on her han

rawled across the coffee table as she tried to corral the photographs into some semblance of containment.

ing from one photograph to another

ed. She tried again. "M

d up, her face a mask of fury and t

fa, had not raised her voice. "Before she became Mrs. Brock. The Hampton

le ho

burned her earlier, still half-full of coo

didn't

enough to stir her hair, close enough to feel the displaced air. It struck th

Brushed a

already uploaded. Timed release to Page Six, TMZ, and the T

her pocket, held it up between

scrambled off the table, lunging, her han

sides

been. Her heel caught on the carpet's edge and she went down, hard,

ooked do

gacy preference' that Giselle boasts about at ev

nd her ears. "No.

, 2019. Room 847, the Four Seasons. Forty-seven minut

ands fell from her ears. Her knees buckled, and she found the edge o

actions. Your mother's body. Your father's silence.

streaked strands across her face. She positioned herself between Evelyn and Chloe, a mo

ours. You belong in the gutter. You belong in the

ure in the r

of her chin. The languid contempt evaporated, replaced by something that seemed t

ed towar

f threat intensified. Giselle retreated, her back finding the marb

, her voice high, desperate. "He'll

s hand

le's feet left the floor, her heels drumming against the marble, her ha

ice barely above a whisper

ed. Her eyes bulged,

ed to a functional edge. She seized it without thought, her fingers

go!" she

char

her posture shifted-microscopic preparation, weight tran

ween Evelyn's shoulder blades, for the heart that she

s lips

urn. She did