Chapter 8 The Stepmother's Blackmail

The Northgate Gallery was everything Hayley had ever dreamed of. The white walls were vast, the lighting was perfect, and the air hummed with the quiet, reverent energy of great art. She was standing in the main exhibition space, a blueprint of the upcoming fall show spread out on a table in front of her, when her new boss, Eleanor Vance, walked over.

"This layout is brilliant, Hayley," Eleanor said, her sharp, intelligent eyes scanning the plans. "You have a real gift."

A warm feeling spread through Hayley's chest. It was the feeling of being seen, of being valued for her mind and her talent. The toxic cloud of her marriage to Brad felt like it was finally starting to dissipate.

Then her phone vibrated violently in her pocket. A blocked number. She hesitated, then answered.

"You need to get your ass to Long Island right now and get this trash off my property!"

The voice was the shrill, imperious shriek of her former mother-in-law, Francis Patton.

"Francis? What are you talking about? What's going on?"

"Don't play dumb with me! You sent that lunatic here to harass us! You handle your own disgusting family!" The line went dead.

Hayley's heart sank into her stomach. She knew exactly who Francis was talking about. Her stepmother, Cory Anthony.

The scene cut to the massive wrought-iron gates of the Patton estate in the Hamptons. Cory was sitting on the manicured lawn, a piece of cardboard in her hands with "PATTONS PREY ON THE POOR" scrawled on it in cheap marker.

The head of security, a large man named Dwayne, stood by helplessly, under strict orders never to physically touch a protesting woman, especially when the press might be watching. The estate manager, Otto, was trying to reason with her, his face slick with sweat. Cory responded by spitting on his shoe.

"They threw my stepdaughter out with nothing!" Cory wailed for the benefit of a freelance photographer lurking across the street. "I have to take care of her poor, disabled father! We need compensation!"

From a second-story window, Francis watched the scene unfold, her face a mask of pure fury.

Jenna entered the room, carrying a delicate porcelain cup of tea. "This will be all over Page Six by evening," she said calmly. "It's not a good look for Brad."

Francis's lips thinned into a bloodless line. "That girl has been a curse since the day she married my son."

Back at the gallery, Hayley was practically begging Eleanor. "I am so, so sorry. It's a family emergency. I have to go."

Eleanor looked displeased. "It's your first day, Hayley. It's Monday morning."

"I know, and I wouldn't ask if it wasn't critical," she pleaded, the professional composure she'd worked so hard to build crumbling away.

Eleanor sighed, a long, weary sound. "Fine. Half a day. But I expect you back here first thing tomorrow morning, ready to work."

Hayley grabbed her purse and ran from the gallery, hailing a cab and giving the driver the Long Island address. Her hands twisted in her lap the entire ride. She tried calling Cory, but the calls went straight to voicemail.

She sent a quick text to Kieran. Family emergency. Might be late. Don't wait up.

Back at the apartment, Kieran saw the message pop up on his phone. His brow furrowed slightly. He typed back instantly. Everything okay? Need help?

When her reply came a minute later-No, I'm fine. Just drama.-a knot of unease tightened in his gut. 'Drama' with her family could mean anything, but connected to the Pattons, it was a volatile variable. He called her. It rang once, then went to voicemail. That was all he needed. He stood up, his movements calm and deliberate. He pulled up an application on his phone, a simple grey screen with a single blue dot pulsing over a map of Long Island. He watched it for a moment, then grabbed his keys and walked out the door, his expression unreadable but his stride filled with undeniable purpose.

As the taxi turned onto the private road leading to the Patton estate, Hayley saw them. A small cluster of reporters and photographers, their cameras aimed at the gates like a firing squad.

She paid the driver, took a deep, shaky breath, and stepped out of the car, walking toward the battlefield that had once been her home.