"ALLISON!"
Martha Morrison's voice tore across the patio like a blade.
I looked up just as she came storming toward me, heels stabbing against the stone, pearls gleaming against her stiff neck, rage burning so hot in her face it almost made her look ugly.
Almost.
I had learned one thing very quickly in this house.
When Martha Morrison was angry, it was better to let her explode in public than save it for private. Public anger came with witnesses. Private anger came with creativity.
So I straightened from the table I had been setting for her guests and forced my face blank.
"Martha, is something—"
SMACK.
My head snapped sideways.
The world blinked.
For one disorienting second, all I could hear was the ringing in my ears. My body stumbled, hip knocking into the edge of the patio table hard enough to rattle the glasses. Pain bloomed across my cheek, hot and sharp, and I lifted my hand to it in shock.
Martha stood over me, chest rising, her nostrils flaring.
"I told you to have everything ready before my guests arrived," she hissed. "Yet here you are, dragging your feet like the useless little stray you are."
My fingers curled against my burning skin.
"Martha, I have been—"
SMACK.
The second slap sent me reeling harder than the first.
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from gasping. Copper flooded my tongue.
"Did I tell you to speak?" she said, voice low and vicious. "Or have you forgotten your place?"
Her gaze swept over me with open disgust, lingering on my plain dress, my tied-back curls, my worn flats.
"I still don't know what my son ever saw in a low-life girl like you."
Then she smiled.
That smile.
Cold. Detached. Effortless.
The kind she wore when she had already decided the truth didn't matter.
"Make sure this mess is finished before they arrive," she said lightly, as if she hadn't just struck me twice. "And fix your face. You look pathetic."
Then she turned and walked away, elegant and unhurried, like cruelty was just another item on her schedule.
I stayed still until the sound of her heels disappeared.
Then I inhaled slowly, pressing my hand harder against my cheek.
It hurt.
Not nearly as much as it would for them later.
My name is Allison Croft.
I'm twenty-two years old.
I'm five-foot-two, with tan skin, thick curls that fall to the middle of my back, and hazel-green eyes I've been told are too expressive when I forget to guard them. I have a soft, curvy body people love to comment on, as if that's all a woman is worth. I've spent most of my life being underestimated by people who mistook quiet for weakness.
That mistake was about to cost the Morrisons everything.
Because I am not just Anthony Morrison's obedient little wife.
And I am certainly not some helpless nobody they can kick around without consequence.
I am Allison Croft, daughter of Adrian Croft.
Yes. That Adrian Croft.
The billionaire phantom.
The man whose name could freeze boardrooms and make seasoned investors rethink their loyalty.
The head of the Croft family, one of the most powerful dynasties in the country.
The Crofts do not beg for seats at the table.
We build the table.
Then decide who's allowed to sit.
One day, everything my father built will pass to me.
But three years ago, he sent me away before that could happen.
No bodyguards.
No family name.
No secret help.
"Learn the business from the ground up," he told me. "I want you to know what power looks like when it isn't handed to you."
So I left.
I came to Boston alone, buried the Croft name, and started over from nothing.
It was supposed to make me stronger.
Instead, it led me straight into the Morrison Empire.
The Morrisons were the third-richest family in Boston, but numbers never told the full story. Their real power came from influence. People trusted them. Admired them. Defended them.
Especially Anthony Morrison.
Oldest of three siblings.
Future heir.
Boston's favorite golden son.
And my husband.
I still remembered the first time I saw him.
He had walked into a conference room with his sleeves rolled to his forearms, a stack of files tucked under one arm, sunlight catching in his brown hair. He was six feet tall, lean and broad-shouldered, with the sort of easy smile that made people trust him before he'd even spoken. His dark green eyes had found mine for half a second, and for reasons I still hated myself for, I forgot how to breathe.
At the time, I thought he looked like safety.
I should have known better.
I was hired as his special assistant.