Chapter 11

“I’m sorry.” Kaira had apologized at least a dozen times. She’d told Craig everything—about the will, the conditions on my inheritance, and where we were staying. Everything. I knew her well enough to understand why. He would have been angry that she’d taken off.

He hit her. She left him. Craig.That bastard. Craig and Julian, the golden prince and the ex-boyfriend from hell, had joined forces like the world’s most toxic Justice League. Tell me why rich men think they can control the narrative. Craig wanted revenge. Julian tried to humiliate me. They were both about to learn a valuable life lesson: you don’t fuck with the girl who has nothing left to lose and everything left to burn

He went to the press. They were here. A horde descended on us as Williams led me out a side door.

“There she is!” a voice yelled.

“Hailey!”

“Hailey, over here

“Hailey, how does it feel to be the richest lady in America?”

“How does it feel to be the world’s youngest billionaire?”

“How did you know George Lachlan?” And then someone threw a pair of shoes at me. Oh goodness, my body was aching,

“She’s a fraud, a shameless stripper on Bourbon Street.” He yelled.

“Is it true that you’re George Lachlan’s illegitimate daughter?” If I were to answer, where would I start from? This was what George Lachlan was sorry for. I placed my hands on my forehead… I’m due for.

I was shuffled into an SUV. The door closed, dulling the roar of the reporters’ questions. Exactly halfway through our drive, a notification popped up. I opened it and saw a screenshot of a news headline.

Hailey Vale: Who Is the Lachlan Heiress? A short message accompanied the picture. Hey, Mystery Girl. You're officially famous. There were more paparazzi outside the gates of Lachlan House, but once we pulled past them, the rest of the world faded away. There was no welcome party.. but I was going to throw one tonight. The Lachlan will feel every heat I’m going to put on tonight.

I walked inside without saying a word. My heels clicked like gunshots across the marble floor. The staff barely looked at me. Good. I wasn’t here to make friends.. I was here to survive the storm and maybe become a hurricane.

In the hall, Clara intercepted me with her ever-perfect composure and judgment-free eyes. “Your suite has been prepared.”

“Would you like to freshen up before the guests arrive?” she asked.

I blinked. “Yes, of course, I need to smell fresh.” Clara didn’t smile.

“Make sure there are poles in every room,” I said. “And a playlist that would make the Vatican cry.”

“Yes, Miss Vale.”

And just like that, Clara vanished like a stylish legal ghost, off to handle things with the efficiency of someone who could murder you and bill you for it.

I headed to my new suite, passing a mirror on the way, catching my reflection. Hair wild. Eyes sharp. Lipstick is like war paint.

They wanted a scandal?

They were about to choke on it.

*^*^*^*^*^

The party started before the sun went down. No velvet ropes. No guest list. No apologies.

“Remind me why we’re doing this again?” Kiara yelled over the music, her arms draped in glitter and a half-naked bartender.

“Because they think I’m a nobody,” I said, sipping champagne like it was vengeance. “So I’m showing them exactly what nobody can do—with their money.” Kaira chuckled.

The east wing had been converted into a glowing, hedonistic nightmare. Neon lights, velvet ropes, and actual strippers on podiums. Men. Women. Both. Equal-opportunity chaos. I’d brought New Orleans grit into their white-collar palace, and if the Lachlans wanted a war, I’d give them one in heels and sequins.

Craig and Julian thought they could bury me with their headlines—Shameless Stripper Steals Lachlan Empire? I’m rewriting the script. Tonight, I’m the hurricane, and they’re about to drown.

And that’s when I saw them. The four horsemen of brooding judgment.

Julian. Aaron. Marcus. Luca.

They stood by the grand staircase like the Greek pantheon had just discovered sin. Julian, stiff and furious in black. Aaron, grinning like this was the best thing that had ever happened to him. Marcus, watching me like I was a bomb he wanted to study. And Luca, dark-eyed and detached, a whiskey glass perched in his hand, boots kicked up like he was above it all.

I grip the central pole, my sequined bodysuit glinting like a blade, my thighs burning as I spin, slow, deliberate, my almond-shaped eyes daring the crowd to blink. Bourbon Street taught me how to own a room, but this is different—this is power.

I arch back, my hair grazing the stage, freckles catching the light, and slide down the pole, hips rolling to the filthy beat. The crowd roars, but it’s Julian’s clenched jaw, Marcus’s tightened fists, that light me up. You want a scandal, Lachlans? Choke on it. I kick a leg high, spinning one last time, my body a weapon, my heart a war drum. The song ends, and I dismount, sweat-slick, chest heaving, snatching a champagne flute as I strut offstage, heels clicking like bullets.

“Well, would you look at that,” Aaron said, catching me mid-dance with a stripper named Blaze. “Our new landlady throws a hell of a party.”

“You’re trespassing,” Julian growled at his brother, jaw clenched like he’d bitten a lemon and called it loyalty.

“I live here, Julian.” Aaron clinked his glass to mine. “And if this is the new management style, I’m fully on board.”

I’m halfway down the east wing’s dim hallway, old Lachlan portraits sneering from the walls, when Julian’s voice cuts through like a knife. “What the fuck was that stunt, Vale?”

I turn, sipping my champagne, one hip cocked, my bodysuit sparkling in the candlelight. “Stunt?” I say, my voice sharp enough to slice. “That was me reminding you this is my house, Lachlan. Not yours.”

I step closer, daring him, my breath catching at his leather-and-frost cologne, at the way his rumpled suit hugs his frame, betraying the chaos beneath his control.

Then here comes Marcus. Sliding in beside me with a beer in one hand and that sly, unreadable smirk that made me think he could either kiss me or kill me. Or both.

“You’ve got everyone talking, Mystery Girl,” he said. “Even the portraits look shocked.”

“I aim to please,” I said. “Or offend. Depends on the lighting.”

Luca spoke next, almost like an afterthought. “You’re not what I expected.”

“Good,” I replied. “Because what did you expect? Dead. Buried. And not dancing on a marble table in heels sharper than your jawlines.”

Aaron laughed. “She’s fun. Can we keep her?”

“No,” Julian snapped, glaring.

“Yes,” Marcus said, tilting his head at me. “I vote yes.”

“I vote hell yes,” Aaron added.

Luca raised his glass and gave me the smallest nod of the night. That was a yes. A dark, dangerous one.

Julian looked like he might combust. “This isn’t a game.”

“Tell that to your grandfather,” I shot back. “He set the board. I’m just playing with the pieces.”