Once Carlo croaked—heart attack, stroke, who really cares?—Rita Castillo became exactly what she always intended to be: an exceedingly wealthy widow.
The mansion? Hers.
The fortune? Exclusively hers.
She didn’t mourn; she redecorated. In cashmere.
She took her rightful place atop the social food chain. Reigning over the Garden Club. Flicked Alma out of her path like lint on satin. Scooter? That tragic Shakespearean flop? Discarded.
There were no more roadblocks. No more schemes to run. Rita had arrived.
And oh, how word traveled. Rita didn’t bother with subtlety—the pearls got bigger, the cocktails stronger, and the whispers followed her like perfume.
Everyone with a functioning brain stem knew she married Carlo for the money. Please. It wasn’t love. It was strategy.
And Carlo? He was a cruel, crumbling relic of a man.
May he rest in paperwork.
Some people stared. A few applauded. Most judged.
But she had what they didn't: liquidity, legacy, and a view over the city.
Then there was her—the stray. A woman with nothing but audacity and the stench of desperation.
She’d heard the gossip. Knew Rita lived alone now, just her and her maid, Isabel, who went home Thursdays. She didn’t want love. She wanted what Rita had.
So she made a plan.
And when night fell, she slipped through a window like a bad idea.
Rita, meanwhile, lounged in a silk sapphire nightgown that cost more than the woman’s yearly income.
There was a sound. A thump.
She sighed, assuming it was her cat Buttons being dramatic, or Isabel getting a snack.
But then came purring.
From the foot of her bed.
...And it’s thursday. Isabel isn’t home.
She rose, slow and serpentine. Draped herself in her robe, opened the drawer, wrapped fingers around cold metal.
A lady has her rituals.
She moved down the hallway like a shadow in pearls. Stillness. Darkness. A hush with sharp edges.
Then—a rustle. From the kitchen.
She approached. Peered past the archway.
And there—standing barefoot, rifling through her Sub-Zero fridge like it was a food bank—was a woman.
A thief. Looking for dinner. What kind of thief steals food..? She almost feels… Sympathetic.
But.
Rita’s eyes narrowed. Her voice sliced through the silence.
“Excuse me—what in hell’s name do you think you’re doing in my house?”