Chapter 1

My daughter Sophia and I had just returned to our Long Island estate following a ski holiday in Switzerland, only to be greeted by a domestic farce of the most absurd variety. The living room was packed with distant relatives who typically only crawled out of the woodwork for Thanksgiving; it looked less like a family gathering and more like an impromptu shareholder meeting for the Sterling clan.

Most conspicuous among them was Monica Davis. She was perched in the center of the Louis XV sofa, weeping a tear-stained spectacle that rivaled any Broadway tragedienne for sheer commitment. Meanwhile, Richard Sterling—my husband in name only—was comforting her with a tenderness one usually reserves for fragile porcelain.

I arched a brow, handed my Hermès bag to the butler, and turned to Richard. "Is there a special occasion? It seems awfully lively in here."

Sophia, standing behind me, removed her sunglasses. She crossed her arms and stared at Monica with undisguised loathing. Clearly, her intuition had already identified the woman.

My mother-in-law—the matriarch of the Sterling family—sat ensconced in the master chair by the fireplace, her expression grave, appearing as though she wished to speak but could not find the words.

Before Richard could utter a syllable, Monica lunged toward Sophia like a woman possessed, wailing, "My darling daughter, I am your biological mother!"

Sophia side-stepped with the agility of a cat, her face contorted in disgust as if Monica were a disease-ridden rodent. She took a step back and said coldly, "My mother is Evelyn Sinclair."

Truly my daughter; she had inherited the Sinclair pride and composure in full measure.

I took Sophia’s hand, offering her a reassuring glance, before delivering a resounding backhand slap across Monica’s face. The crisp sound echoed through the high-ceilinged drawing room.

"In the Sterling household, a woman of your station does not get to claim arbitrary relations," I said, my voice cold as frost, my gaze as sharp as a scalpel.

Richard leaped up, helping Monica to her feet with exaggerated heartache. He pointed a trembling finger at me and roared, "Evelyn, are you insane? How dare you strike Monica!"

He raised his hand, posturing as if to strike me.

Quick as lightning, Sophia rushed forward and slapped Richard hard across the face.

"Don't you dare touch my mother." Sophia's voice wasn't loud, but it carried an unquestionable authority, a mirror image of my younger self.

Richard froze, caught between rage and shock. He raised his hand again, this time intending to discipline Sophia.

But Monica grabbed him, weeping with performative benevolence. "Richard, don't! She is our daughter!"

Her sanctimonious act was enough to make me retch.

Richard lowered his hand, glaring viciously at Sophia. "If it weren't for your birth mother, I would teach you a lesson right now!"

Sophia let out a cold laugh. "Hah. You can try. Let’s see if the Sterling Group's legal team agrees."

Her sharp, piercing gaze was identical to mine at her age. A surge of pride welled up within me—this was indeed the heir I had so carefully cultivated.