On my wedding night, I slipped under the bed, my veil tangled in my hair, laughing at one last childish prank … until the door creaked open. My husband’s voice sounded gentle — then his mother’s cut in cold: “Did you give it to her?” He exhaled. “She drank it. She’s about to PASS OUT.” My breath caught as their footsteps stopped inches from me. “Good,” she whispered. “Once she’s unconscious, bring the papers. By morning … she’ll wake up with NOTHING.” I clenched my teeth until they hurt …

No one.

That was what they believed.

I stared at Daniel’s shoes.

Perfectly polished.

The same shoes that had stood in front of me just hours earlier while he promised to protect me.

“What about the clause?” he asked.

“She won’t understand it,” Victoria snapped.
“She inherited everything and still smiles like a child. Your grandfather should have left it to someone with sharper instincts.”

My body went cold.

So that was the truth.

Not love.

Not marriage.

An acquisition.

My inheritance.

The Varela Estate.

The textile company.

The buildings.

The land that developers had circled for years.