CHAPTER 4
Chapter Title: Lion's Den, Lamb's Mask
Kimberly
The east parlor of the Williamson estate reeked of secrets, old money, and the sharp tang of whiskey. Lots of whiskey.
It was the most masculine room in this sprawling monument to power—leather armchairs that creaked with authority, dim lighting that cast long shadows, and dark wood-paneled walls adorned with antique rifles and heirloom decanters that gleamed like liquid gold. Above the fireplace, a massive oil painting of Hank’s great-grandfather loomed, his stern gaze boring into me as if he personally disapproved of my existence—my audacity to breathe the same rarified air as his descendants.
Divine swept in behind me, her heels clicking on the polished floor like a metronome counting down to my doom. The heavy oak doors thudded shut, sealing us in this whiskey-soaked confessional. She spun to face me, her icy blue eyes glinting with barely restrained fury. “What exactly was that performance at dinner?”
I didn’t answer immediately. Instead, I sauntered to the sideboard, my movements deliberate, my silk shirt whispering against my skin. I reached for the 25-year Glenfiddich, its bottle likely worth more than my bakery’s monthly revenue. Pouring a single finger of the amber liquid, I let it settle in the crystal tumbler, watching the light catch its golden depths before taking a slow, savoring sip.
“Mmm.” I swirled the glass gently, letting the smoky notes linger on my tongue. “This I like better than that insipid Château Margaux they served.”
Divine’s lips pressed into a razor-thin line, her perfectly manicured nails digging into her palms. “You embarrassed this family. At our table. Do you have any idea the damage you’re doing just by existing here the way you do?”
I turned to face her, drink in hand, my posture relaxed but my eyes sharp. “You mean by having thoughts? Opinions? A sense of humor? Or is it the pulse that offends you most?”
She ignored the jab, stepping closer, her voice low and venomous. “There were board members at that table. Philanthropists. Judges. People who matter. And you made a mockery of your role as Hank’s fiancée.”
“Oh, Divine,” I said, my voice soft but laced with steel as I closed the distance between us. “You invited me into your gilded lion’s den and expected me to bleat like a lamb. That was your first mistake.”
“You insolent—” Her voice spiked, sharp and furious, reverberating off the whiskey-scented walls. The raw edge in her tone told me I’d pushed her to the brink, her composure cracking like thin ice. Good.
“I’ve spent years,” she spat, “building this family’s image—its legacy. And now I’m forced to watch my son tether himself to some… some tart with no pedigree, peddling cheesecake to sunburned tourists in a second-rate bakery!”
I raised my glass in a mock toast, unfazed. “We also sell an incredible chocolate soufflé. You should try it sometime. Might loosen you up.”
Beyond the heavy doors, the muffled hum of the household staff grew momentarily louder, their ears no doubt catching the echo of Divine’s raised voice. She must have realized it too, because she stepped back, drawing in a sharp breath, her hands smoothing the front of her Chanel suit as she fought to regain her regal mask.
I set my glass down on the sideboard with a soft clink. “You know what I think, Divine? You’re not afraid of me, exactly. You’re afraid of what I represent. Someone you deem small—a nobody from nowhere—waltzing into your carefully curated world and flipping your precious tables.”
Her nostrils flared, her eyes blazing with a mix of contempt and something dangerously close to fear. “You won’t last, Kimberly.”
I smiled, slow and deliberate, letting the moment stretch. “That’s what makes this fun.”
She jabbed a manicured finger toward the door. “Get out of my sight.”
“With pleasure.”
I glided toward the exit, my heels whispering against the plush oriental rug. Just before reaching the door, I let myself stumble—just a subtle wobble, enough for anyone watching to think the alcohol had gone to my head.
It hadn’t. But perception was everything.
Stepping into the grand hallway, I let out a breathy laugh, light and carefree, as if I’d just walked off the set of a sitcom spat rather than narrowly escaped a social excommunication. A few staff members lingered near the marble staircase, their curiosity poorly veiled behind polite smiles. A whisper passed between them, but Divine’s sharp, frustrated hiss sliced through the closed parlor doors, scattering them like roaches caught in a sudden light.
