Chapter 1: The Silent Luxury

I wiped a smudge of dust off the dashboard, my reflection staring back at me from the polished walnut wood trim. To the untrained eye, this car was just a silver Volkswagen sedan—boxy, understated, perhaps a little dated.

To my husband, Ethan, it was “that dusty old thing your dad left you.” He hated it. He begged me to trade it in for a Tesla or a Mercedes, something that screamed success. But he didn’t know cars. And, more importantly, he didn’t know me.

“Miss Taylor? Are you ready?”

I looked up. The valet at the Crown Summit Hotel—my hotel, though nobody here knew that except the board of directors—was waiting patiently.

“Actually, I’ll park it myself today, Henry,” I said, smiling.

“It’s a reunion. I want to make a quiet entrance.”

“Understood, Ma’am. Good to see you.”

Henry tipped his cap. He knew the secret. He knew that I, Joey Taylor, was the sole heiress to the Crest Hill empire. He knew that while my husband, Ethan Grant, played the role of the big-shot CEO upstairs, I was the one signing the checks in the back office.

I shifted the gear. The W12 engine purred—a sound so quiet it was like a ghost. This wasn’t just a VW. It was a Phaeton W12 Limited Edition. Hand-assembled in Dresden. Armor-plated. Custom interior. My father had bought it for 10 million dollars as a collector’s piece. It was my sanctuary.

I drove into the VIP structure. It was packed. The Class of 2018 reunion was in full swing. I spotted one single empty bay near the elevator. Perfect.

I eased the car forward. Suddenly, a screech of tires echoed off the concrete walls.

A bright red Porsche 911 swerved around a pillar, cutting me off with inches to spare. The driver honked aggressively, the sound jarring in the enclosed space.

My heart rate spiked. I slammed on the brakes.

The Porsche door flew open, and out stepped Vivian Cole.

Of course. It had to be her.

In college, Vivian was the queen of the tormentors. She had mocked my thrift-store clothes, my quiet demeanor, my refusal to flash cash. She didn’t know I was practicing frugality to stay grounded; she just thought I was trash.

“Move it, loser!” Vivian shouted, adjusting her sunglasses despite the dim garage lighting. She looked expensive—Chanel bag, Louboutins, the works.

I rolled down my window. “Vivian, I was halfway into the spot. There’s plenty of parking on the roof.”

She squinted, then laughed. A cruel, sharp sound. “Joey? Oh my god, Joey Taylor! You’re still driving this piece of junk? I thought you’d be delivering pizzas by now.”

A group of our old classmates, standing near the lobby doors, started to drift over, drawn by the noise. I saw Kyle, a guy who used to copy my homework, snickering.

“Vivian, please,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

“I’m just here for the dinner. Let’s not do this.”

“Do what?” She walked over, leaning on my window sill, her perfume overpowering.

“This spot is for VIPs. My boyfriend is the CEO of this hotel. Ethan Grant. Maybe you’ve heard of him?”

My stomach dropped. The air left my lungs.

Ethan.

I had told Ethan I’d be late. I told him I was coming in the “old car.”

“Your… boyfriend?” I whispered.

“That’s right,” she smirked, playing to the crowd.

“He buys me whatever I want. This Porsche? His gift. This parking spot? Mine. Now back up your sad little taxi before I have security tow it.”

“I’m not moving,” I said, my grip tightening on the leather steering wheel.

“And Ethan isn’t that kind of man.”

“Oh, you think you know him?” Vivian pulled out her phone.

“Let’s ask him.”

She hit dial. She put it on speaker. The volume was maxed out.

Ring. Ring.

“Hey babe,” Ethan’s voice filled the garage. It was the same voice that had whispered ‘I love you, honey’ to me this morning before he left for work.

“You at the hotel yet?”

“Ethan,” Vivian whined, her voice shifting into a helpless falsetto.

“I’m in the garage. There’s this crazy woman in a beat-up silver car blocking my spot. She won’t move. She’s being so rude to me!”

My heart hammered against my ribs. Tell her off, Ethan. Tell her to stop.

“Who is it?” Ethan asked, sounding annoyed.

“It’s Joey Taylor. From college. The charity case.”

A pause. A silence that lasted an eternity.

“Joey?” Ethan said.

“Ugh. She’s irrelevant. Listen, babe, don’t let her ruin your night. If she doesn’t move, just get rid of the car. I’ll cover it. Just come upstairs, I have a surprise for you.”

