The Perfect Ruin

by Shanora Williams

Genres: Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

From New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Shanora Williams comes a tale of revenge served ice cold—and a warning to be careful what you scheme for …
A brutal tragedy ended Ivy Hill’s happy family and childhood. Now in her twenties and severely troubled, she barely has a life—or much to live for. Until the day she discovers the name of the woman who destroyed her world: Lola
Maxwell—the mega-wealthy socialite with a heart, Miami’s beloved “first lady” of charity. Accomplished, gorgeous, and oh-so-caring, Lola has the best of everything—and doesn’t deserve any of it. So it’s only right that Ivy take it all away …
Little by little, Ivy infiltrates Lola’s elite circle, becomes her new best friend—and plays Lola’s envious acquaintances and hangers-on against her. But seducing Lola’s handsome, devoted surgeon husband turns into a passionate dream Ivy
suddenly can’t control. And soon, an insidious someone will twist Ivy’s revenge into a nightmare of deception, secrets, and betrayal that Ivy may not wake up from …

Release date: July 27, 2021

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

Ivy stared at the fish tank across from her, scratching at her cuticle, simmering with irritation. She’d studied all the fish in the bubbling water so many times she’d lost count, but there was a new one in the tank today.

The new fish was blood-orange with white spots. Its body was flat, its left fin ugly and stubby, just like the right fin as it rotated in the tank. The fish appeared lost—like it had no clue what the hell it was doing in the glass box. It had been snatched from the comfort of its own home. Trapped in a tank.

Ivy knew the feeling of being trapped—except she hadn’t been trapped in tanks. She’d been trapped in box-sized rooms or, worse, forced to share a box-sized room with another person around her age whom she’d never gotten along with. How it must have sucked to share a single tank with eight other fish, glugging the same water and fighting over pellets of food.

A door opened to the left and a woman with cornrows down to her shoulders, narrow, rectangular glasses on the bridge of her nose, and bright pink lipstick walked out. The woman was always dressed like a hippie. Loose blouses and pants, and god-awful sandals that Ivy used to call Bible sandals. The woman loved wearing colorful scarves around her neck, even when it was almost one hundred degrees outside. Today she was wearing a yellow and green one.

“Welcome, Ivy,” Dr. Harold said from the door, bringing her hands together joyously. Ivy stood up with her purse and sighed. It was the same old thing with her therapist, Dr. Marriott Harold. Big smiles and gratefulness.

Her name was Marriott to rhyme with Harriet, as Marriott had mentioned once. Marriott’s mother liked the name Harriet. . . so why didn’t she just name Marriot, Harriet? It never made sense to Ivy. It made her confused and she hated confusion.

Marriott was single and didn’t have much of a life outside of being a therapist. No family and not many friends. She had three cats—Whitney, Stevie, and Mikey. All three of them were named after her favorite musical artists, Whitney Houston, Stevie Wonder, and Michael Jackson. Ivy found her life boring and irrelevant.

Nonetheless, she met Dr. Harold every single Wednesday to perform a therapy session. Dr. Harold insisted Ivy call her Marriott, stating that “Dr. Harold” was too formal and that they were friends who could trust each other. Ivy often wondered if Marriott meant it—that she trusted her. No one ever trusted Ivy. She was a rebel, a liar, a thief, and a con artist. She could steal from babies and not feel any remorse.

“How are you today? I trust you have been resting.” Marriott watched as Ivy walked past her.

Ivy walked into Marriott’s office, placed her purse on the usual chair in the corner, and then flopped down on a cushioned brown chaise. It was her favorite spot to get through her fifty-five-minute sessions, but it was starting to get worn. Marriott would have to replace it soon.

The older Ivy became, the less often she’d have to come to this cuckoo’s nest. She could have been done sooner, but when she had turned twenty-one, Marriott had the choice of keeping Ivy in therapy or considering it safe for her to move on and start a new life. Marriott told the judge Ivy needed more time to cope. Ivy had despised the damn therapist ever since. So why did she continue her visits? Why not just stop showing up? A part of her had to like the sessions, right?

