The sun over the Hamptons doesn’t just shine—it sizes you up. Chrome rails on superyachts, diamond chokers on women sipping rosé, calculating net worth in lumens. I stood on the aft deck of the Sea Sovereign, a 150-foot floating palace, wind tangling my hair. Linen dress, leather sandals—simple, comfortable. Apparently, a grave insult to the woman on the white divan five feet away.
“Liam, darling,” Victoria drawled, martini in hand, eyes behind oversized Gucci shades, fixating on my feet. “Tell your friend the crew quarters are downstairs if she needs the restroom. Don’t clog the guest head.”
Liam, my boyfriend for eight months, lounged sun-kissed, chest taut, beer sweating in his grip. “Mom’s just particular. Elena’s a guest,” he murmured.
Richard, his father, struggling to light a cigar against the breeze, added, “She looks like she’s here to refill the ice buckets. Which, by the way, are empty.”
I stood still, calculating. Richard’s tuxedo—fifteen pounds tight. Victoria’s diamonds—insured for three million, policy lapsed. Their net worth? Fully leveraged against assets I now controlled.
“I think the crew is preparing dinner,” I said smoothly.
Victoria smirked. “Then make yourself useful. Liam pays for everything else.”
The boardroom just went afloat—and the real drama is about to hit. Keep reading to see how power, revenge, and social media collide…