Chapter 6
The iron gates of the Kemp estate swung open silently. The driveway was a mile long, lined with ancient oak trees that filtered the sunlight into dappled gold.
The main house rose in the distance-a sprawling limestone mansion that made the Brown residence look like a guest cottage.
The motorcade stopped at the fountain.
Staff were lined up. Maids, gardeners, chefs. They bowed as Aleigha stepped out.
Arman was waiting at the top of the stairs. He threw his cane aside and enveloped her in a bear hug. He smelled of cigars and safety.
"I'm sorry I didn't come sooner," he grumbled into her hair.
"I had to do it myself, Dad," she said.
"I have a chef making carbonara," Arman said, wiping his eye. "With the good guanciale."
A screech of tires interrupted the tender moment.
A bright red Ferrari SF90 Stradale drifted around the fountain, kicking up gravel, and screeched to a halt inches from the Maybach.
The butterfly door flew up.
Kenya Keller hopped out. She was wearing oversized Gucci sunglasses and a neon green trench coat.
"Where is she?!" Kenya yelled. She spotted Aleigha and sprinted up the stairs in stilettos.
She tackled Aleigha, nearly knocking them both over.
"You're free!" Kenya screamed. "Ding dong, the witch is dead! I ordered a literal ton of champagne. A truck is coming."
Aleigha laughed, hugging her best friend. "You're going to drown me."
They went inside, up to Aleigha's old room. It was untouched. Her silk sheets, her walk-in closet the size of an apartment, everything was waiting.
Kenya sat on the bed, taking off her sunglasses. She looked at Aleigha's bruised arm where Bart had grabbed her.
"I'm going to kill him," Kenya said, her voice dropping all humor. "I have a hitman. He's Polish. Very discreet."
"No hitmen," Aleigha said, sitting at her vanity. "I want them to suffer legally. And financially."
She looked at herself in the mirror. The cheap Zara suit looked ridiculous here.
"I need to go back," Aleigha said suddenly.
Kenya blinked. "Excuse me? To the hell house?"
"My violin," Aleigha said. "The Guarneri. It's hidden in the attic. I never told them what it was worth, so they just threw it in a corner. If they find out its value, they'll sell it."
"Okay," Kenya stood up, cracking her knuckles. "Road trip. I've been dying to meet Dorla. I have some insults I've been saving since 2019."
Arman tried to send the security team, but Aleigha refused.
"Low profile," she said. "If they see the Maybachs again, they'll get suspicious too fast. Let them think I'm broke for a little longer."
She changed into a vintage Chanel tweed suit-understated, but screaming old money if you knew what to look for.
They took the Ferrari.
As Kenya sped toward the Brown residence, back in the gloomy kitchen of Bart's house, Dorla was screaming at a maid.
"Where is dinner? Why is no one cooking?"
Bart walked in, loosening his tie. He held the crumpled blood donation receipts in his hand.
"She's not coming back, Mom," Bart said tiredly. "She signed the papers."
Dorla scoffed, picking at a grape. "Oh, please. She has no skills. No family. She's probably sleeping on a park bench right now. Give it two hours. She'll be begging at the back door for leftovers."
You may also like