Apparently, the whole world thought Ivy was suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, depression, and a host of other issues. She’d heard Marriott tell the judge that she was having some obsessive behavior with a boy and with certain events from her past, which was sparking other mental disorders within her.

Ivy considered it all bullshit. She was fine, just dealing with shit like the rest of the world. Was it not normal to have to deal with shit?

“How can I rest?” Ivy grumbled, staring up at the ceiling. “It’s close to the anniversary. I haven’t slept all week.”

“Yes, I remember the anniversary is coming up.” Marriott fidgeted by the door. Ivy side-eyed her. She was acting weird. Smiling, but not as wide and bold as usual. “Have you been taking your antidepressants?” Marriott asked, sinking down in her usual brown recliner across the room. Finally. She was sitting. Relaxing. Ivy’s body relaxed too.

Ivy avoided the therapist’s eyes as she recalled dumping all the antidepressants down the kitchen sink and then turning on the trash disposal. “To hell with those,” Ivy had muttered as she watched the pills disappear. She didn’t like how they made her feel. Her head was often foggy while on them, and she became too sleepy, was losing too much weight. She was fine without them.

“Yes, I’ve taken them.” She held back a grin, glancing at Marriott’s degree tacked to the wall, just above her desk, which was stacked with papers, folders, and a cold cup of coffee sitting close to the edge.

Ivy always stared at the degree and couldn’t believe a woman like Marriott had one. She shouldn’t be a therapist for adults. Marriott was too cheerful and bright and colorful. It made Ivy sick. She’d suit kids much better.

“Good.” Marriott sighed. She was avoiding Ivy’s eyes. Still acting strange. “So, since we’re close to the anniversary, can you tell me how you’re feeling right now?”

“Oh, you want to know how I feel? Annoyed—actually, no. Pissed off.” Ivy gritted her teeth. “I’m going to the police station tomorrow. I’m old enough now—almost twenty-six. I deserve some answers about what really happened. I’m telling you, something is not right about what happened and no one is questioning it but me.”

Marriott gave Ivy a sympathetic nod and her eyes saddened. She stared at Ivy for a moment, her hands stacked on her lap, tapping her finger slowly.

She then stood up and walked to her desk in front of the floor-to-ceiling window. Ivy watched as Marriott collected a folded sheet of paper and brought it back with her to the recliner.

“Ivy, I have something to share with you. I don’t want to, because I’m not so sure I would consider it a great thing for you to know, but I need to,” Marriott murmured, and she had her serious voice on, which meant Marriott wasn’t fucking around. This voice was rare, and Ivy took notice.

“What is it?” asked Ivy.

Marriott drew in a breath. Her heart was beating harder. Her hands began to tremble. “I have the name of the person you’ve been looking for. I was instructed to give it to you.”

The room grew absolutely still—so quiet Ivy could hear the construction happening on Palm Green Avenue, which was three blocks away.

“What are you talking about?” Ivy sat up in the chaise, her brows dipping with confusion.

“The person you claim has ruined your life—I have their name.”

“What? How?”

“I have it written on this sheet of paper,” Marriott said, raising the paper in the air, “but I want you to realize if you read this name, it may not make you feel better. I only have this name because someone came to me and told me it was what the person wanted. Perhaps their conscience has caught up to them and now they want to own up to their demons. I don’t believe you deserve to live in the dark, but I also don’t think you are ready to know this name. Unfortunately, as your therapist and confidante, I don’t want to keep information like this from you. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“How did you get it?” Ivy demanded, ignoring all Marriott’s therapist mumbo jumbo talk. “Are you sure it wasn’t a cop?”

Ivy remembered all the times she went to the police station and demanded answers. She remembered slamming her fists on the desk after the detective in charge of her case, Detective Jack Shaw, told her he couldn’t relay those facts, because the person wanted to remain anonymous and because it was considered an accident, they had the right to keep the name private.

