Rhea
The car door clicks shut, the sound unnaturally loud in the silent garage. I don’t wait for the driver. I walk into the house, my house, the one my mother designed, and find them waiting in the grand foyer like a tribunal.
My father, Richard Bishop, stands stiffly by the fireplace, his face a thundercloud. Beside him, my stepmother, Diana, is perched on the edge of an antique chair, her expression a perfect mask of glacial disappointment. She’s the one who speaks first.
“Do you have any idea what you have done?” Her voice is low, but it cuts through the cavernous space.
“I have saved myself from a lifetime of misery,” I say, my voice still hoarse. I let my shoulders slump, the picture of a wounded animal.
My father takes a step forward. “You’ve created a scandal, Rhea! You humiliated the Thornes. You humiliated this family.”
“He cheated on me, Father.” The words come out as a sob. It’s a good performance. I can feel the phantom sting of tears I am not actually shedding. “What was I supposed to do? Stand there and smile while he made a fool of me on the day we were supposed to celebrate our future?”
“With a maid?” Diana scoffs, a delicate, venomous sound. “Ellis Thorne, a man who could have anyone, chose a member of the hotel staff? Be serious. It’s a ridiculous accusation.”
I turn my gaze on her, letting my lip tremble. “So you’re calling me a liar? You think I did this to myself?” I gesture to my torn dress, the smeared mascara. “You think I wanted this?”
“I think you’re being hysterical,” she says, unmoved. “You’ve thrown away a perfect match, a union that would have secured this company for a generation, over some childish fantasy.”
“It wasn’t a fantasy!” I snap, my voice cracking with calculated desperation. I look past her, to my father. “He was with her. I saw him. How can you not believe me?”
My father’s jaw is tight. He’s a businessman. He’s weighing the cost of the scandal against the cost of his daughter’s supposed pain. I know which one matters more to him.
“This isn’t about belief, Rhea,” he says, his voice strained. “It’s about how this looks. We have contracts with Thorne Corp. Our names are linked.”
“So my word means nothing? My pain means nothing next to a contract?” I take a shaky step towards him. “What would Mother have done? Would she have told me to swallow my pride and marry a man who betrayed me?”
That hits him. I see him flinch. The mention of my mother is a weapon I rarely use, but tonight, I will burn any bridge to get what I want.
His face softens, just a fraction. The businessman recedes, and for a second, a father looks out. “Of course not. But you handled it… publicly.”
“He humiliated me publicly,” I counter. “He deserved nothing less. Now you have to decide. Are you going to stand with him, or with me?”
The ultimatum hangs in the air. Diana looks furious, but she knows she cannot speak now. This is between me and him.
He sighs, a long, weary sound of defeat. “We’ll have the firm’s PR team draft a statement. We will support you, of course. We have to.”
The last three words tell me everything I need to know. This isn’t about family. It’s about damage control. Perfect.
“Thank you, Father,” I whisper, as if he’s just granted me a great mercy. I turn and walk towards the stairs, my back straight, not letting them see the cold smile that touches my lips. I’ve won the first battle.
I lock my bedroom door behind me, the exhaustion from the performance hitting me for a moment. I lean against the cool wood, my breathing evening out. The act is over. The real work begins.
I sit at my desk, the one my mother gave me, and pull out my phone. I scroll through my contacts until I find the name: Arthur Abernathy. My mother’s financial advisor, and the trustee of the small portfolio she left me. I press the call button.
He answers on the third ring, his voice thick with sleep. “Rhea? Is everything alright? It’s nearly midnight.”
“Everything is fine, Arthur. I apologize for the hour.”
“I… I heard there was some trouble at your party,” he says, his tone shifting to one of gentle concern. “I’m so sorry, my dear.”
“The party is over. I need you to do something for me. First thing when the market opens tomorrow.”
“Of course. Anything.”
“I need you to liquidate my portfolio. All of it. Everything my mother left me.”
There’s a long silence on the other end of the line. “Rhea, what are you saying? Liquidate everything? Those are solid, blue-chip stocks. They’re your safety net. Your mother chose them very carefully.”
“I’m aware,” I say, my voice firm, all trace of the broken-hearted girl gone. “I don’t want a safety net. I want capital.”
“This is a very emotional decision, made on a very emotional night,” he urges gently. “Perhaps we should wait a few days. Let the dust settle.”
“The dust isn’t going to settle, Arthur. It’s a sandstorm. I need you to do this for me tomorrow. No delays.”
He sighs, a sound of paternal frustration. “And what do you intend to do with this capital? If I may be so bold as to ask. Another rash decision?”
“A very calculated one,” I reply coolly. “I want you to take every single dollar from the liquidation and invest it in one company.”
“One company? Rhea, that’s not investing, it’s gambling. Diversification is key…”
“The company is called Innovate Dynamics.”
I can almost hear him frowning. “Innovate Dynamics? The tech startup? I think I’ve seen their name. They’re nobodies. Their stock is trading for pennies. It’s speculative, Rhea. Highly volatile. It could be worthless in a month.”
“It won’t be,” I say, the certainty in my voice absolute. I remember the headlines from my past life. Innovate Dynamics and its revolutionary data-compression algorithm. The company that skyrocketed, making its early investors billionaires. The company Ellis laughed at me for suggesting Bishop Architecture invest in, just weeks before its explosion.
“How can you be so sure?” Arthur asks, his professional skepticism warring with his affection for me.
“I have a good feeling about it,” I say simply. “Call it a woman’s intuition.”
“Rhea, I have a fiduciary duty to advise you against this. It’s reckless. It goes against every sound financial principle.”
“I appreciate your advice, Arthur. I do. But my signature is the one that matters on that account.” The power shifts. He is my advisor, not my keeper. “This isn’t a request. It’s an instruction. Sell the portfolio, buy the stock. Send me the paperwork to sign in the morning.”
He is quiet for another long moment. I can picture him, sitting in his study, running a hand over his tired face, thinking of the promise he made to my mother to look after me.
“Very well,” he says finally, his voice laced with resignation. “It’s your money, Rhea. I’ll execute the trades as soon as the market opens.”
“Thank you, Arthur. I won’t forget this.”
“I just hope you won’t regret it,” he says, and hangs up.
I don’t reply. I place my phone on the desk, my hands perfectly steady. I feel no fear, no regret. Only a deep, humming sense of power. While Ellis and Delilah are scrambling to control a narrative, I am quietly building an arsenal. They think they’ve been dealing with a pawn.
They have no idea they’re playing against a queen.
