For her 60th birthday, my MIL demanded I cook 60 dishes. My husband dragged me by the hair into the kitchen, yelling: “Cook it or get out!” I faked a grocery run—what I did next made them go pale

At 9:30 AM, my phone buzzed frantically on the nightstand.

I opened my eyes, feeling completely refreshed. I reached for the phone. The caller ID displayed: Julian.

I let it ring five times before I swiped the screen and placed the phone against my ear. I didn't say a word.

“Sloan?!” Julian’s voice erupted through the speaker, high-pitched, furious, and laced with frantic anxiety. “Where the hell are you?! It’s almost ten o'clock! The party starts at noon!”

“I’m handling the preparations, Julian,” I replied, keeping my voice utterly flat, devoid of any tone.

“Handling the preparations?!” Julian screamed. “You’ve been gone for eight hours! Mom is having a total meltdown! She’s been screaming at me since seven AM because the kitchen is completely empty! There is no food cooking! The house doesn't smell like roast lamb or truffle soup! Where are the sixty dishes?!”

“I told you last night, Julian,” I said smoothly. “I had to source the ingredients from a specialized wholesale facility. A professional logistics team is delivering everything directly to the penthouse at eleven AM.”

There was a sudden, sharp pause on the line. Julian’s breath caught in his throat.

“A logistics team?” he asked, his tone shifting from rage to deep suspicion. “What does that mean? Did you spend money? Sloan, I tried to swipe my credit card at the wine store twenty minutes ago to buy Champagne and the card was declined! What did you do to my accounts?!”

I took a slow, deliberate breath, holding back the cold laughter rising in my throat.

“The bank probably flagged suspicious activity because of your sudden large transactions, Julian,” I lied seamlessly. “Don't worry about the food. The delivery trucks are on their way. Make sure the dining room tables are cleared and covered in white tablecloths so my team can set up the platters.”

“Your team?!” Julian stammered. “Sloan, if this food isn't top-tier, Mom will kill us both! The president of the historical society is coming! The regional director of First National Bank is coming!”

“Everything is taken care of, Julian,” I whispered softly. “Make sure Fiona wears her absolute best dress. She’s going to want to be center stage today.”

I hung up the phone before he could respond and blocked his number temporarily so he couldn't spam my line.

Darcy stepped into the room, dressed in a breathtaking, tailored crimson pantsuit that screamed legal authority. Her dark hair was styled into sharp, pristine waves, and she was sliding a thick stack of court-stamped documents into a leather portfolio.

“The process servers are in position,” Darcy announced, checking her diamond watch. “Marcus’s catering van just entered your building’s underground loading dock. Leo is down there now escorting the delivery staff up to Penthouse B through the service elevator.”

I stood up from the bed, walked over to the vanity mirror, and looked at my reflection.

Over the last month, I had looked like a ghost—pale, exhausted, with hollow eyes and slumping shoulders. But today, standing in Darcy’s penthouse, my skin was radiant. My eyes were cold, sharp, and shining with fierce, terrifying vitality.

I put on a sleek, black turtleneck sweater, dark tailored trousers, and high-heeled boots—an outfit fit for a woman attending a high-society funeral.

“Ready to go host a birthday party?” Darcy smiled, holding open the front door.