Apparently, this person was powerful, and the cops in her city were crooks. They could easily be bought, she figured. Or maybe they weren’t telling her because, just like Marriott, they knew it would only lead to conflict. Ivy had no lawyer to back her up, nor did she have money for one, so she always walked out of the police station furious and in tears. All she wanted was an answer—a name.

“No. It was not a cop—at least, not that I’m aware of.”

As if Marriot had read Ivy’s mind, she went on with, “I spoke with Detective Shaw the day after receiving this name, just to confirm the information was correct. There is a reason he never told you the person’s name; it’s because he knew you didn’t need to know this so young—not when you had so much going on mentally. I didn’t know the name before now, and I had no desire to know it. You were assigned to me for therapy and counseling, I wanted to help you, and that was all that mattered to me. During all our sessions, I’m glad you didn’t know who the person was. In cases like this, the unknown is best, and you’ve progressed so much without knowing it.”

Marriott focused on the sheet of paper in her hand again before shifting her eyes to Ivy and saying, “You have a choice today, Ivy. You can read the name on this paper and let it consume you, or you have the option to not read this name, accept what happened all those years ago, and let it go. Realize that all things happen for a reason and that it is okay to forgive and move on with your life.” Marriott was quiet for a beat. “I’m hoping you will take the stepping stones I have given you and create a wonderful future for yourself, knowing this name or not.” Marriott placed the paper on the coffee table between her and Ivy and slid it forward, but Ivy didn’t hesitate a second.

She’d wanted to know who the person was ever since she was fourteen. No need for modesty at this point. She deserved to know—she’d worked hard to know.

Marriott sighed and sat back in her chair, watching Ivy unfold the paper. Her fingers were still trembling.

The person had a name now. Lola Maxwell. She hated Lola with a passion, despite the fact that she didn’t know who she was, where she lived, or even what she looked like.

Ivy wanted to find Lola and confront her—tell her that she was a selfish bitch who’d destroyed everything good in her life, and then she’d move on and build a future. Lola deserved that much—for someone to scream in her face and make her own up to what she did instead of being a coward.

Ivy shot out of her chair with the paper clutched in her hand. “I need to go,” she said in a hurried voice. She walked to the chair and picked up her bag.

“You still have forty-five minutes left, Ivy.” Marriott stood with her. “Don’t you want to complete your session for today? Talk about this?”

“No, I don’t,” Ivy muttered on her way to the door.

“Does knowing the name upset you?”

“Of course, it upsets me, Marriott! Why wouldn’t it?” Ivy snapped. “But look, I’m glad you didn’t keep this information from me. Now I can let it all sink in.”

Ivy turned for the door, but Marriott caught her by the wrist before she could flee. Ivy noticed her fingers were cold and shaking. Her eyes shifted up to Marriott’s, whose were now filled with something Ivy couldn’t quite put her finger on. Worry? Guilt?

“I hope to still see you next Wednesday,” Marriott said with a forced smile. There was no warmth in her smile like usual. It was lukewarm at best.

“Yeah, you will.” And she would. Ivy wanted to find this Lola person, yes, but she also knew she’d need to keep up appearances for a while—prove to Marriott that she could handle the responsibility of knowing the name of the person who’d ruined her life.

Lola Maxwell.

Lola Maxwell.

Lola Maxwell.

The name was running in circles in her mind, taking over every single one of her thoughts.

“Okay, then.” Marriott pushed one of her braids behind her back. “I’ll see you on Wednesday. Call or email me if you need anything, and remember, if there’s ever anything you want to talk about, I’m always here. You can write to me if it’s too much to say and I’ll read it to get an understanding.” She gently squeezed Ivy’s hand. “I’m here for you, Ivy.”

“Okay.” Ivy forced her own smile, pulled her hand out of Marriott’s, and left the office without looking back.

As soon as Ivy stepped into her apartment, she went for her laptop, booted it up, and did an Internet search for Lola Maxwell.

