Chapter 8

The first rays of morning sun sliced through the gap in the curtains, hitting Elva's face. Her eyes snapped open.

There was no grogginess. No anxiety about the impending forced marriage. Her mind was razor-sharp, her body thrumming with cold, calculated energy.

She threw off the covers and moved quickly through her morning routine.

She glanced at the trench coat tossed over the chair, her eyes locking onto the small gash near the hem where Warren's porcelain cup had sliced it. Without a second thought, she picked up the ruined coat and threw it straight into the trash can, discarding it like the pathetic, toxic history of the Schmitt family.

Opening the closet, she bypassed the dull, faded dresses Mona usually forced her to wear. Instead, she pulled out a sharp, tailored black power suit. It hugged her frame perfectly, radiating pure, aggressive authority.

She pulled her long hair back into a tight, flawless chignon, exposing the sharp lines of her jaw. She swiped a bold, blood-red lipstick across her lips.

Looking in the mirror, she didn't see a victim. She saw a queen stepping onto a battlefield.

She unlocked her door and stepped out. Her high heels clicked against the hardwood floors, a sharp clack-clack-clack that echoed down the stairs like a countdown.

In the living room, the Schmitt family was already in position, dressed to the nines.

Haylie was lounging in an overly expensive, but deliberately casual silk robe, her chin tilted up in pure arrogance. She had intentionally dressed down, wanting to project absolute disdain and disrespect for the 'crippled old freak' she assumed was rolling through their doors.

As Elva reached the bottom step, Mona intercepted her. She held a steaming glass of milk, a sickeningly sweet, fake smile plastered on her face.

"Morning, Elva," Mona cooed. "Drink this. I made it specially for you to calm your nerves."

Elva's eyes flicked to the glass. Her military-trained instincts instantly picked up the microscopic tremor in Mona's hand and the nervous, calculating twitch in her left eye.

Elva didn't break her stride. She simply turned her shoulder, smoothly bypassing Mona without even brushing against the glass.

"I don't drink poison before 10 AM," Elva said flatly.

Mona's fake smile shattered. Her hand hung awkwardly in the air, the milk sloshing over the rim.

Warren, seeing his wife humiliated, took a step forward, his face darkening with rage. "You ungrateful little-"

Before he could finish the threat, a deep, thunderous roar of a high-performance engine vibrated through the walls of the estate.

A heavy, imposing silence fell over the room.

Then, the doorbell chimed. A long, demanding sound.

Warren instantly swallowed his rage. He slapped on a grotesque, fawning smile and frantically waved at the butler. "Open the door! Quickly!"

Haylie lazily adjusted her silk robe, her eyes practically glowing with malicious anticipation. She couldn't wait to see the look of utter despair on Elva's face when the crippled freak rolled in.

The butler hurried to the foyer and pulled open the heavy carved doors.

Everyone held their breath, their eyes glued to the entrance, waiting for the wheelchair.

Instead, the first thing to cross the threshold was a polished ebony walking stick, its handle encrusted with a massive, blood-red ruby.

An elderly man stepped into the light. He had silver hair, a straight back, and an aura of absolute, terrifying authority. It was Cornelius Ramirez, the patriarch of the Ramirez dynasty.

Warren's jaw practically hit the floor. His mind short-circuited. Why would the supreme head of the family show up for the marriage of a disgraced, distant relative?

But the real shock was yet to come.

Stepping out from behind Cornelius was a man who sucked all the oxygen out of the room.

Bronson Ramirez strode into the foyer. He was wearing a bespoke navy-blue suit that clung to his broad shoulders. His presence was so overwhelmingly dominant, so suffocatingly powerful, that the Schmitts instinctively took a step back.

He walked with the smooth, predatory grace of a panther. His cold, dark eyes swept the room and instantly locked onto Elva, who was standing near the stairs.

There was no wheelchair. There was no ugly, old man. There was only the undisputed king of Wall Street.

The Schmitt family stood frozen, their brains completely crashing.

Haylie stared at Bronson's chiseled jaw and broad chest. Her smug expression violently shattered. Panic and profound regret clawed at her throat for dressing so carelessly in front of a literal god. The mockery in her eyes was instantly replaced by a rabid, consuming lust.

Elva stood perfectly still. She watched Bronson approach, a tiny, almost invisible smirk playing on her red lips.

The slaughter was about to begin.