“You’re the best, baby,” Vivian cooed and hung up.

I sat there, frozen. The betrayal didn’t feel like a sharp knife; it felt like a heavy stone crushing my chest. My husband. The man I had elevated from a mid-level manager to a CEO. The man I was planning to announce my true identity to tonight.

“You heard him,” Vivian said, stepping back. Her eyes gleamed with malice.

“He said get rid of it.”

She walked to the trunk of her Porsche and popped it open. She pulled out a sleek, metal baseball bat.

“Vivian, don’t,” I warned, stepping out of the car.

“You have no idea what you’re doing.”

“Watch me.”

She swung.

CRACK.

The sound was sickening. The bat connected with the headlight, shattering the custom glass.

“Oops,” she giggled. The crowd cheered. Kyle was filming it on his phone.

“WorldStar!” someone yelled.

SMASH.

The side mirror dangled by a wire.

THUD.

She brought the bat down on the hood. The pristine silver paint, coated in ceramic protection, dented inward.

“Stop!” I screamed, lunging forward, but Kyle and another guy held me back.

“Let her finish, Joey,” Kyle laughed.

“She’s doing you a favor. Now you can collect the insurance… oh wait, do you even have insurance?”

I watched in horror as she circled the car. She smashed the taillights. She keyed the doors. She shattered the windshield, sending a spiderweb of cracks right in front of the driver’s seat.

Finally, panting, she dropped the bat.

“There,” she said, brushing her hair back.

“Now it looks like it belongs in a junkyard. Move it.”

I looked at the wreckage. My father’s favorite car. A masterpiece of engineering, now ruined by a jealous woman and a weak husband.

I shook off Kyle’s grip. I didn’t scream. I didn’t attack her. A cold, icy calm settled over me.

“You better hope your ‘boyfriend’ has a very high credit limit,” I said softly.

Vivian rolled her eyes.

“Please. It’s a Volkswagen. What is it, thirty grand? Ethan makes that in a week.”

“We’ll see,” I said.

Just then, the elevator doors pinged open.

“What is going on down here?”

Ethan Grant strode out, flanked by two security guards. He looked impeccable in his Italian suit—the suit I bought him. He looked powerful.

Until he saw me.

Chapter 2: The Face of Betrayal

The color drained from Ethan’s face so fast he looked like a corpse. He stopped mid-stride, his polished shoes scuffing against the concrete.

“Joey?” he choked out.

For a second—just one fleeting second—I saw the panic in his eyes. He looked between me, the destroyed car, and Vivian. He was calculating. He was trying to figure out if the game was up.

But then he looked at the crowd. He saw the phones recording. He saw the expectation in their eyes. He was the CEO. He had to be the alpha.

He made his choice. He walked right past me.

“Babe!” Vivian squealed, throwing her arms around his neck.

“Thank god you’re here! This crazy woman tried to run me over, so I had to defend myself!”

Ethan wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close. He looked at me with a mask of disdain, hiding his fear.

“Is that true, Joey?” he asked, his voice booming for the audience.

“You’re harassing my… guest?”

“Guest?” I repeated, my voice trembling with suppressed rage.

“Is that what we’re calling her, Ethan? You told her to smash my car.”

“I told her to handle the situation,” Ethan scoffed. He glanced at the Phaeton.

“And honestly, look at it. It’s an eyesore. I’ve told you a thousand times to get rid of that junk.”

“Ethan,” I said, stepping closer.

“Look at the trunk. Look at the logo.”

“I don’t care about your stupid car!” he shouted, losing his cool.

“You’re embarrassing me! You come to my hotel, ruin my girlfriend’s night…”

The crowd gasped. He said it. Girlfriend.

“Girlfriend,” I said, testing the word.

“So, I suppose the woman you married three years ago doesn’t exist?”

Vivian froze. She pulled back and looked at Ethan.

“Married? Ethan, what is she talking about? You said she was just a stalker from college.”

Ethan began to sweat.

“She’s delusional, Viv. She’s obsessed with me. She’s been following me for years.”

He glared at me, his eyes pleading for me to play along, to save his reputation.

“Joey, stop lying. You’re pathetic.”

“I’m lying?” I reached for my purse to pull out our marriage license—I kept a copy on my phone—but Ethan signaled the guards.

