
"We never stole anything!" Her voice rises, shrill and desperate. "That money was used for this family, for this house—"
"For Vanessa's car," I cut her off. "For Vanessa's clothes. For Vanessa's birthday parties. Don't pretend this was about family, Claire. This was about making sure your daughter got everything while I got nothing."
"That's not true!" Vanessa's voice rings out from her bedroom doorway.
I turn to look at her.
She's standing there in a silk robe, one hand pressed to her chest, the other gripping the doorframe. Her face is the picture of devastation—eyes wide and glassy, bottom lip trembling, cheeks flushed just the right shade of pink.
"Elena, please!" Her voice breaks perfectly, like she's been practicing. "I'm your sister!"
She runs toward me, and I watch her performance with detached amusement. The way her hair bounces with each step. The way her robe slips just slightly off one shoulder. The way she times her sob for maximum impact.
She's good. I'll give her that.
"Please," she sobs, grabbing my hands. Her nails dig into my skin—hard enough to hurt, calculated to seem desperate. "Don't do this. We can fix this. We can be a family again—"
I pull my hands away.
"We were never a family."
"Yes, we were!" Her voice breaks again. She's got tears streaming down her face now, but her eyes—her eyes are watching me. Calculating. Measuring my reaction. "I loved you! You were my big sister! You taught me how to braid my hair, you—"
"Stop."
"—you helped me with my homework, you protected me at school—" Her voice rises, getting more hysterical with each word. But it's controlled hysteria. Practiced.
"I said stop."
"How can you just throw all of that away?" She reaches for me again, and I see it—that split second where her mask slips. The cold calculation in her eyes before the tears start again. "How can you be so cruel?"
I lean in close. My voice is soft, deadly.
"You want to see cruel, Vanessa? Keep talking."
I walk past her into her room.
"NO!" She lunges after me, but Dad catches her arm. "Don't let her! Dad, please, don't let her take my things!"
The performance continues. She's struggling against Dad's grip, but not hard enough to actually break free. Her sobs are perfectly timed, perfectly pitched.
"They're not your things," I say without turning around.
The room is massive. White furniture, gold accents, a canopy bed fit for royalty. The walk-in closet is bigger than most people's bedrooms. Designer clothes line the walls. Shoes that cost thousands of dollars each.
All of it bought with my mother's money.
I walk straight to the vanity.
And there it is.
My mother's jewelry box. Rosewood with mother-of-pearl inlay, sitting right there in plain sight like it belongs to Vanessa. Like my mother's most precious possessions are just another accessory for her to show off.
I pick it up.
"Put that down." Dad's voice is low and dangerous. He's in the doorway now, his face purple with rage.
I open the box instead.
The sapphire necklace. The diamond earrings. The pearl bracelet. The emerald ring. Every piece my mother wore, every piece she promised would be mine someday.
"PUT IT DOWN!"
I close the box and tuck it under my arm.
"No."
"Elena, please!" Vanessa is sobbing so hard she can barely breathe—or at least that's what it looks like. But I catch the way she peeks through her fingers to see if I'm watching. "Please, that's all I have of her! That's all I have to remember—"
"Remember what?" I turn to face her. "You barely knew her. She died when you were eight years old."
"She was kind to me!" Vanessa's voice cracks with perfect timing. She drops to her knees—actually drops to her knees like she's in a stage play. "She was the only mother I ever really had, and you're taking away the only things I have left of her!"
Her shoulders shake with sobs. Her hands cover her face. But through her fingers, I can see her eyes. Dry. Cold. Watching.
"She wasn't your mother," I say. "She was mine."
Vanessa's whole body trembles. She lets out a wail that would make any drama teacher proud.
But I remember this exact performance from my past life. The crying. The begging. The broken little sister act.
It worked on me then. It made me give her everything she wanted because I couldn't stand to see her "suffer."
Not anymore.
My eyes catch on something else on the vanity. Car keys. A BMW key fob with a little charm attached—a silver "V" for Vanessa.
The fifty-thousand-dollar car Dad bought her for her eighteenth birthday last month.
I pick up the keys.
"What are you doing?" Claire's voice is sharp with panic.
"Taking what's mine."
"Those are Vanessa's car keys!"
"Wrong." I turn to face them. All three of them are staring at me like I've lost my mind. "This car was purchased with funds from my trust account. James Reeves pulled the transaction records. Fifty thousand dollars, withdrawn on May 15th, marked as 'vehicle purchase for Elena Hartwell.'" I jangle the keys. "Except I never got a car, did I? Vanessa did."
"No!" Vanessa scrambles to her feet with impressive speed for someone who was just "devastated." "No, you can't—Dad gave me that car! It's mine!"
"Dad had no right to give it to you."
"Please!" She's in front of me now, reaching for the keys. Her tears have miraculously dried up enough for her to function perfectly fine. "Please, Elena, I need that car! How am I supposed to—"
"To where?" I hold the keys out of reach. "You don't have a job. You don't go to school. Where exactly do you need to drive?"
Her face flushes red. For a moment—just a moment—the mask drops completely. Her eyes flash with pure hatred. Her mouth twists into something ugly.
