536 The Six-Foot Frame of Betrayal: A Cheating Husband, a Traitorous Step-mother, and a Forensic Accountant’s Masterclass in Total Destruction

The heavy oak front door swung open at precisely 7:45 PM, exactly fifteen minutes behind schedule, accompanied by a gust of cold October wind and the familiar, boisterous sound of Arthur Sterling’s booming laughter.

"Mabel! Where is our dutiful hostess?" Arthur bellowed, stepping into the foyer like a man who owned the hemisphere. He shrugged off a cashmere overcoat, handing it without a glance to Martha, who took it with the frozen politeness of a woman enduring a plague. Arthur was seventy-two, silver-haired, impeccably tailored, and radiating the arrogant self-assurance of a patriarch who believed his wealth made him immune to gravity.

Right behind him came Selina, stunning in a crimson designer gown that clung to her figure like liquid fire. Her dark hair was styled in an elaborate updo, and her diamond earrings caught the chandelier light with a blinding flash. She looked every bit the trophy stepmother who had successfully bewitched an aging billionaire.

And trailing them, looking slightly flushed and adjusting his cuffs with practiced nonchalance, was Flynn.

"Sorry we're late, Mabel," Flynn said, leaning down to press a perfunctory, dry kiss to my cheek—the exact same cheek he had shared a bed with while texting Selina arrangements for the weekend. "The bridge was completely gridlocked. Dad insisted we stop by his office to review some portfolio shifts."

"Of course," I said smoothly, stepping back so they could enter. My voice didn't waver a fraction of an inch. "Traffic has been terrible all week. Welcome, everyone. The rest of the family should be arriving any minute."

Selina swept past me, her heavy perfume—expensive, suffocating tuberose—filling the hallway. She paused by the entrance of the dining room, her sharp eyes scanning the table settings before landing briefly on the tall, draped easel standing prominently beneath the chandelier.

"Good heavens, Mabel," Selina drawled, her voice dripping with that patronizing condescension I had swallowed for half a decade. "Is that another one of your tragic little craft projects? I told you, if you want to decorate for Halloween, you should hire a professional designer. That looks... rather ominous."

"It's a surprise, Selina," I replied, meeting her gaze dead-on without flinching. "I think everyone will find it... illuminating."

Selina’s eyes narrowed slightly for a split second, a flicker of unease crossing her features before her practiced, venomous smile returned. "Oh, I just hate surprises. Especially yours, darling. They’re usually so terribly... beige."

Before I could retort, the front door opened again, admitting Flynn’s two sisters, Chloe and Beatrice, along with their respective husbands—men who lived off trust funds and spent their days playing golf while looking down on anyone who earned a living. They breezed into the foyer like a swarm of expensive locusts, complaining about the weather, the parking, and the distance from the city.