A Billion Dollar Revenge

The truffle in Seraphina's hand was worth more than the transmission in her battered Honda Civic. It was a black, knobby lump of fungus that smelled like damp earth and money. Her fingers trembled as she sliced it, the razor-sharp mandoline shaving off paper-thin discs that fell onto the marble counter like dark snow.

Her lower back throbbed. She had been standing in this kitchen for six hours.

"Thinner, Seraphina. God, do I have to teach you everything?"

Victoria Vance swept into the kitchen, a cloud of Chanel No. 5 warring with the scent of the truffles. She was dressed in a silver gown that shimmered like fish scales, her face pulled tight by a surgeon's skillful hand. She pinched a handkerchief to her nose, eyeing the stove with disdain.

"The gala starts in two hours," Victoria snapped, tapping a manicured nail against the granite. "If the appetizers aren't plated by the time the guests arrive, don't bother coming out of the kitchen. Not that anyone would notice. You look like a ghost."

Seraphina didn't look up. She focused on the rhythm. Slice. Slice. Slice. If she stopped, she might scream. If she screamed, she wouldn't stop screaming.

"I'm going as fast as I can, Victoria," Seraphina said, her voice raspy. She hadn't had water since noon.

"'Mother'," Victoria corrected sharply. "Or Mrs. Vance. Though how my son ended up with a gold-digging nobody from the backwoods is still the family tragedy of the decade."

Seraphina's hand slipped. The blade nicked her thumb. A bead of bright red blood welled up, stark against the black truffle.

She stared at it. It was just a drop. But in this house, blood was currency.

Her pocket buzzed against her hip. Once. Twice. A persistent, demanding vibration that made her stomach clench. She wiped her thumb on her apron and pulled out the phone.

Julian Vance.

Her heart did that stupid, treacherous stutter it always did when his name appeared. For a split second, she hoped. Maybe he was calling to ask if she was okay. Maybe he was coming home early to help her. Maybe, just once, he was calling as a husband.

She slid her thumb across the screen. "Julian?"

"Get to St. Luke's. Now."

His voice was a splash of ice water. No greeting. No warmth. Just the tone he used for his executive assistant when a merger was going south.

Seraphina gripped the phone tighter. "I... I'm making the appetizers for your mother's gala. I can't leave."

"Leave it," he barked. "Caroline fainted. Her hemoglobin is critically low. She needs a transfusion. The driver is already downstairs."

The air left the room. Seraphina looked down at her left arm, covered by the long sleeve of her cheap gray sweater. Underneath the fabric, the skin was a roadmap of bruises and needle marks. Scar tissue on top of scar tissue.

"Julian," she whispered, turning away from Victoria, who was watching with a shark-like grin. "It hasn't even been eight weeks. The Red Cross guidelines say-"

"I don't care about guidelines, Seraphina," Julian interrupted, his impatience vibrating through the speaker. "Dr. Smith says you're compatible and she's in crisis. Your anemia is manageable; her condition is fatal. Do the math."

Silence on the other end. A heavy, judgmental silence that weighed more than his shouting.

"She could die, Seraphina," Julian said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, quiet register. "Are you really going to hold a grudge over a pint of blood? After everything we've done for you? After the life we gave you?"

The life you gave me.

A life of being a servant. A biological spare part.

"I'm not holding a grudge," she said, her voice shaking. "I'm holding onto consciousness. I can't do it."

"This is what you owe her," Julian cut in, sharp and final. "You signed the agreement. Don't make me send security up there to drag you down. Be at the hospital in twenty minutes."