Chapter 31

Since she was a child, Elizabeth Grant had known she would be the richest, most popular, and best-known among her group of privileged friends.

Young Elizabeth had never had cause to ponder her own importance. Her early years had been a young girl’s perfection, right from the very day of her birth. It was true that Elizabeth was the heir to an old and affluent nobility, but unlike most other lordly families, her parents, Lord and Lady Grant, were an odd couple. Married without love, they hated each other to death. Both were resentful, rude, and selfish. They saw their daughter’s birth not as the arrival of an heir but rather as that of a child who would save their already failing business and wealth.

And so there were celebrations, fêtes, and festivities other than those of a mother and father staring in wonderment at their new daughter.

The Grants were young parents—Edward was barely twenty-two and Vivian had just turned twenty—but they were practical, ambitious, and strong, and they had ambition for their young daughter Elizabeth with fierceness and commitment that was often seen in their social circles, and they contributed to the prevailing attitude of young Elizabeth.

Growing up being spoiled, aggressive, arrogant, and suspicious. Elizabeth liked to think that her relationship with her parents was business-like, simply because she’d known them as unemotional and untrusting. After all, no matter how long their jovial circle of friends had known their parents, Elizabeth would always have something on them. She was their ticket to save their bankrupt businesses, wealth, and state.

But growing up, everything she did—every accomplishment, every goal, every single hope and dream—was all for her parents' affection and approval. And then, one day, everything shifted. It was maybe fate, she reflected later, how one’s life could change in a minute, how one second everything could be a certain way, and the next it’s simply... not.

It happened when Elizabeth was fifteen, home for the summer, and preparing for her pyjama party. She was to belong to an elite faction of teenagers, as her mother had before her, and her life was as bright and dazzling as any rich fifteen-year-old had a right to enjoy. She had discovered women and the joy and pleasure they brought, more so than those of her past failed relationships with boys, and perhaps more splendidly, they had discovered her. Without her parents' knowledge, she began dating a woman as well, and she was more than happy about it. Unbeknownst to young Elizabeth, her parents at the time were struggling and slowly losing their business empire. Elizabeth did her best not to roll her eyes when she passed her father in the hall, talking about ruin and losing their financial ability to host parties. She thought. How impossible was that? Maybe her father was inventing a drama to get her to stop shopping. Right?

Nonetheless, who was she to doubt her father's insight? Maybe he, too, would want more gatherings to display his financial security with his friends.

However, when Elizabeth found out the truth, it was late afternoon. She was returning from a long and bruising ride with one of the girls and had just pushed through the front door of their mansion, the ancestral home of the Grunts, when she saw her mother sitting on the floor. Elizabeth stopped short when she saw her. It was unusual enough that her mother was sitting in the middle of the floor in the main hall. It was even weirder that she was crying.

Lady Vivian never cried.

"Mother," she mumbled hesitantly, too proud to know what to do with a crying mother and wondering if she’d ever learned, "what?"

But before she could finish his question, her mother lifted her head, and the shattering heartbreak in her large green eyes cut through her like a knife. Elizabeth stumbled back a step, knowing something was wrong—terribly wrong.

"He's dead," Vivian whispered. "Your father is dead."

For a moment, Elizabeth was sure she’d misheard. Her father couldn’t be dead. Other people who died young, like her uncle, the duke's cousin, had been small and frail. Well, her uncle was at least weaker and feeble than her father.

"No! You’re wrong," she told her mother. "You must be wrong, mother. What nonsense are you talking about? Is this about my shopping spree yesterday?"

Lady Vivian shook her head. "His doctor told me he was... it was a..."

Elizabeth knew she shouldn’t shake her mother while she sobbed, but she couldn’t help herself. "It was what, mother?"

She couldn't help but stare at her for a moment. Finally, her voice hoarse and barely recognisable, she said, "A man doesn’t die from stupid heart failure, mother. He is strong as a horse. That's impossible. He is too young to die."

Her mother said nothing; she just sat there on the floor, her throat working convulsively as she tried to control her tears.

"He hid it from us," Lady Vivian said in a hollow voice. "The gardener saw it. One minute he was just standing there, and the next he was... he was..."

