She shoved me again. I stumbled, staring straight up at the chandelier.

Dozens of pounds of crystal swayed above me, barely hanging on. The wires sparked—tiny, sharp zzzts slicing the air.

The workers paled.

"This isn't safe, Ms. Scambley! Someone could get seriously hurt!"

"Don't be dramatic! I picked that chandelier myself—there's nothing wrong with it! Turn it on. My friends want to see it shine. If something happens, I'll take full responsibility!"

The electrician—clearly ticked but stuck—froze. His paycheck came from her.

Before he could move, Mona's friends shoved past and yanked the breaker.

The second the switch flipped, I grabbed Mona's wrist and dragged her under the chandelier with me.

"Ms. Scambley, a light this gorgeous? We HAVE to enjoy it together."

Zzzzzaaap—

Sparks cracked. The overhead lights stuttered, the room flashing between bright and blackout.

Clang!

One of the steel cables snapped with a sharp pop.

The chandelier tilted hard. Crystals burst midair, raining down like glass hail.

Mona shrieked and shoved me off, scrambling across the floor in full-blown panic.

I backed away just as fast, heart pounding.

Half a second later—boom—the chandelier slammed into the spot we'd just been standing. Shattered on impact.

A crystal the size of my fist landed inches from my foot.

Half a step more, and it would've cracked my skull.

Everyone stood frozen.

Mona, still shaking and pale, pointed at me from the floor, screaming, "Psycho! You psycho—you tried to kill me! That's a crime, you know?!"

I brushed myself off and looked down at her. "Funny. That's exactly what I was about to ask you. You forced me to stand there—I just returned the favor.

"If we're assigning blame, it's all yours. Maybe think twice before pulling reckless stunts. It'd be a shame if this brand-new house turned into a crime scene."

Mona jabbed a finger at me. "Y-You bitch! Just wait! I'm firing you and bringing in a real supervisor!"

Her friends helped her up, heels wobbling as they hustled her out.

Exactly what I expected.

I'd already spread the word through my contacts the moment I started gathering proof.

I convinced the original supervisor to bail and warned others off the job.

Mona couldn't find a replacement and went quiet for two days.

Still hated seeing me, though.

Too bad. I was the supervisor. Without my sign-off, she couldn't charge a cent to the card Daxton gave me.

Then one day, she waltzed back in, smug all over her face, holding a reimbursement form.

"This covers the rest of the renovations. Total's $2.6 million. Go confirm the payment."

The budget I gave Daxton? $1.3 million—plenty.

Now she was asking for double.

Where the hell was the extra going?

I opened the list and skimmed it:

Along with the earlier junk, she'd tacked on:

• Air-shipped spring water system from the Alps – $220,000

• Italian hand-gilded wallpaper – $375,000

• Bathtub used by "French royalty" – $1,850,000

Totally fake or insanely overpriced—some marked up tenfold.

I looked at her. "This list serious?"

I looked at her, calm. "The total budget's $1.3 million. Who's covering the extra?"

Mona crossed her arms and snorted. "$1.3 million's for basic people. This is mine and Daxton's love nest—we're using the best. Don't stress the numbers. My husband knows how to move money from the family without getting you in trouble. Just sign."

So that was the play.

I saw it clear as day.

Renovations are a money pit. Easy to sink millions into one and make it vanish.

Daxton planted his mistress smack in the middle of the project to work around the three-party oversight. No bank checks. No flags.

He wanted to bleed me dry and call it "marital spending," so I'd have no legal leg to stand on.

Too bad he banked on Mona being smart.

She didn't even try to make the numbers look real. Those prices were laughable. Did she think I was an idiot?

Maybe all those years abroad fried her brain.

Mona huffed. "Can you hurry it up? That old hag's stuck abroad for at least two or three months. I've got a trip lined up with Daxton."

I smiled. "Pretty sure neither you nor Mr. Pruitt owns this place. The reno money? Came straight from Ms. Faulkner's personal account. And the contract with the company capped the budget at $1.3 million.

"Every payment needs company sign-off. So this $2.6 million invoice of yours? It's not just over budget—it's commercial fraud."

Mona's smirk froze.

I tapped my phone and held it up. "Oh, and that overseas account you listed? It's under Daxton Pruitt's name. What do we call that—embezzlement? Or a little scheme to siphon marital assets? Either way, I'm sure the cops would love it."

Mona went pale. "You... you're lying! You wouldn't dare!"

She fumbled her phone and dialed fast. "Daxton, help! This psycho supervisor won't release the payment—she's threatening to call the cops!"

From the speaker, Daxton's voice exploded. "Some nobody supervisor thinks she's calling shots? Don't worry, baby—I'm on my way. I wanna see which dumb bitch thinks she can mess with my woman!"

Seconds later, the front door slammed open with a loud kick.

Daxton stormed in, face twisted with rage.

"Where is she? Who's the damn supervisor? Tired of living?" he yelled, charging into the living room.

Mona ran to him like he was her knight in shining armor. "Daxton, it's HER! That bitch bullied me—don't let her get away with it!"

She pointed straight at me.

Daxton finally turned.

The second he saw my face, everything stopped.

His knees buckled. He grabbed the wall, voice cracking.

"F-Faye?"