All Chapters of Try to make me cry: Chapter 11 - Chapter 17

The office air went from celebratory to toxic in the space of that single, shouted syllable: "You! You are Miss Grayson?"The Governor, Laim London, and his son, Robin London, stared between me and the distraught woman, who I now knew was Ivy London.Robin London looked at his wife, confused. “Oh, you know her, honey?”I closed my eyes, preparing to launch into my pre-planned defense of corporate discipline, but Ivy spoke first, her mind working furiously.“Oh, no... No, not much,” Ivy stammered, her gaze locking onto my handbag. “We only passed each other at a… ahm, shopping, yes. When I was shopping, she bought the bag I was looking forward to buying. They only have two or five in the world.” She pointed weakly at my designer bag.I was genuinely shocked. She had instinctively chosen a lie that involved luxury competition rather than sexual scandal.“Oh, is that so? Hope you didn't get on each other's bad side, seeing you girls love rare expensive things,” Robin said, seemingly reli

The hum of the Gulfstream’s engines was a low, vibratory drone that seemed to rattle the very marrow of my bones. Inside the cabin, the air was pressurized and sterile, smelling of high-grade leather, expensive bourbon, and the cloying, sugary scent of Bella’s perfume.I sat in the oversized cream leather armchair, my legs crossed carefully at the ankles to avoid the white-hot sting of the scrapes on my knees. I had shed my wool coat, leaving me in the charcoal silk jumpsuit that felt like a second skin—a cold, shimmering armor. My laptop was open on the mahogany pull-out table, the glow of the screen reflecting in my eyes, but I wasn't reading the spreadsheets. I was listening.An hour into the flight, the initial theatrics had settled into a simmering, uncomfortable quiet. Eddie sat across the aisle, his navy jacket discarded, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that were tense with a strange, restless energy. Bella was perched on the edge of the seat next to him, h

The vanity mirror was a vast, silver-backed sheet of crystal that spanned the entire length of the marble wall. In its reflection, I didn't see the Tyrant. I saw a ghost with long blonde hair, eyes like frozen lakes, and a charcoal silk jumpsuit that looked more like a bruise against the blinding white of the room.My heart hadn't just stopped; it had been seized.Resting on the cool, polished surface of the vanity—right where my hand would have naturally landed—was a small, tarnished silver music box. It was a relic from a lifetime ago, a piece of my childhood I thought had been ground into dust the day my father burned my old room.I reached out, my fingers trembling so violently the silk of my sleeves rustled like dry leaves. The metal was ice-cold. I flipped the latch. The mechanism groaned, a slow, dying melody of Clair de Lune staggering out into the silent room.How did she find this? My mother didn't leave "gifts." She left landmines. This box wasn't a memory; it was a threat.

The air in Hawaii was no longer a tropical paradise; it felt like a pressurized chamber, thick with the scent of expensive hibiscus and the metallic tang of a storm brewing offshore. I stood on the sand, the hem of my black silk dress already damp, feeling the eyes of the elite bore into my back from the glass terrace above.The Audience of VulturesUp on the teak deck, the music didn't stop, but the laughter did. I could see them through the floor-to-ceiling glass—the Ho family, my sisters, the corporate vultures. They weren't horrified by my mother’s cruelty; they were fascinated by it. “Did you see?” a cousin whispered loud enough for the wind to carry. “The Tyrant actually has tear ducts.”“She’s probably just angry she didn't get the inheritance,” Bethany added, her voice dripping with artificial sympathy as she sipped her champagne.They didn't see a daughter being disowned. They saw a high-stakes glitch in a perfect machine. To them, my pain was a performance, and they were w