Chapter 4

Ethan, fueled by Tiff's whispers and his own delusions, seemed to believe my disengagement was a ploy.

He started sending messages. Not to me directly, but through mutual acquaintances.

"Tell Savannah not to get too friendly with that California nobody. She knows who she belongs with."

"Advise Savannah that her little games are amusing, but it's time to come home."

I ignored them all, focusing instead on planning my engagement party. With Caleb.

The invitations went out. The Kings and the Hayeses, celebrating a new alliance.

A few days before the party, a courier arrived at my New York apartment.

It was a large, flat box from a high-end boutique Tiff frequented.

Inside, nestled on satin, was the sculpture Tiff had coveted at the gallery.

Or rather, what was left of it. It was smashed. Deliberately, it seemed.

A card was tucked into the wreckage.

"Thought you might like a souvenir of your good taste. Or was it his? So hard to tell with you, Savannah. XOXO, Tiff."

My assistant, Clara, gasped. "That's horrible! She's a monster."

I looked at the broken pieces. I felt... nothing. A faint annoyance, perhaps, at the waste.

"Throw it out, Clara," I said.

"But... shouldn't we do something? Call the police? The gallery?"

"No," I said. "It's just a thing. She wants a reaction. She won't get one."

Tiff, however, was not done.

The next morning, my phone buzzed with alerts.

Tiff had posted a series of Instagram stories.

A picture of the pristine sculpture in a lavish apartment. "Newest acquisition! Love it, Ethan darling!"

Followed by a video of her "accidentally" knocking it over. "Oops! So clumsy! Guess it wasn't meant to be."

Then, a picture of the boxed, broken sculpture. "Sending a little something to a 'friend' who seemed to admire it. Hope she has better luck with art! #ClumsyMe #SoSad #ArtTragedy."

The comments exploded.

"OMG Tiff is savage!"

"Is she talking about Savannah King? I heard SK was at that gallery!"

"Savannah always trying to copy Tiff and Ethan. So pathetic."

My name was trending, linked with Tiff's carefully crafted narrative of me as a jealous, obsessed wannabe.

Clara was furious. "We have to respond! This is character assassination!"

"No," I said calmly. "We don't respond in kind. We respond professionally."

I called my father's head of security, a formidable ex-FBI agent named Marcus.

"Marcus, I have a social media situation. Tiffany Miller."

"On it, Miss King," he said.

Within an hour, Tiff's posts were gone. Vanished.

Replaced by a terse legal notice on her profile from King Holdings' lawyers, citing defamation and harassment.

Her comments section went from gleeful mockery to confused silence, then to panicked questions about "what happened."

Tiff tried to re-post. She couldn't. Her account was temporarily restricted.

She wanted to play games. I had a corporation to play with.

Ethan called my father, furious. "What the hell is Savannah doing, attacking Tiff? Call off your dogs, Charles!"

My father's reply was icy. "My daughter is protecting herself from your... associate's unhinged behavior. Perhaps you should teach Miss Miller some manners, Ethan. And some respect for the law."

The line went dead.

The digital attack was neutralized. But I knew this was far from over. They were escalating.