Then she catches herself and the tears start again. "That's not—I—you don't understand—"
"Oh, I understand perfectly." I step closer. She steps back. "I understand that you've been playing the victim your entire life. Poor Vanessa. Sweet Vanessa. Vanessa who needs to be taken care of."
"I'm not—"
"Let me be clear." I cut her off. "Everything in this room that was bought with my money is mine. The car. The clothes. The jewelry. All of it."
"You can't do this!" Claire shrieks. "Richard, do something!"
But Dad just stands there, his face gray now instead of purple. He knows he's beaten.
"I'm taking the car," I say. "It was bought with my mother's money."
Vanessa's hands clench into fists at her sides. Her whole body goes rigid. And then—
Her face contorts. Not with sadness. With rage.
For one perfect moment, the mask is completely gone. I see her for exactly what she is. What she's always been.
A manipulator. A liar. A thief.
Someone who would smile while I died.
Then she schools her expression back into grief, letting out another perfectly timed sob. But it's too late.
I saw the truth.
I smirk.
"Goodbye, Vanessa."
I walk toward the door. They part like the Red Sea, too shocked to stop me.
I'm halfway down the stairs when Vanessa's voice rings out behind me. And this time—this time there's no performance. Just pure venom.
"I HATE YOU!"
I don't turn around. Don't respond.
Because in my past life, she did worse than hate me.
She killed me.
I load the jewelry box into my car—not the one I drove here, but Vanessa's BMW that's parked in the garage. The leather interior still has that new car smell. The dashboard is pristine. There are expensive sunglasses in the center console.
I start the engine. It purrs to life.
Through the rearview mirror, I can see them all standing on the front steps. Dad's arm is around Claire, who's pressing a tissue to her eyes. Vanessa is standing slightly apart from them, and even from this distance, I can see it.
No tears. No devastation.
Just cold, calculated fury.
Her arms are crossed. Her jaw is tight. She's staring at my car—her car—with an expression that would terrify most people.
But I know what she's capable of.
And I'm ready for her.
I put the car in gear and drive away.
I don't look back.
The townhouse feels different now that I have my mother's things.
I place the jewelry box on the empty kitchen counter—the only surface available since I haven't bought furniture yet. I open it slowly, letting my fingers trail over each piece.
The sapphire necklace catches the afternoon light, throwing blue sparks across the wall.
I'm holding the pearl bracelet when my phone buzzes.
A text from Reeves: Your father's attorney called. He's threatening to sue for the jewelry and the car. I told him to go ahead and try. We have all the documentation. He hung up.
I smile and text back: Good.
Another buzz. Unknown number.
This is Marcus Chen, Mr. Sinclair's assistant. He asked me to inform you that the car will arrive at 6:45 PM tomorrow evening to take you to the gala. Please be ready.
Formal. Cold. Efficient.
Just like I remember Marcus being.
I'm about to put my phone down when the doorbell rings.
I freeze.
No one knows I'm here except Reeves. And my family, but they wouldn't dare show up after this morning.
I walk to the door and peer through the peephole.
A delivery man in a uniform stands there, holding a large box.
I open the door a crack. "Yes?"
"Delivery for Elena Hartwell."
"From who?"
He checks his tablet. "Sender is listed as A. Sinclair."
My heart skips.
I open the door fully and sign for the package. The box is large, wrapped in black paper with a silver ribbon.
I carry it inside and set it on the floor. For a moment I just stare at it.
Adrian Sinclair sent me something.
Slowly, I untie the ribbon and pull away the paper.
Inside is a dress box. Expensive, from a boutique I recognize—one of those places where you need an appointment just to walk through the door.
I lift the lid.
The dress inside is black. Not navy, not charcoal—pure, deep black. The fabric is silk, liquid-smooth, and when I lift it out, I see the design.
It's breathtaking.
A high neckline. Long sleeves. But the back—
The back is completely open, cut so low it would reach the base of my spine. And the fabric is structured to hug every curve, every line, like it was designed specifically for my body.
It's elegant and scandalous all at once.
At the bottom of the box is a small card in heavy cardstock. The handwriting is bold, masculine, written in black ink.
Saw this and thought of you. Wear it to the gala. I'm quite sure you will look like sin.
- A
I read it three times.
My fingers trace the words. The handwriting is confident, almost aggressive. The message is—
Flirtatious. Direct. Possessive.
This is not the Adrian I remember. That Adrian barely looked at me for years. He certainly never sent me dresses or called me sinful.
I hold the card against my chest and look at the dress.
In my past life, he didn't become attentive until I was twenty-six. Didn't really see me until after years of cold indifference.
But this Adrian—
This Adrian is different.
I pick up the dress and hold it against my body, looking at my reflection in the window. The black silk makes my skin look luminous. The cut is sophisticated, mature. Sexy.
I smile.
Then I catch myself.
No.
This is business. This is strategy. This is about securing my future and getting revenge on my family.
Adrian Sinclair is a means to an end. Nothing more.
The fact that he's gorgeous and attentive and sends me dresses that make my pulse race—that's all part of his strategy too. He said it himself. He needs this to look convincing.
I carefully fold the dress back into the box.
Tomorrow night, I'll wear his dress. I'll take his arm. I'll smile at his side and play the role of the perfect fiancée.
But I won't forget what this really is.
A business arrangement.
Nothing more.
Even if my racing heart is trying to tell me otherwise.