The moment I stepped into the ballroom, Sloan Whitmore’s voice cut through the chatter like a knife. “Oh, great. The stinky country girl is here.” Her bridesmaids giggled, their designer dresses rustling like a pack of hyenas on the prowl. She never even looked up.
I stood in the entrance, letting the words land. Letting them settle. Like a cold wind, I decided it wouldn’t stop me. What Sloan didn’t know—what no one in that room knew—was that I owned it all. The chandeliers above her head. The silverware she was using. The Italian marble under her overpriced heels. Every square inch of the hotel belonged to me.....