“Grab her phone,” he ordered.

One of the guards, a man I didn’t recognize, snatched my phone from my hand.

“Hey!” I shouted.

“Delete the video she took,” Ethan commanded.

“And escort her out.”

“Wait,” Vivian interrupted. She stepped forward, looking at the car again.

“She said something about the logo. Ethan, look.”

Vivian might be mean, but she wasn’t entirely stupid. She pointed to the letters on the trunk, beneath the VW badge.

P H A E T O N

And below that, a small, discreet badge: W12.

“It’s a Volkswagen, Viv,” Ethan dismissed.

“It’s a Passat with a glandular problem.”

“No,” a voice came from the back of the crowd. It was an older man, a guest who had just walked out of the lobby. He was staring at the wreckage with his mouth open. “That’s not a Passat. That is a Phaeton W12. The Lounge Edition.”

Ethan frowned.

“So? What’s it worth? Fifty grand?”

The old man laughed, a dry, incredulous sound.

“Son, that car has a chassis shared with the Bentley Continental GT. The interior is custom woodwork. That specific model? They only made ten of them for the US market. The last one at auction sold for… well, significantly more than fifty grand.”

“How much?” Vivian asked, her voice shrinking.

“Try ten million,” the man said.

“Maybe more, considering the provenance.”

Silence descended on the garage. The kind of silence that is heavy and suffocating.

Vivian dropped her hand from Ethan’s waist. She looked at the bat on the ground, then at the shattered windshield.

“Ten… million?” she whispered.

Ethan laughed nervously.

“That’s impossible. Joey’s dad was a nobody. He was a… a mechanic.”

“My father,” I said, my voice cutting through the silence like a razor, “was Victor Taylor. The founder of the Taylor Group.”

Ethan’s eyes went wide.

“Victor… Taylor? You said he was… in ‘construction’.”

“He owned the construction company that built this hotel, Ethan,” I said.

“And the bank that financed it. And the land it stands on.”

I took a step toward my husband.

“And he gave me that car on my 21st birthday. He told me, ‘Joey, true value whispers. Cheapness shouts.’” I looked at Vivian’s flashy Porsche, then back at Ethan.

“I see what he meant now.”

Ethan was shaking. I could see the gears turning in his head. If the car was worth $10 million, he was liable. But he still didn’t believe the rest. He couldn’t accept that he had been sleeping next to a billionaire for three years and treating her like a servant.

He decided to double down.

“Lies,” Ethan spat. “She’s lying, everyone! She’s a fraud! She probably rented that car and slapped a fake badge on it!”

He turned to me, his face twisting into a snarl. “You want to play games, Joey? Fine. You want money for this piece of junk? I’ll pay you. And then you’re going to get on your knees and apologize to Vivian for ruining her mood.”

“You want me to kneel?” I asked, incredulous.

“Kneel,” Ethan commanded.

“Show everyone your place. Or I will ban you from this city. I have the power.”

“You have no power, Ethan,” I said.

“I have the money!” He pulled out his black AMEX card—the supplementary card linked to my account, though he thought it was his corporate perk.

“Vivian, how much is the damage? 10 million? Fine. I’ll transfer it right now to this beggar, just to make her go away.”

Chapter 3: Transaction Declined

The audacity was almost impressive. Ethan stood there, holding the black card like Excalibur.

“Give me your account details,” Ethan sneered.

“I’m sending you 20 million. 10 for the car, 10 to never show your face again. But only after you kneel.”

The crowd murmured. 20 million dollars. To them, Ethan was a god.

“Do it, Joey!” Kyle shouted from the back.

“Take the money! Kneel!”

“Yeah, swallow your pride!” Vivian chimed in, regaining her confidence.

“Take the money, trash. It’s more than you’ll see in ten lifetimes.”

I looked at them. The greed. The ugliness.

“Okay,” I said.

“Try it.”

“Try what?” Ethan asked.

“Transfer the money. If it goes through, I’ll kneel.”

Ethan smirked.

“Easy.”

He pulled out his phone, opened his banking app, and tapped in the numbers. He showed the screen to the crowd. $20,000,000.00.

“Watch and learn, peasants,” he muttered. He hit CONFIRM.

A loading circle spun on the screen. Ethan tapped his foot impatiently. Vivian smirked, crossing her arms.

Spin. Spin. Spin.

