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 fianc\u00e9e. 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.<\/p>\n
Sloan finally glanced my way, her smile as sharp as a fresh paper cut. She didn\u2019t recognize me as a threat. She saw an inconvenience. A stain.<\/p>\n
Good,\u00a0I thought, walking toward the bar.\u00a0<\/span>Let them think I\u2019m nobody. Let them dig the grave. I\u2019ll just provide the shovel.<\/span><\/p>\n
My General Manager,\u00a0Wesley Crane<\/span><\/strong>, 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,\u00a0<\/span>Sloan Whitmore<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0was going to learn a very expensive lesson: Never insult the country girl, especially when she owns the roof over your head.<\/span><\/p>\n\n
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.<\/p>\n
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