What did Marriott think? That she was just going to forget about the name as soon as she got home? Of course not! She needed to know who this woman was, and she knew there was only one place she could find her immediately—a place you could find anyone if you looked hard enough. On the Internet.

And, good Lord, this Lola woman was everywhere. She was on every major social media outlet there was. For an evil bitch, she sure made it easy to find her.

Ivy clicked Facebook first, but she didn’t have an account set up. She’d never felt the need to have any social media accounts. She saw the way it consumed her peers when she was in college, and even in the real world as she worked, and she hated it.

Her friend Alexa used to just sit and scroll through her phone, looking at other people, wishing she had their lives. It was strange to Ivy, to be so consumed with someone else’s life instead of your own.

She recalled one time when a guy almost walked in front of a car on campus because he was so focused on the screen of his phone.

Ivy never understood how humans could be so simple-minded. How did they not realize there were dangers everywhere? One wrong move could kill you. Ivy liked to be in the present moment, not worried about what a fellow classmate ate for dinner, or that someone had just gotten engaged. She knew to really pry on Lola, though, setting up an account was vital. She’d make this an exception.

She quickly created a Facebook account with a fake last name and used a random photo of a white rose she’d found on Google Images as her profile photo. After it was all set up, she searched for Lola again and sent her a friend request. Her page was private, but her profile and cover photos were visible to the public.

Ivy studied Lola’s profile picture.

She was beautiful. Silky, honey-blond hair that paired well with her tawny skin, perfect white teeth, and a thin frame with curves in all the right places. She had gold hoops in her ears and was wearing all white in the photo—crisp and clean, and yet Ivy knew that pretty bitch had blood on her hands.

Ivy clicked through more of Lola’s profile photos, and there were images of her in her kitchen, and her office, and even in her pool. Every image seemed like one out of a magazine. So, this woman was pretty and rich? That pissed Ivy off even more.

To her surprise, Ivy got a notification that her friend request had been accepted. She grinned and refreshed the page to look through Lola’s profile.

Ivy scrolled down until she caught a photo of Lola arm in arm with a man. He was a very handsome man, with perfect teeth too, and a faded, wavy haircut. This woman was married! Happily married too, from the looks of it. How was it that she got to be pretty, happy, and in love, while Ivy suffered for years because of her?

Ivy didn’t trust being in relationships. She was in one before and it didn’t end well, and now she blamed Lola for it. The relationship only ended badly because Ivy’s ex couldn’t accept the fact that she needed to see a therapist every week. He didn’t want to have a “crazy girlfriend,” so she made it easy for him and dumped his ass. He called her names, told her she was no good. Used and abused her.

Ivy gritted her teeth as she pressed down harder on her mouse pad, clicking through Lola’s photos.

How could Lola just live like she’d done nothing wrong in her life? Lola had a big, fancy home with a handsome husband and wore expensive clothes and jewelry. She didn’t deserve any of what she had.

Ivy continued scrolling, but couldn’t help noticing that even though Lola smiled brightly in every photo, there was something about her eyes. Her eyes told Ivy everything she needed to know. She’d gone through something tragic. Lola was definitely responsible for destroying her life.

Ivy saw an Instagram post on Lola’s page. She clicked it, and it took her to the photo. It was a blue-and-white graphic for a charity named Ladies with Passion. It was for volunteer jobs for a charity Lola had founded in 2008. A year after the incident. Yeah, that wasn’t a coincidence at all. Put up a charity to cover up the guilt.

Lola had just posted the graphic two days before. Everyone was welcome to apply for the charity if they wanted to work as a volunteer, but background checks were required and spaces were limited, which meant they would be picky about who became one. There was a link to apply in her biography on Instagram.

Ivy stared at the link for a fleeting moment, tapping the pad of her finger on the edge of her laptop. The last thing she wanted was for the perfect Mrs. Maxwell to run a background check on her; then again, she could always use her mother’s maiden name on the application and have Alexa’s boyfriend make her a fake ID.

She clicked the link to apply, filled it out diligently, and sent it off. With all Lola had going on, she figured the woman wouldn’t even know who she was or give her first name a second thought, if she was aware of it.

