Secrets of the Hamptons Elite

Secrets of the Hamptons Elite

Gavin

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The lawyer, Mr. Henderson, pushed the document across the polished mahogany table. "Sign here, Sarah, and Ethan Vance will be legally declared deceased." My husband, Ethan, was gone, lost in a sailing accident off the Hamptons. But the grief I displayed was a carefully constructed facade for the world. His body was mostly unrecoverable, they said, trying to save his influencer girlfriend, Chloe Bellweather. Unbeknownst to them, divorce papers rested on Ethan' s desk, untouched by my hand, clear evidence of his intent to leave me for Chloe. Now, there would be no divorce. The bulk of Ethan' s immense estate, a fortune beyond any settlement, was irrevocably mine. A small, cold smile touched my lips, one Mr. Henderson thankfully missed. This wasn't about newfound wealth; it was about vengeance. Years ago, my mother, Linda, died in a hit-and-run, unsolved, on a remote highway. The powerful Vance family, Ethan' s family, I knew, were inextricably connected to that night, to its cover-up, and to the decades of injustice. A simmering rage had slowly transformed into a cold, meticulously calculated plan for payback. This inherited fortune was not a comfort; it was potent fuel for a lifelong quest. My sister and I had waited long enough for justice. As I left the lawyer' s office, stepping into the city' s noise, I felt a chilling satisfaction. Phase one was complete. The Vances had no idea their meticulously planned downfall had just begun.

Introduction

The lawyer, Mr. Henderson, pushed the document across the polished mahogany table.

"Sign here, Sarah, and Ethan Vance will be legally declared deceased."

My husband, Ethan, was gone, lost in a sailing accident off the Hamptons.

But the grief I displayed was a carefully constructed facade for the world.

His body was mostly unrecoverable, they said, trying to save his influencer girlfriend, Chloe Bellweather.

Unbeknownst to them, divorce papers rested on Ethan' s desk, untouched by my hand, clear evidence of his intent to leave me for Chloe.

Now, there would be no divorce.

The bulk of Ethan' s immense estate, a fortune beyond any settlement, was irrevocably mine.

A small, cold smile touched my lips, one Mr. Henderson thankfully missed.

This wasn't about newfound wealth; it was about vengeance.

Years ago, my mother, Linda, died in a hit-and-run, unsolved, on a remote highway.

The powerful Vance family, Ethan' s family, I knew, were inextricably connected to that night, to its cover-up, and to the decades of injustice.

A simmering rage had slowly transformed into a cold, meticulously calculated plan for payback.

This inherited fortune was not a comfort; it was potent fuel for a lifelong quest.

My sister and I had waited long enough for justice.

As I left the lawyer' s office, stepping into the city' s noise, I felt a chilling satisfaction.

Phase one was complete.

The Vances had no idea their meticulously planned downfall had just begun.

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On the night of my career-defining art exhibition, I stood completely alone. My husband, Dante Sovrano, the most feared man in Chicago, had promised he wouldn’t miss it for the world. Instead, he was on the evening news. He was shielding another woman—his ruthless business partner—from a downpour, letting his own thousand-dollar suit get soaked just to protect her. The headline flashed below them, calling their new alliance a "power move" that would reshape the city. The guests at my gallery immediately began to whisper. Their pitying looks turned my greatest triumph into a public spectacle of humiliation. Then his text arrived, a cold, final confirmation of my place in his life: “Something came up. Isabella needed me. You understand. Business.” For four years, I had been his possession. A quiet, artistic wife kept in a gilded cage on the top floor of his skyscraper. I poured all my loneliness and heartbreak onto my canvases, but he never truly saw my art. He never truly saw me. He just saw another one of his assets. My heart didn't break that night. It turned to ice. He hadn't just neglected me; he had erased me. So the next morning, I walked into his office and handed him a stack of gallery contracts. He barely glanced up, annoyed at the interruption to his empire-building. He snatched the pen and signed on the line I’d marked. He didn’t know the page tucked directly underneath was our divorce decree. He had just signed away his wife like she was nothing more than an invoice for art supplies.

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