What Sloan didn’t know—what nobody in that room knew—was that I signed the deed to this hotel three years ago.

The Monarch Hotel.

Every chandelier above her head. Every piece of silverware she was eating with. Every square inch of Italian marble beneath her overpriced heels.

It all belonged to me.

And by the end of tonight, that whisper was going to cost her everything she ever wanted.

My name is Bethany Burns. I’m thirty-one years old, and I grew up in Milbrook, Pennsylvania—a town so small the only “traffic jam” we ever had was when old Mr. Henderson’s cows escaped and blocked Main Street for three hours.