Don't Cross the Line of New York's Most Powerful Figure

Gwen's POV

I’m Gwen Stanton, the only daughter of Hector Stanton—one of New York’s most powerful elites. Raised in luxury after my mother’s tragic death during childbirth, I became the adored gem of the city's high society. My father spared no expense on my education, sending me abroad to study at the world’s finest schools. On my 18th birthday, he gifted me ten million dollars to celebrate my coming of age and dropped a bombshell: he was remarrying. I was thrilled and eager to welcome my new stepmother into our family.

With excitement bubbling inside me, I splurged on a lavish gift for her—over a hundred thousand dollars worth of luxury. My plan was to surprise them both by returning to New York unannounced. But when I stepped off the plane, my world shattered.

The moment I stepped off the plane, my soon-to-be stepmother stormed the airport with bodyguards, her fury unleashed on me. Before I could speak, she had me pinned to the ground, her high heel smashing into my nose and teeth, breaking them. All while streaming the entire scene live.

“You’ve got the nerve to seduce my husband when you’re barely out of school?” she screamed. “He's old enough to be your father, and yet you flaunt yourself in front of him, shameless!"

She went on, “I’ll tear that plastic surgery face apart! Let’s see you steal from me now!”

Just before I blacked out, I saw my dad and a whole entourage from New York’s elite rushing into the airport to greet me.

I had just gotten off the plane and was exhausted after hauling my shopping bags all over. Too tired to stand straight, I sat on my suitcase to rest and opened my phone. Just then, I got a notification. My stepmother had updated her social media. I’d been following her account secretly for months, trying to get a sense of what she liked so I could buy her a gift she’d love. Her posts about her extravagant life had earned her millions of followers—everyone adored Hester Mills.

Expecting another glamorous update, I was shocked when I saw her crying in her latest post. In the video, her voice trembled as she accused some "mistress" of stealing her husband. The comment section exploded with hate, calling the woman every name in the book. Worse, the video was going viral.

Just then, Auntie Hester started a livestream, and in less than two minutes, it exploded to one hundred thousand viewers. Through teary eyes, she wailed, “Beauty doesn’t matter anymore when there are fresh eighteen-year-olds everywhere! My wedding was postponed because of her! And my husband—he transferred ten million dollars to this woman!”

Her voice cracked, and the fury in her words was palpable. “If I hadn’t found the plane ticket charge on his secondary card, I’d still be in the dark!”

She continued, “He’s old enough to be her father, and yet she still won’t let him go! It seems an online affair wasn’t enough for her, so she’s coming here to meet him in person. Such women deserve a teaching they will never forget!"

Ten million dollars? A postponed wedding? My heart raced, my mind spinning. This couldn’t be happening. My father, Hector Stanton, had been devoted to my mother for years, never entertaining another woman until he met Auntie Hester. There had to be some mistakes.

Frantically, I typed a comment into the livestream, urging her to calm down and investigate the situation before she destroyed her marriage over a misunderstanding. But my words were drowned in a sea of hate-filled messages from her enraged fans.

I couldn’t sit still any longer. I called my father, hoping he’d pick up and clear this up, but all I got was an automated response—he was busy. Panic surged through me. If I didn’t act fast, this misunderstanding would spiral out of control. Grabbing my suitcase, I bolted out of the airport, desperate to fix this mess.

But before I could even take a few steps, a group of bodyguards tackled me to the ground. My suitcase flew several meters away, my heart lurching remembering it contained expensive jewelry I had bought for Hester.

“Stop!” I shouted, struggling to get up. “What are you doing? This is an airport! Do you want me to call the police?”

I barely had a chance to react before a camera was shoved in my face. The pressure wiped off the makeup from my nose. Just then, I saw my soon-to-be stepmother glaring down at me, her voice sharp and angry. “Everyone, look! This little mistress dares to call the police!” She sneered, her voice dripping with venom. “As if she could call our police after being so obsessed with foreign life! How dare you, you shameless little tramp!”

She spat in my face, her delicate features twisted in rage.

I was stunned, yet I tried to explain, “There’s been a mistake, Auntie Hester… I’m not—"

Her eyes flared with anger as she leaned into the camera, her voice mockingly sweet. “Did you hear that? Auntie Hester! Just because I’m ten years older, I’m suddenly her ‘auntie.’ Mistresses these days are so bold! Why not call me ‘Granny’ next?”

She turned back to me, her voice growing darker. “Caught in the act and still pretending to be innocent. You think I won’t deal with you just because you keep denying it?”

Before I could defend myself again, one of her bodyguards kicked the back of my knee under Auntie Hester's signal. Pain exploded through my leg, and I collapsed to the ground, gasping in shock. He yanked my hair, forcing my head back and exposing my face to the camera. I could feel the sharp sting of humiliation as Auntie Hester’s eyes burned with vindictive satisfaction.

With a sneer, she lifted my chin using the tip of her high heel, her voice low and full of malice. “Take a good look, everyone. This is the slut trying to steal my husband! Look at that mixed-race face—just how much did it cost to make her this pretty? No wonder my husband can’t stop throwing money at her!”

I tried to shake my head, to deny the accusations, but the bodyguard’s grip on my hair sent pain shooting down my neck. My face contorted. Desperately, I glanced around, hoping someone would step in, but the crowd just watched. Some middle-aged women were even cheering her on.

Realizing no help was coming, I tried to reason with her. “You’ve got it all wrong. I’m not a mistress, and I could never seduce your husband. He's my—”

But before I could finish, her hand whipped across my face, the slap echoing in the air.