Then, a red box popped up.

TRANSACTION DECLINED. ACCOUNT FROZEN.

Ethan frowned. “Bad signal. damn garage.”

He hit retry.

TRANSACTION DECLINED. CONTACT BANK.

“What the hell?” Ethan muttered. He looked at me.

“You… did you give me the wrong routing number?”

“No,” I said calmly.

“The number is correct.”

“Then why isn’t it working?” He started frantically tapping. He tried a different card. The Platinum Visa.

DECLINED.

He tried the Gold MasterCard.

DECLINED.

“Ethan,” Vivian said, her voice rising in panic.

“What’s going on? Pay her so we can go!”

“I’m trying!” Ethan yelled, sweat beading on his forehead. He dialed the bank’s VIP concierge line on speaker.

“Crown Summit Private Banking, this is Sarah. How can I help you, Mr. Grant?”

“Sarah! My cards are not working! I’m trying to make a transfer and I look like an idiot here. Unfreeze them immediately!”

There was a pause on the line. The sound of typing.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Grant,” Sarah’s voice came back, polite but firm. “I cannot do that.”

“Why not? I’m the CEO!”

“The primary account holder has placed a Code Red freeze on all assets and supplementary cards. You have been removed as an authorized user effective… three minutes ago.”

Ethan went pale. “Primary account holder? I am the primary account holder!”

“No, sir,” Sarah said.

“You are the secondary user. The primary holder is Mrs. Josephine Taylor-Grant.”

The phone slipped from Ethan’s hand and clattered onto the concrete.

Every eye in the garage turned to me.

I picked up my own phone, which I had retrieved from the stunned guard. I held it up.

“Thank you, Sarah,” I said into the air.

“You can terminate the call.”

I looked at Ethan. He looked like a small, frightened child.

“You…” he whispered.

“You froze the accounts?”

“They’re my accounts, Ethan,” I said, stepping closer.

“The house you live in? My name. The car you drive? My lease. The suit you’re wearing? My credit card.”

I turned to Vivian.

“And this hotel?” I gestured to the sprawling concrete structure around us.

“My father built it. I own 51% of the shares. The board appointed Ethan as CEO because I asked them to. Because I loved him.”

I looked at the shattered VW.

“But you just smashed my favorite car. And my husband just told me to kneel for his mistress.”

I looked Henry, the valet, in the eye.

“Henry, call the police. And call the Board of Directors. Tell them to meet me in the boardroom in ten minutes.”

“Yes, Miss Taylor,” Henry said, pulling out his radio with a grin.

“Wait!” Ethan screamed, lunging for me.

“Joey, baby, wait! It’s a misunderstanding!”

But before he could touch me, a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. It wasn’t the hotel security.

It was a man in a leather jacket who had been leaning against a pillar in the shadows. He stepped forward, chewing on a toothpick.

“I wouldn’t do that, pal,” the man grunted.

“Who are you?” Ethan demanded.

“Name’s Rick,” the man said.

“Private investigator. I’ve been tracking you for three months.” He looked at me and nodded.

“Mrs. Grant hired me when she noticed the withdrawals for jewelry stores she never visited. I’ve got photos, receipts, hotel logs. Everything.”

Rick pulled a thick envelope from his jacket and tossed it at Vivian’s feet. Photos spilled out. Ethan and Vivian in Cabo. Ethan and Vivian in Paris. Ethan buying the Porsche.

“You were going to surprise me tonight, Ethan?” I asked, my voice devoid of emotion.

“Surprise.”

Vivian looked at the photos, then at Ethan.

“You used her money to buy me the Porsche?”

“You’re mad about the money?” I laughed dryly.

“Vivian, you just committed a felony causing property damage over $5,000. In this state, that’s up to five years in prison. And since you can’t pay the 10 million dollars… well.”

Vivian’s face crumpled. She burst into tears.

“Ethan told me to do it! He said it was his car! Joey, please, we’re old friends!”

“Friends?” I raised an eyebrow.

“I recall you calling me a loser about five minutes ago.”

“Joey, please!” Ethan fell to his knees—ironically, doing exactly what he had ordered me to do. He grabbed the hem of my jeans.

“Babe, I was confused! She seduced me! I love you! Don’t ruin me!”

I looked down at him. The man I thought was my soulmate.

“I’m not ruining you, Ethan,” I said, pulling my leg away.

