Chapter 6

Abby’s POV

I brushed my hair out of my face, a confident smirk playing on my lips. "I've always got a plan, Lia. Don't you worry about me. Everything is going exactly according to plan."

She shrieked happily again. "Girl, do you know how much this is costing him? Nicholas just dropped fifty million just to paint you as the villain! Damn, girl, even your bad reputation is expensive!"

"I know, right?" I said, and we both burst into a fit of laughter. It felt so good, so real.

"Ah, shit!" she cursed, her tone shifting. "I gotta go. I have actual work to do, unlike some people who are busy becoming famous social pariahs. Anyway, I’ll keep you updated on all the silly news!"

"Lia, I love you!" I said, my voice full of genuine affection.

"Screw off!" she replied jokingly, and hung up.

I giggled, staring at the blank screen. God, I missed her.

A wave of melancholy washed over me. Ever since I'd married Nicholas in my past life, he'd slowly, methodically cut her out. He couldn't stand that Lia saw right through him, so he'd made it impossible for me to see her. A "complicated situation," I'd called it then.

I shook my head, the memory fading. "Pathetic," I muttered.

Lia had been right about Nicholas. She had always, always been right. And this time, I was finally going to listen.

When I walked downstairs, they were all in the dining room, already halfway through breakfast.

My father, my stepmother, and Erina.

They were huddled around a phone at the end of the table, laughing on a video call. I knew without asking that it was my little brother, the 17-year-old golden boy studying abroad. They were a perfect, happy family. And I was an afterthought.

The moment Erina spotted me, the laughter died. She quickly ended the call, her smile turning brittle and fake. "Oh, there you are, sis."

I ignored her and sat in my customary place at the far end of the long table. A maid, her hands trembling slightly, began to carefully pour me coffee.

"You walk into a room and don't bother to greet anyone?" My father’s voice was sharp, his eyes glaring at me over his newspaper. "Where are your manners, Abigail?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught it: a shared, satisfied smirk between Josefina and Erina. They loved seeing me scolded. They lived for these moments.

I didn't look up. I slowly picked up my knife and began spreading jam on a piece of toast. "I didn't see anyone worth greeting."

The crack of his hand slamming the table was loud enough to make the silverware jump.

The old Abby would have flinched.

I didn't. I slowly lifted my head and met his furious gaze, my own just as cold.

"I've lost my appetite," I said, placing the knife down. I stood up, my chair scraping quietly against the floor. Mr. Sullivan had just walked in, his timing perfect.

I turned my gaze to him, my voice clear and carrying. "Mr. Sullivan, please have the staff move Erina's and Josefina's things to the guest rooms on the first floor."

The clatter of a fork dropping was the only sound.

"From now on," I continued, "the entire second floor belongs to me."

Josefina shot to her feet, her chair scraping back violently. "Abigail! What in the hell do you think you are doing?!"

My father slammed the table again angrily. “You can’t decide things on your own!”

I met Josefina's gaze with a cold, sweet smile.

"Why not? The name on the property deed says Abigail Sinclair. If you don't like it, feel free to move out."

I let my gaze drift from her shocked face to my father's, and then to Erina's. "This villa was arranged by my mother before she passed away. When I was eight, I officially inherited everything that was hers. It's all in my name." I gestured to the walls around them. "And that includes this house."

My father's mouth pressed into a thin, white line. He looked utterly stunned, as if he couldn't believe I knew that.

Good.

Without another word, I turned and walked upstairs. As I went, I could already hear the commotion starting below—Josefina's shrill, panicked voice trying to calm my father's enraged sputtering.

I ignored it, closed my bedroom door, and dialed the one person who mattered.

"Grandpa..."

The voice that answered was gruff, powerful, and not at all happy. Theodore Hayes.

"So," he barked, "you do remember you have a grandfather, huh? What the hell is happening? I'm reading this damned news, and it says you're marrying some other man? Explain yourself, young woman."

"They didn't... print the mysterious man's name?" I asked, trying to sound casual.

"No, they just keep calling him 'the rival,'" he growled. "So, who is it? I'm curious."