Elizabeth felt something very strange building within her, as if her muscles were about to jump through her skin. "He was what, mother?"

"Gone." She looked bewildered by the word, as dazed as she felt.

She left her mother sitting in the hall and took the stairs, two at a time, up to her parents’ master bedroom. Surely her father wasn’t dead. A man couldn’t die from a stupid heart attack, right? It was impossible and utterly foolish. Lord Edward Grunt was young, but he was strong. He was tall, his shoulders were broad, his muscles were powerful, and by God, no insignificant heart failure could have killed him. Right?

But when she reached the upstairs hall, she could tell by the three or so housekeepers who were all still that things were bad.

And their sympathising faces... For the rest of her life, she’d be haunted by those pitying faces. She hated being pitied.

She’d thought she’d have to push her way into her parents’ room, but the housekeepers parted as if they were dropped in a fucking concert, and when she pushed open the door, she knew.

The doctor was sitting on the edge of the bed, not doing anything, not even making a sound, just holding her father’s hand as he rocked slowly back and forth. She knew the doctor was his father's lover, and seeing him almost too miserable for her liking confirmed her suspicion.

Her father was still. Unmoved

She didn’t even want to think about the word.

"Doctor? Is this some kind of joke?" She choked out. He turned slowly, as if hearing her voice through a long, long subway.

"What happened?" she whispered. "My father is healthy as a bull." She shook her head, her eyes hopelessly far away.

"He keeps his situation from all of you," the doctor said. His lips remained parted by an inch or so, as if he’d meant to say something more but then ignored it.

Elizabeth took a step forward; her movements were awkward and jerky. "It's impossible! What should I do to pay for my credit card?" She grumbled under her breath, which made the servants gasp at her words. Her debts, her everything?

"He’s gone," she finally whispered. "He’s gone and I... What happened to our b-business? Both my m-mother and I are useless. We will be bankrupt. This is madness." She looked as if she might shatter from the inside out. She choked back the tears that were burning her eyes and stinging her throat. Then again, nobody had looked at her.

Nobody could have known—the doctors kept saying, over and over, that her father died of natural causes until she wanted to strangle them all. Eventually, she got them out of the room, and she put her mother to bed. Then Elizabeth walked into the room where her father’s body was still lying and looked at him. She stared at him and glared, watching him for hours without blinking.

And when she left the room, she left with a new vision of her own life and new knowledge about her mortality. She will never be like him. She will die in the bed of money.

Edward Grunt had died at the age of thirty-seven, penniless, but Elizabeth promised she would have her own riches no matter what.

Now, at twenty-five, she had reclaimed their wealth, but it was not enough.

And Tyler Johnson was, quite simply, the very centre of Elizabeth’s world. They dated for months, and soon, the bastard disregarded her just like his many ex-girlfriends. Of course, he doesn't love the man, though he was her ideal guy—tall, broad, sexy, hot, and he could ride a horse as if he’d been born in the saddle. She will go to any length to make Tyler Johnson hers.

However, the topic of him marrying his secretary has, of course, been previously discussed in her social circle, and his wedding became the most talked-about topic in town for weeks.

Elizabeth Grant was once again an issue of ridicule among her mates, both youthful and immature. Yet she flaunted her exploits, behaved with the utmost confidence, and thought herself dangerous to men. Tyler's wife, the naive, poor, boring, and tasteless human being, wouldn't see it coming. She would regret ever marrying Tyler Johnson.

Yet Elizabeth plans it carefully and slowly. Now she doesn’t show her exploits anymore because she doesn’t need to. She knows she will be whispered about by men and women alike, and in fact, she’d rather they didn’t whisper about her at all. She doesn’t behave like an idiot for the simple reason that she isn’t an idiot (any more so than must be expected among all members of the elite). Elizabeth has little patience for the foibles of society, and quite frankly, most of the time, her mother cannot say she blames her.

Looking at the happy faces of the wedding guests, the smiling faces of Tyler Johnson and his bride from a distance and being surrounded by paparazzi made Elizabeth's fury twist inside of her. She was a ball of pure anger, about to explode with resentment and madness.