The day Arthur passed away, my world collapsed. I had lost a man who had become a father to me. But for Curtis, it was as though life had just opened its doors. At the funeral, he cried—beautifully, convincingly—wiping tears with a silk handkerchief while discreetly sizing up the businessmen in attendance, calculating fortunes by the cut of their suits.

Two days after the burial, the truth surfaced.

I came home exhausted from arranging cemetery details, eyes swollen from crying—and found my suitcases dumped in the entryway. Nothing was folded. My clothes were shoved inside, shoes scattered, sleeves hanging out like afterthoughts.

“Curtis?” I called, confused.

He descended the stairs calm and polished. No signs of mourning. He wore an immaculate shirt, an expensive watch, and held a champagne glass. He looked energized—and frightening.

“Vanessa, my dear,” he said smoothly, “I think it’s time we go our separate ways.”

I dropped my keys. “What are you talking about?”

“My father is gone,” he said lightly, sipping his drink. “Which means I inherit everything. Seventy-five million dollars. Do you understand what that means?”

“It means a huge responsibility,” I began.

He laughed sharply, the sound echoing through the empty house.