“And since you prepared birthday gifts,” she said, “I brought gifts too.”

The doors opened:

A custom Rolls-Royce
Ten kilos of gold
The deed to Ashridge Estate

“And one more.” She squeezed my hand. “I called the police. The ‘accident’ from five years ago is being reopened.”

Officers entered.

Marissa panicked. Her daughter Ivy lied. I let them.

Then I lifted a small USB.

“Surprise two.”

The footage appeared on the massive screen: someone crouched by my car, severing the brake lines.

“Zoom in.”

Marissa’s face appeared.

The ballroom erupted. Officers cuffed her.

Gregory and the daughters dropped to their knees, begging. They offered money, apologies, even themselves.

They produced one last “weapon”—an old contract. Not a marriage certificate. A servitude contract I’d signed at eighteen, thinking it was legal marriage.

I was never a wife.

Just property.

Marissa laughed, bragging about staging my “rescue” years ago.

I grabbed her throat. “If you want to die, say so.”

Gregory tore me off. “Violence solves nothing.”

“You’re right,” I said. “Prison taught me that. I’m dropping the lawsuit. Prison is too kind. I’d rather watch you fall slowly.”

Marissa sneered. “And your status will do that?”

She didn’t know my third surprise.

The emcee called for Hart Corporation’s representative.

Evan Carter stepped forward.

Behind him entered the directors of Crimson Phoenix Group, led by its infamous CEO, Damon Cross.

The hall darkened.

The spotlight hit the stage.

I stepped forward and accepted the appointment letter.

“The board of Crimson Phoenix,” Damon announced, “welcomes our new chairwoman—Elaine Mercer, Queen of Seaside City!”

Gasps. Cameras. Panic.

Half the Stonewell fortune—donated to buy Marissa the crown—now sat under my signature.

Damon revealed Ashridge had been vandalized; the Stonewells were charged with trespassing and property damage. Their last bank card was confiscated.

Later came the villa incident, the smashed cars, the medical files revealing Marissa’s HIV and other diseases, the fraud charges, the evidence tampering, the hit-and-run that left Ivy disabled, and Gregory’s death from untreated AIDS.

Marissa still screamed that I had ruined her.

At the hospital, police arrested her.

“Ms. Marissa Lane,” the officer said, “you are charged with framing, attempted murder, and felony hit-and-run.”

I pulled the razor—their first “gift”—from my bag and tossed it at her feet.

“This was meant for me,” I told her. “Keep it. Our paths end here.”

On my way out, I passed the room where Gregory’s body lay under a sheet.

A nurse stepped out. “Are you family of the deceased?”

I didn’t look inside.

“No,” I said.

“You’ve got the wrong woman.”