Chapter 3

The drive back to our Connecticut estate was silent. Mr. Duncan handled the car with smooth precision, his eyes occasionally flicking to me in the rearview mirror. The gash on my temple had stopped bleeding, but a dull ache throbbed in its place.

Once we were inside the quiet, cavernous house, he brought me a first-aid kit.

"Will you be alright, Miss Gabrielle?" he asked, his voice laced with a concern he rarely showed.

"I' m fine, Duncan. Thank you," I said, cleaning the cut. "But I need to make a call."

He nodded, understanding immediately. "Of course."

I went to my room and locked the door. I pulled out my phone and dialed a number that wasn' t listed anywhere, a number that connected to a private satellite line. It rang twice before she picked up.

"Gabrielle, my darling. Is everything alright?"

Her voice was clear, healthy, and vibrant. Not the weak, tired voice of a woman in a Swiss clinic for a chronic illness. My mother, Sylvia Chadwick, was enjoying her sabbatical in a sun-drenched villa in Monaco with her latest artist boyfriend.

"Not exactly, Mom," I said, and the words just poured out.

I told her everything. The gala. Maria' s staged accusation. The scratches. Andrew' s attack. Matthew' s complicity. And the look I saw him give Debra Chavez.

For a long moment, there was only silence on the other end of the line. Then, I heard a sound I knew well. It was the sound of my mother' s fury, cold and controlled.

"He dared," she said, her voice dropping to a dangerously low pitch. "They all dared to lay a hand on you."

"I' m okay, Mom. Just a cut."

"A cut is not okay, Gabrielle. They humiliated you. They hurt you. That is not okay." I heard the clink of a glass being set down firmly. "I' m coming back."

"You don' t have to cut your trip short..."

"Don' t be silly, darling. The trip is over. The test is over. It' s time to come home and remind them who they are. And more importantly, who you are."

She paused. "Stay in the house. Duncan will be with you. I' ll be on the jet in an hour. I love you."

"I love you too, Mom."

I hung up, a sense of grim satisfaction washing over me. The storm was coming.

The next morning, I came downstairs to find them already there. Andrew, Maria, and Debra Chavez were in the grand foyer, looking as if they owned the place.

"There you are," Andrew sneered. "Maria is feeling very fragile this morning. She requires an apology. And breakfast. You' re going to make it for her."

Maria stood behind him, a smug, vindicated look on her face. Her mother, Debra, examined a porcelain vase with a proprietary air.

I just laughed. A short, sharp sound that made them all look at me.

"You have five seconds to get out of my mother' s house," I said.

Just then, Matthew' s phone rang. He had just walked in, looking stressed. He glanced at the caller ID, and his face went white. All the color drained from it, leaving a pasty, sickly grey. He stumbled back a step, his hand trembling as he answered.

"Sylvia?" he whispered into the phone.

His eyes were wide with sheer terror. He was staring at me, but he was seeing a ghost. The ghost of his entire fraudulent life.

He finally understood. The terminal illness was a lie. And the real queen was coming home.