For seven years, my husband had kept me away from our daughter’s school, repeatedly telling me, “Women like you don’t belong in places like that.”

At 2:45 PM, I stood across the street from the Vance Conservatory—a sprawling Victorian mansion set back behind iron gates in the elite enclave of New Canaan.

I was once again disguised.

Through Sarah’s network of service workers, I had obtained the afternoon schedule for Greenwich Elite Floral Solutions—the high-end catering and floral decorator that delivered fresh orchids to Victoria’s estate every Friday afternoon before her high-society evening recitals.

Wearing a dark green delivery apron, a black baseball cap, and holding a massive arrangement of white lilies, I walked right past the private security guard at the gate.

He barely glanced at my face. Servants in Greenwich were background noise.

I slipped through the side entrance of the estate, navigating the polished marble corridors that smelled of rich wood varnish and fresh paint.

From the grand ballroom down the hall, I heard the crisp, flawless sound of a piano.

A Chopin nocturne. Played with mechanical, agonizing perfection.

I crept down the carpeted hallway toward the music room, keeping the floral arrangement high to cover my face.

Through the heavy mahogany double doors, which were cracked open an inch to let the air circulate, I saw them.

Victoria Vance was standing over Chloe.

Victoria wore an exquisite silk blouse and tailored trousers, her golden hair swept up in a flawless french twist. In her right hand, she held a thin, silver-tipped wooden conductor’s baton.

Chloe sat at the Steinway grand piano. Her small body was rigid, sweat glistening on her forehead, her little fingers flying across the keys.

Suddenly, Chloe’s pinky slipped on a sharp octave transition. A minor discord echoed through the room.

SLAM!

Victoria struck the wood of the piano right beside Chloe’s hands with the metal tip of the baton.

Chloe flinched violently, pulling her hands back against her chest, a quiet gasp escaping her throat.

"Again!" Victoria barked, her voice cold, cruel, and completely devoid of the elegant warmth she performed in public. "From measure forty-two! And lift your left wrist, you pathetic little brat!"

"My... my wrist hurts, Miss Victoria," Chloe squeaked, her voice trembling. "We've been practicing for three hours..."

"I don't care if your fingers fall off!" Victoria hissed, stepping closer and grabbing Chloe by her collar, forcing the eight-year-old to look up at her. "Your father is paying forty-five million dollars to make sure you perform perfectly at the Vance Gala on Saturday! If you embarrass me in front of the Senator, I will make sure you spend the entire night in the lower room!"

I pulled out my phone, angling the pinhole camera through the cracked door.

The live feed streamed straight to Arthur Pendelton’s secure server, recording every frame in high-definition 4K video.

"Please, Miss Victoria," Chloe wept quietly. "I want my mom..."

Victoria laughed—a bitter, venomous sound that made my skin crawl.

"Your mother?" Victoria sneered, slapping Chloe’s hand down onto the keys. "Your mother is a broke, pathetic nobody sleeping in a servant’s house while your father pays for my life! I am your mother now! Do you understand me?! Say it!"

Chloe closed her eyes, tears streaming down her face. "You... you are my mother..."

"Louder!"

"You are my mother!" Chloe sobbed.

"Good," Victoria hissed, releasing her collar. "Now play it again from measure forty-two. If you make another mistake before Marcus gets here, I'm locking the heavy door."

Standing in the dim hallway, clutching the floral arrangement, my blood boiled into pure fire.

Every fiber of my being wanted to kick those mahogany doors open, tear Victoria Vance apart with my bare hands, and wrap my arms around my baby girl.

Not yet, I forced myself to whisper silently. Not yet. A physical fight gives them a way out. A legal execution buries them forever.

I stepped back into the shadows, touched the hidden camera in my lapel to ensure it was transmitting, and quietly whispered into the hidden microphone:

"Arthur... did you catch that?"