Then, her voice shifted, dripping with sudden, syrupy politeness as it called after me. “Kimberly, darling, I expect you at the Yacht Club for dinner next week.”
I didn’t turn back. A faint smile curved my lips. Divine played the game as well as I did. Perception was indeed everything.
Hank appeared at the top of the sweeping staircase, phone in one hand, jacket slung carelessly over his shoulder. His boyish charm was dimmed by exhaustion—not from stress, but from his relentless habit of avoiding it.
“Hey,” he said, jogging down the steps, his loafers scuffing softly. “I’m gonna stay and help calm her down. She’s… she’s just rattled.”
I tilted my head, studying him. “Sure, Hank.”
“And I’ve got to finalize my pitch for Monday’s strategy meeting with Dad. It’s a big deal, Kim.”
“Of course it is,” I replied, my voice dripping with just enough honey to mask the sarcasm threading through it.
He leaned in for a kiss, but I turned my head, offering my cheek instead. He didn’t notice the deflection, his mind already elsewhere.
“I’ll leave my car here and grab an Uber home to change,” I said, adjusting my clutch. “Emma texted. She and some friends are headed to Delish to kick off the Stars and Stripes Fest.”
“Oh. Okay. Yeah, that’s cool.” He rubbed the back of his neck, distracted. “Just… text me when you get home?”
“Sure,” I said, already turning away.
I didn’t look back as I strode through the massive double doors of the Williamson manor, the weight of their opulence closing behind me with a soft thud.
Outside, the night air was thick with humidity, carrying the distant hum of cicadas and the briny scent of the nearby bay. The Uber’s headlights glowed at the end of the circular drive, a beacon of escape from this fortress of wealth and judgment. As I walked toward it, my heels clicking on the cobblestone, I caught sight of him.
Ace Ryder.
The head of Williamson security stood near the stone columns, his posture deceptively casual, arms crossed over his broad chest. A Bluetooth earpiece gleamed faintly behind one ear, his black tactical pants and fitted shirt accentuating every lean, calculated muscle. He was either doing a routine sweep of the property—or pretending to.
I didn’t break my stride.
But as I passed, I turned just enough for my gaze to meet his. His eyes, sharp and unreadable, held mine for a fraction of a second.
And then he smiled.
That slow, dangerous smile that said he saw everything—the stumble, the laugh, the game—and knew better than to say a word.
I didn’t smile back. Not fully. But I let a smirk tug at the corner of my mouth. Just enough.
The Uber door opened, and I slipped inside, the cool leather seat enveloping me in artificial luxury. As the car pulled away from the glowing Williamson estate, I glanced out the window. Ace’s silhouette stood sentinel against the stone columns, his presence a quiet counterpoint to the chaos I’d left behind.
A silent ally. Maybe something more.
Either way, he didn’t like Divine either. And in this game, allies were worth their weight in gold.
The manor faded into the distance, its lights swallowed by the humid night. I leaned back, one hand absently tracing the edge of my clutch, the faint scent of grilled steak and high-society disapproval still clinging to my outfit. Divine’s shrill reprimands echoed in my mind, but they couldn’t touch me now.
I smiled—not because I was drunk, but because I’d been playing this game for two years.
Two years of sugar-dusted smiles and polite patience. Two years of swallowing small dreams to carve out a place in a world that didn’t want me. Two years of learning the rules of this glittering, cutthroat arena—rules Divine had written but I was rewriting with every calculated step.
I pulled out my phone and texted Emma: On my way to Delish. Just left the lion’s den. Tell me there’s vodka.
Slipping the phone back into my clutch, I closed my eyes, letting the hum of the car lull me into a moment of stillness.
I'd walked into Divine’s parlor and walked out unscathed, her venom glancing off me like water off glass. But this was only the beginning.
Divine thought she could control the narrative, but I was the unexpected twist in her carefully scripted story.
After two long years, round one was over.
And I had every intention of winning the next.