Chapter 7

The taxi came to a slow stop in front of the towering black iron gates of the Westwood estate. The sun was bright and brutal above, casting sharp golden beams over the grand white mansion that had once belonged to them—and now, belonged to her.

Alaya Moore stepped out of the car, her black sunglasses shielding her eyes. She was dressed simply—fitted jeans, a clean white blouse, and her natural curls pinned up. No jewelry. No designer bags. Just quiet power.

The moment her heels clicked onto the gravel driveway, a man in a crisp uniform stepped forward from the front entrance.

“Welcome, ma’am,” he said, bowing slightly. “Shall I take your bags inside?”

“Yes,” Alaya replied, offering a small smile. “Thank you.”

He nodded and signaled to another housekeeper, who quickly moved to collect her things from the trunk.

The taxi driver stood near his car, arms crossed, looking expectantly at her.

“Wait here,” Alaya told him, then turned and walked up the stone steps, her steps firm. She moved through the entrance like she belonged there—because she did now.

She passed the marble foyer and walked straight to the study just off the hall. She knew where the safe was. Darius had shown her once, when they were still in love. He’d bragged about it in a quiet, private way—the kind that wasn’t for show, but still meant something.

The safe was behind a false panel in the bookshelf. She knelt, typed in the code—his birthday—and with a soft hiss, it opened.

Inside lay a collection of watches, cufflinks, bars of gold, and rare jewelry pieces gifted to him by foreign dignitaries and wealthy friends. Things Darius had never worn—he didn’t care for flash—but he’d kept them all.

Her eyes landed on a gold Rolex, heavy, flawless, practically glowing under the light. She picked it up, inspecting the polished face. Ten million dollars—maybe more. It would do.

She exited the study with the watch in hand, walking back toward the front entrance. As she neared the grand double doors, her steps slowed.

The Westwoods were outside, packing up their lives.

Cynthia was standing rigidly by the fountain, watching as household staff carried suitcases down the stairs. Mr. Westwood stood nearby, his face pinched in disdain, arms folded as if the air itself offended him. Behind them, a sleek black car waited, trunk open, engine idling.

Alaya didn’t look away. She didn’t hide.

She descended the steps calmly, walked past them like they were ghosts, and strode toward the taxi.

The driver glanced at her, confused.

Without a word, she tossed the gold watch into the passenger seat. “Your pay.”

The man blinked. Then again. His eyes went wide. He looked down at the shimmering Rolex like it might vanish if he moved too quickly.

“Ma’am… this—this is—are you sure?”

She just smiled.

His grin split across his face. He muttered a dozen thank-yous before scrambling back into the cab and pulling off like he’d won the lottery—which he basically had.

Behind her, a sharp hiss echoed.

She turned just in time to see Cynthia Westwood marching toward her, heels crunching the gravel. The older woman’s face was tight, pale with fury. She came close—too close—and then, without warning, spat at Alaya’s feet.

“That’s all you’ll ever be,” she said coldly.

Alaya looked down at the spittle near her shoe, then back up at Cynthia with a calm, measured smile.

“No,” she said softly. “That’s all I was.”

Cynthia scoffed, ready to respond, but Alaya had already turned to the waiting driver of their luxury town car.

“You,” she said, pointing at him, “take the car back to the parking lot. You won’t be giving Mr. and Mrs. Westwood a ride today.”

The man blinked. “Ma’am?”

“You heard me.”

He hesitated, looked at the Westwoods, then back at her.

Mr. Westwood’s face darkened. “You dare—”

“I own the car. I own this property. I own everything you now walk on.”

The driver nodded quickly and turned the engine off, stepping away from the car. Cynthia gasped as if he’d slapped her.

Alaya turned her gaze to the housekeepers who were still carrying bags.

“You can leave those there,” she said, nodding toward the suitcases on the path. “You’ve done enough.”

The helpers looked around uncertainly, but one by one, they placed the bags on the ground and stepped back.

“You think you can just walk in and do as you like?” Mr. Westwood barked. “You think money makes you powerful? You’re just some—some little girl who—”

“I am the owner of this house,” Alaya interrupted, turning to face him fully now. “And I have no place for… such in my home.”

The moment the words left her lips, silence fell.

She’d quoted him. From that TV interview. The one where he’d dismissed her like a disease.

His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

Alaya took one final step toward them.

“Get off my property,” she said. “Before I call security.”

She didn’t wait to see their reaction.

She turned and walked back inside—head high.

And behind her, she could hear Cynthia yelling, Mr. Westwood cursing, bags thudding angrily against the gravel.

Power had shifted.

And it tasted sweet.

She entered the grand foyer again and spotted Malik standing near the bottom of the staircase, arms folded loosely, watching the scene unfold through the front window.

“You’re not moving out?” she asked, one brow arched.

Malik turned, lips lifting in a small smile. “I never lived here, Miss Moore.”

She eyed him up and down, surprised by the way he handled himself—calm and observant. Like his parents weren't being thrown out of the house.

“Oh.”

He nodded once. “Everyone’s gone now. Except Janelle. She locked herself in the guest room and won’t answer her phone.”

Alaya didn’t miss a beat. “Then throw her things out. Whenever she’s ready, she can pick them up from the driveway.”

Malik’s lips twitched. “Understood.”

She moved past him, deeper into the house, and caught the soft chuckle he let out behind her.

She walked down the hallway slowly, her steps echoing against polished floors. Past the dining room. Past the ballroom. Until she reached his study.

The door creaked open with a light push.

She stepped inside.

The room smelled like him. Leather, cedarwood, faint cologne. Time hadn’t touched this space yet. It felt frozen.

She ran her fingers along the edge of his desk. Everything was still in place—papers stacked, pens aligned, even the whisky decanter full.

She moved behind the desk and lowered herself into his chair. It was too big, but it cradled her perfectly.

She leaned back and stared up at the ceiling, letting her mind wander.

She hated that she missed him.

She hated that, even after everything—the lies, the humiliation—her heart still remembered what it was like to be held by him.

She cursed death in her head. For robbing them of their time together.

“I loved you,” she whispered to the empty room. “And I still do."

She sat there in silence, lost in memory, for what felt like hours.

And then—

A scream ripped through the air.

“That bitch! Where is she?!”