“I’m just firing you.”

I turned to the elevator.

“Rick, keep them here until the police arrive.”

“With pleasure, Ma’am.”

I walked toward the lobby doors, the sound of Ethan’s sobbing and Vivian’s screaming echoing behind me. But as I reached the door, the old man who had identified the car cleared his throat.

“Excuse me, Miss Taylor?”

“Yes?”

“You might want to see this,” he pointed to the entrance of the garage.

A black sleek sedan pulled in, followed by two police cruisers with lights flashing silently.

My father’s personal attorney, Mr. Sterling, stepped out. And behind him… was a woman I hadn’t seen in years.

My mother-in-law. Ethan’s mother. And she looked furious. But not at Ethan.

She was looking right at me.

Chapter 4: The Matriarch’s Delusion

My mother-in-law, Linda Grant, marched across the concrete floor like a general inspecting the troops. She was wearing a fur coat that cost $15,000—paid for by my credit card—and enough gold jewelry to sink a small boat.

“Joey!” she shrieked, her voice echoing off the garage walls.

“What have you done?”

She didn’t look at her son, who was sobbing on the ground. She didn’t look at the smashed $10 million car. She looked straight at me with venom in her eyes.

“Linda,” I said, keeping my voice level. “This doesn’t concern you.”

“Doesn’t concern me?” She stopped inches from my face.

“My son called me! He said you’ve gone insane! Freezing his accounts? Calling the police? Who do you think you are?”

“I’m the woman who pays for your lifestyle,” I said coldly.

Linda laughed. It was a hysterical, delusional sound.

“You? You’re a nobody! My Ethan is the CEO! He made you! And now you’re trying to destroy him because you’re jealous of…” She glanced at Vivian, who was still sniffling. “…of his friend?”

“His friend,” I pointed to the wreck, “just destroyed a Volkswagen Phaeton W12. Do you know who owns that car, Linda?”

“I don’t care about some ugly car!” Linda raised her hand.

“You unfreeze those cards right now, or I will make sure you end up on the street where we found you!”

She swung her hand to slap me.

I didn’t flinch. I didn’t have to.

A hand caught her wrist in mid-air. It wasn’t Ethan. It wasn’t the security guard.

It was my father’s attorney, Mr. Sterling. He twisted her arm gently but firmly, forcing her to step back.

“Assaulting the Chairman of the Board is a felony, Mrs. Grant,” Mr. Sterling said, his voice like gravel.

“I suggest you lower your hand before I add battery to the list of charges.”

Linda stared at him, confused.

“Chairman? What are you talking about? Ethan is the Chairman!”

“Ethan,” Mr. Sterling said, dropping her arm as if it were contaminated, “was an employee. And as of ten minutes ago, his contract has been terminated for cause.”

Mr. Sterling turned to me and handed me a leather folder.

“Mrs. Taylor-Grant, the Board has convened via video call. They have unanimously voted to remove Ethan Grant from all positions effective immediately. They are also pressing charges for corporate embezzlement.”

“Embezzlement?” Linda gasped. She looked at Ethan. “Baby, tell them they’re lying.”

Ethan didn’t look up. He was staring at the floor, his face pale gray.

“Rick,” I called out to the PI.

“Show them.”

Rick stepped forward again.

“Over the last two years, Mr. Grant has funneled approximately $4.5 million from the hotel’s renovation budget into offshore accounts. He used that money to buy an apartment for Miss Cole, a Porsche, and…” he looked at Linda, “…to pay off your gambling debts in Vegas, Mrs. Grant.”

Linda froze. The color drained from her face.

“You knew, didn’t you, Linda?” I asked softly.

“You knew he was stealing. You knew he was cheating. And you didn’t care, as long as the checks kept clearing.”

“I…” Linda stammered. “I’m his mother. I deserve… we deserve…”

“You deserve nothing,” I said.

“You treated me like a servant in my own house. You made me cook, clean, and scolded me for buying ‘expensive’ groceries while you wore diamonds bought with my father’s money.”

I turned to the police officers who had been waiting patiently.

“Officers,” I said.

“I’d like to press charges against Vivian Cole for destruction of property. And I’d like to press charges against Ethan Grant for grand larceny and fraud.”

Chapter 5: The Collapse

The moment the handcuffs clicked onto Ethan’s wrists, the reality of the situation finally hit him. The arrogance was gone. The CEO facade crumbled into dust.

