Chapter 3

Spencer's expression hardened. "Then you'll pay the three million yourself."

He put his arm around Vivienne and walked away.

Three steps. Then he turned back and threw me one last line:

"Mara. Good luck."

Vivienne looked back at me over her shoulder.

Pure triumph.

The security guard reached for my arm.

Before he made contact, someone stopped his hand.

The guard made a sharp sound of pain, wrist caught and bent back, stepping away.

A man pushed through the crowd and stopped in front of me.

He took off his dinner jacket and wrapped it roughly around my shoulders.

Then he pulled a cheque from his inside pocket and tossed it at the event director.

Blank.

"Write whatever you like."

Julian Ashford turned to look toward the ballroom doors. Spencer's outline had just disappeared into the corridor.

"Mistaking a counterfeit for the genuine article." He shook his head. "That man needs his eyes examined."

He looked back at me.

"Though you're not much better. Your taste in husbands qualifies as a medical condition. I'd recommend a second opinion."

The people around us recognized him.

Julian Ashford. The Ashford Group. The only heir to one of the oldest private equity dynasties in Britain.

The moment he stood there, every person who'd been pointing at me went quiet.

Several began to quietly back away.

I took his jacket from my shoulders, folded it neatly, and handed it back.

"Thank you. I'm fine."

I walked out.

I took a car back to the house. Stood at the front door and pressed my fingerprint to the panel.

Verification failed.

I tried again.

Verification failed.

A voice came from above.

Spencer was on the upstairs balcony, looking down. Vivienne stood beside him, wine glass in hand.

"You managed to get back? Who paid for that vase — did you steal one of my cards?"

I said nothing.

"Mara, what you did tonight was unacceptable. You can stand out here for an hour and think about it." He glanced at Vivienne. "When you're ready to apologise to her directly, I'll let you in."

Vivienne leaned slightly forward, voice sweet. "Mrs. Caldwell, I don't need an apology, really. Don't be stubborn with Spencer. Just say the word."

The sweeter she sounded, the sicker I felt.

I took out my phone and dialled.

"Julian. I need your people."

A two-second pause on the line.

"You're finally using your brain. Send me the address."

Twenty minutes later, three black executive cars pulled up outside.

Julian stepped out. Ten security personnel behind him.

He looked at the closed front door, then tilted his head up at the balcony.

Spencer's smile froze.

Julian unhurriedly undid his top shirt button.

"Your ex-husband's taste — in women and in door locks — is perfectly consistent. Both decorative and completely useless."

I didn't engage.

A guard pulled an industrial ram from the back of the car.

Julian tipped his chin toward the door. "Open it."

Three strikes. The door collapsed.

A scream from the balcony.

Spencer's wine glass fell. Red splashed across the railing.

Vivienne threw herself behind him.

I walked through the wreckage into my own home.

Spencer came pounding downstairs, face greenish.

"Mara, have you lost your mind?!"

"That door costs a fortune! You destroyed my door!"

He was already dialling. "Yes — forced entry, criminal damage. Yes. The Davenport estate—"

He hung up and pointed at me, trembling. "Mara, I swear, nobody in this world can help you tonight. You're going to jail."

Vivienne had appeared on the stairs. She was wearing my dressing gown.

"Spencer, calm down. Once the police arrive, it'll all be sorted."

Ten minutes later. Blue lights outside.

The officer in charge — a man in his thirties — came in and looked at the demolished door first.

Spencer rushed forward. "Officer, this woman brought a crew to break into my property with a metal ram. Criminal damage. I want her arrested immediately."

The officer nodded. Looked at me.

A younger officer stepped forward with handcuffs.

Spencer watched with satisfaction.