The Maid’s Daughter Slapped Herself and Framed Me in My Own Mansion—But When I Exposed the $25 Million Family Betrayal, My Fiancé Begged Before Sunrise...

At exactly ten-seventeen, the power to the entire estate was abruptly cut.

The mansion plunged into absolute, suffocating darkness. The hum of the air conditioning died, leaving only the violent sound of the storm raging outside.

I didn't move a muscle. I waited.

At ten-twenty-four, the lock on the French terrace doors clicked softly, picking the mechanism with practiced ease. The doors swung open, letting in a blast of freezing rain and wind, before being quickly shut.

Three figures crept into the office first. Carter and Jackson moved with the stealth of men who had memorized the layout of the house, though they moved like they hated the very floorboards they walked on. They were dressed in black rain slickers, wearing dark gloves.

Julian followed close behind them, his face pale and frantic in the occasional flashes of lightning, clutching a black leather medical bag tightly to his chest. Phoebe came next, shivering violently, her hair soaked and plastered to her skull, cheap mascara streaking down her cheeks.

Preston entered last, moving with slow, arrogant confidence.

He didn't carry a gun, a knife, or a rope. He carried a leather folder. It suited him perfectly; Preston had always preferred to spill ink rather than blood, letting other men do the dirty work while he reaped the rewards.

They crossed the massive office, their wet shoes squeaking slightly on the hardwood, advancing toward the high-backed leather chair facing the unlit fireplace.

A figure sat silently in the chair, wrapped in my white silk robe. Her blonde hair was pinned up exactly like mine, and one hand rested visibly on the wooden armrest.

Jackson stepped forward and grabbed the top of the chair, violently spinning it around to face them.

The plastic, dead-eyed face of a department store mannequin stared back, a polite, painted smile on its lips.

Carter stumbled backward in terror, knocking into Julian. “What the hell?”

Instantly, the backup generators kicked on. The office was flooded with blinding, brilliant light. In the corners of the ceiling, twelve hidden cameras blinked on, their red recording lights shining like the eyes of predators.