“Joey, please!” he screamed as the officer pulled him up.

“I can fix this! I can pay it back! Don’t let them take me!”

“You can’t pay it back, Ethan,” I said, watching him struggle.

“You have nothing. The prenup you signed? The one you didn’t read because you were too busy texting Vivian during our engagement party? It states that in the event of infidelity or fraud, you leave with exactly what you came in with.”

I looked at his bespoke suit.

“Actually, I paid for the suit, too. But the state will give you an orange jumpsuit soon enough.”

“Vivian!” Ethan yelled, turning on his mistress.

“This is your fault! You crazy psycho! You had to smash the car! If you hadn’t touched the car, she wouldn’t have known!”

“Me?!” Vivian shrieked as an officer cuffed her.

“You told me it was a piece of junk! You told me she was poor! You lied to me, Ethan! You said you owned the hotel!”

“I was the CEO!”

“You were a glorified manager!” Vivian spat at him.

“I hope you rot!”

They were dragged toward the police cruisers, screaming at each other, their “true love” dissolving into hatred the moment the money vanished.

Linda was left standing alone in the middle of the garage. The crowd of my former classmates was silent now. Nobody was laughing. Nobody was filming. They looked terrified.

“Joey,” Linda whispered, her voice trembling.

“I… I didn’t know. I’m an old woman. Where will I go? You can’t kick me out of the house.”

I looked at this woman who had made my life a living hell for three years. I remembered the times she mocked my parents. I remembered how she ‘accidentally’ spilled red wine on my favorite dress.

“The house is listed under the Taylor Trust,” I said.

“Mr. Sterling will give you 24 hours to vacate the premises. Whatever personal items you actually paid for, you can keep. Anything bought with embezzled funds stays.”

“But I have nowhere to go!” she wailed.

“I hear there’s a nice motel on 8th Street,” I said, turning away.

“It has vacancies.”

Chapter 6: The Rearview Mirror

An hour later, the garage was empty. The police were gone. The crowd had dispersed, terrified of being associated with the drama.

Only the tow truck remained, winching the destroyed Phaeton up onto the flatbed.

I stood there, watching my father’s car—the symbol of his protection—being hauled away. It was painful. It hurt more than the divorce.

“I can have it restored, Joey,” a deep voice said behind me.

I turned. My father, Victor Taylor, was standing there. He had flown in by helicopter the moment Mr. Sterling called him. He looked older, tired, but his eyes were sharp.

“Dad,” I said, my voice finally breaking. I walked into his arms and let the tears fall.

I cried for the three years I wasted playing “house.” I cried for the love I thought was real. I cried for the betrayal.

“I’m sorry about the car,” I sobbed into his coat.

“It’s just metal, honey,” Dad said, stroking my hair.

“It did its job. It revealed their true colors. Better to lose a car than to lose your life to a parasite.”

He pulled back and looked at me.

“You know, I never liked him. But I wanted you to make your own mistakes.”

“That was a pretty expensive mistake,” I managed a weak smile.

“The best education always is,” he winked.

“So, what now? You have a hotel to run. We need a new CEO.”

I looked up at the towering glass structure of the Crown Summit. For three years, I had hidden in the shadows, afraid that my money would scare people away, afraid that I wouldn’t be loved for me.

But hiding had only attracted liars.

“No,” I said, wiping my eyes.

“We don’t need a new CEO.”

I straightened my jacket. I took the messy bun out of my hair and let it fall to my shoulders.

“I’m taking over.”

[Six Months Later]

I walked into the boardroom of Crown Summit. The room went silent.

“Good morning,” I said, taking the seat at the head of the table.

My phone buzzed. It was a notification from the Department of Corrections.

Inmate Status Update: Ethan Grant. Sentenced to 8 years for Grand Larceny and Fraud.

Inmate Status Update: Vivian Cole. Sentenced to 18 months for Malicious Destruction of Property.

I swiped the notification away.

I looked out the window. Down in the valet circle, a brand new car was waiting for me. It wasn’t a humble Volkswagen this time.

It was a Rolls Royce Phantom. And I wasn’t hiding inside it anymore.

Sometimes, you have to let everything break to see what you’re really made of. I lost a husband, a car, and a fake life. But I got my empire—and my dignity—back.

And let me tell you… the view from the top is much better without the dead weight.