I spotted my mother holding court near the buffet, preening like a peacock. She was undoubtedly extolling the virtues of Garrett and his wealthy new fiancée. Garrett stood next to Sloan, looking like a man who had won the lottery, oblivious to the fact that he was holding a voided ticket.

Sloan finally glanced my way, her smile as sharp as a fresh paper cut. She didn’t recognize me as a threat. She saw an inconvenience. A stain.

Good, I thought, walking toward the bar. Let them think I’m nobody. Let them dig the grave. I’ll just provide the shovel.

My General Manager, Wesley Crane, caught my eye from across the room. He gave a microscopic nod. The trap was set. My staff knew not to acknowledge me as the owner tonight. Everything was perfect. Because in exactly three hours, Sloan Whitmore was going to learn a very expensive lesson: Never insult the country girl, especially when she owns the roof over your head.

The party was an exercise in narcissism. There were ice sculptures of swans that looked vaguely depressed, a champagne fountain that defied the laws of physics and good taste, and enough floral arrangements to deforest a small jungle. It was beautiful, technically, thanks to my incredible staff, but the soul of the event was rot.