CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

Fiona Greene was sick of the incompetence.

She thundered out of the house, slamming the side door behind her before the staff could hear her expletives.

No matter how many times she'd told them, they just couldn't seem to get it through their thick heads. The furniture in the mansion had to be lint-rolled for fur every day. She loved both her chow chows—Diamond and Pearl—but they shed up a storm. And unless upkeep was done regularly, as in twice a day, things got messy.

Fiona had far too many events at the house, from fundraisers to dinner parties to the occasional speech from a mover and shaker, for her guests to end up with dog hair on their clothes.

Then there was the matter of proper food storage. Far too often of late, Griselda, her head maid, had allowed leftover food items to be placed in traditional Ziploc bags rather than vacuum-sealing them in the special ones that had been purchased for just that purpose. It was infuriating.

Fiona stopped for a moment to gather herself, running her hand through her long, bright red hair. She'd been planning to go to the backyard pool house for a calming mid-afternoon cocktail. That's where she'd told Griselda she would be, before adding that she was not to be disturbed under any circumstances.

But now she had another idea, a better one. She would go shopping. She glanced at her Cartier watch, the one Branford got her for her last birthday. It was 3:42 right now. That meant that if she moved quickly, she would have time to visit some of her favorite spots before they closed up for the day.

That was what she needed to feel better, some good, old-fashioned retail therapy. She changed directions on the cobblestoned path, no longer headed to the pool house but to the garage.

Fiona found that it was increasingly difficult to find happiness these days. Yes, her life was amazing since marrying Branford. Who wouldn't appreciate the lavish lifestyle afforded by being the wife of a global investment bank CEO ?

There were the impromptu weekend jaunts to Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat on the private jet. There was the annual pilgrimage to the retreat on Lake Como. There was the stay at the Scottish castle last month with the celebrity couple that was so reclusive that she hesitated to even think their names, much less say them.

But as delightful as all of it was, there were times when she pined for her previous life as the owner of a simple Beverly Hills boutique that specialized in purses. Admittedly, most of those purses cost well over $20,000 and she was pulling in a tidy six to seven million a year from the place.

Still, she had to work hard to make it what it was: managing a staff, coddling wealthy customers, and convincing designers to place their wares with her. It was a hustle, one that she only realized in retrospect that she loved.

Now there was no hustle. As she stepped into the six-car garage, deciding which vehicle she wanted to take to Rodeo Drive, she acknowledged that leading such an opulent lifestyle in recent years had made her soft, and a little petty.

In fact, she found her resentment rising up once more as she realized that someone had left one of the garage doors open, something the staff had been warned to never do. She was about to yell to Griselda, but then told herself to let that one go.

As she took a long, deep, soothing breath and then slowly exhaled, she acknowledged that maybe part of her brittleness was because she harbored a bit of guilt about how she'd come into all this wealth in the first place. After all, she'd only met Branford because he came into the boutique looking for a purse for his then-wife. While Fiona showed him around, they'd hit it off, to put it mildly.

Two months later, he'd left his spouse of twenty-four years. Six months after that, Fiona became his third wife. That was four years ago now, but it seemed like the distant past.

How has she transformed from the go-getter who could sell anyone on that ‘perfect' bag, to a woman who screamed at the assistant maid because she didn't put the carrot medley in the proper container? Or who was getting riled up right now because of the bits of dirt and grass on what should be the immaculate garage floor? Where had that come from anyway?

Choking back her exasperation, she chose the Bentley. It felt the most appropriate for the venue. Plus, it would be easier to drive than the stick-shift Jaguar and less challenging to park than the Rivian .

With that decision made, and as she headed over to the car key cabinet, Fiona decided it was time to turn over a new leaf. No more berating the staff for minor missteps. No more firing people for giving her side eye, at least not without giving at least one warning. No more making folks work on their birthdays unless it was absolutely necessary. She knew there was some real animosity when she didn't hear out her people's objections on that one.

Maybe she'd even buy staffers something while she was out today, perhaps a bauble for everyone, something that showed how much she appreciated them. And to be extra generous, she'd include gift receipts so that if the item wasn't to their taste, they could return it for cash. After all, not everyone was liquid these days, something she'd do well to keep in mind.

Fiona found the Bentley key, snagged it, and turned around. She was startled to find herself face-to-face with someone dressed entirely in black, including a ski mask covering their head. She yelped in surprise and stumbled backward into the key cabinet.

Before she could scream for help, she saw something in the person's raised right hand. To her horror, she realized it was a large knife. She started to lift her hands to protect herself as the knife came at her.

But she was too slow. The blade plunged into the right side of her chest. She'd never felt such unimaginable pain. As blood spurted everywhere, she heard a gasp of agony and understood it had come from her. Before she knew what was happening, the knife had been removed and was coming at her again. She flung her hands out in front of it, but the weapon pierced her palm before slamming back into her body.

She tried to call for help, but all that came out was a dull groan. She felt her body slipping to the ground due to weakness and the slippery red liquid beneath her shoes. Even as that happened, she saw the knife coming down again, hard and fast. She wanted to do something—anything—to avoid it. But her body wasn't responding to her commands.

And then, all at once, the pain was gone. Everything was gone.