At 3 AM, my daughter stumbled through my door in her torn, blood-stained wedding dress—then whispered that her mother-in-law had beaten her for refusing to sign over the condo. So I called the father I’d avoided for years.

Despite her crumbling empire, Isabella’s arrogance demanded she keep up appearances. The Vargas family was scheduled to host the "Starlight Charity Gala" that Saturday—a massive event meant to secure new, wealthy investors to bail them out.

They thought we were hiding. We weren't.

I walked into the grand ballroom wearing a stunning emerald gown, Marcus on my arm in a classic tuxedo that barely concealed his predatory stance. Chloe stayed in the armored SUV outside, watching the live feeds.

Isabella saw us from across the room. Her fake, polished smile faltered. She marched over, her sisters trailing behind her like bodyguards.

“What are you doing here?” Isabella hissed under her breath, keeping her smile plastered on for the cameras. “You were not invited, Sarah.”

“I’m the mother of the bride, Isabella,” I said loudly enough for a nearby senator to hear. “I wouldn't miss a family event. Speaking of family, how is your cash flow? I hear the repo men are quite aggressive this time of year.”