We pulled up to the circular driveway in Arthur’s massive, black town car. Maya sat in the back seat between Arthur and me. She wore a thick, oversized wool coat and large, dark sunglasses to hide the worst of the bruising around her eye. Her hand gripped mine tightly, her knuckles white.
“Shoulders back, Maya,” Arthur murmured gently as the driver opened the door. “You are not a victim today. You are the executioner.”
We walked up the wide stone steps and pushed open the massive double doors.
The grand foyer was a cavernous space of imported marble, sweeping staircases, and enormous crystal chandeliers. The atmosphere was thick with casual, arrogant expectation.
Marcus stood by an unlit, massive limestone fireplace, wearing a cashmere sweater, looking deeply irritated by the inconvenience of our arrival. Celeste was lounging on a velvet antique sofa, scrolling through her phone. She was sipping a mimosa from a crystal flute, looking entirely, obscenely unbothered by the fact that she had attempted to murder her sister-in-law a mere sixty hours prior.