It seemed she’d already forgotten about the incident, with her handsome husband, fancy home, and amazing life. For all Ivy knew, she didn’t even exist to the rich bitch.

But who’d given her therapist the name? Why would Lola jeopardize all she had just to feed her name to Ivy now? Did she know Ivy? Know what she looked like? How did she even find Marriott?

Lola would know who Ivy was . . . right? She would be waiting for Ivy to come to her someday, confront her about the past. All of it could backfire or even be a trap. Ivy had to be careful, plan her approach wisely.

Ivy sighed as she looked at the confirmation email that let her know her application had been received, then she took a look around her cramped, one-bedroom apartment. The leaky faucet was dripping. The brown stain on her floor was getting darker instead of lighter, no matter how much she scrubbed at it. The AC never worked properly and caused her to break out in a sweat every hot night.

Fury blinded Ivy.

It wasn’t fair that Lola got to live in luxury and style while Ivy struggled day in, day out just to pay her bills. Ivy worked retail and faked smiles all day. She never quite had enough money to buy a new outfit for herself, or new shoes, because all her money went to her rent or recurring bills. Her life would have been so different if it weren’t for Lola Maxwell.

After shutting the lid of the laptop, Ivy poured herself a glass of the red wine she got from a coworker, sat on her dingy brown couch with her iPhone, and scrolled through Lola’s Instagram account, absorbing everything she could about the woman who’d ruined everything good in her life.

Ivy couldn’t believe it.

Her application for the Ladies with Passion charity had been rejected, the email typed in big, bold, red letters.

What a bitch. And here she’d worked so hard on the application to make it sound believable. Lola opened volunteer applications every year, though, so it was fine. She could wait. She needed time to plan anyway, and perhaps Lola would forget about Ivy completely after another year.

As badly as she wanted to see this woman face-to-face as soon as possible, it had to be at the right time and the right moment.

Ladies with Passion was an organization for pregnant teen girls and women who needed financial support for prenatal and postnatal care. It was thoughtful, but a load of shit. She should have put all that energy into owning up to what she’d done instead.

It was obvious to Ivy that the charity was created so Lola could avoid the truth . . . which still left the question: Who gave Marriott Lola’s name? Was Lola waiting for Ivy to show up and planning on paying her off to keep her quiet while clearing her conscience? Because, hell, she would have loved that. Perhaps she should have emailed her and gotten it over with, or even met her for lunch somewhere to discuss money . . . but that was too easy for her. Money alone wasn’t going to cut it. Ivy needed more.

Opening her laptop with a weak cup of coffee beside it, Ivy typed in the name of Lola’s charity organization in the Search bar. She then went to the website and absorbed as much knowledge as she could about it. Just because her application wasn’t approved didn’t mean she couldn’t show up for the events.

She clicked through the photos of all the pregnant women who’d been helped or given large checks, and then clicked through the volunteer images, all of them in their sky-blue shirts with “Ladies with Passion” in swirly pink font. Lola was in several photos, smiling like an angel . . . which she was not.

Ivy abandoned the website and picked up her phone, going to Instagram and finding Lola again. She’d done this many times since discovering Lola had an account.

Her Instagram account was where she posted the most. She wouldn’t follow her just in case Lola noticed her name. Not yet at least. She only needed to see Lola, and because Lola’s profile was public, it made things a lot easier.

She scrolled until she found an image of Lola slathered in sweat, with a pair of pink boxing gloves on her hands. She was flexing her toned arms, her honey hair hanging down in a low ponytail, wisps clinging to her wet face.

“Kickboxing? Seriously?” Ivy muttered, then rolled her eyes. Lola had tagged her location with the photo. Best Rounds Kickboxing was the place, and the address was even attached. How foolish could Lola be? Ivy wondered. She made her life so . . . accessible.

Did she really think the world cared about her latest workout or charity sponsor? Then again, according to the twenty-to-fifty-thousand likes and hundreds of comments, many people did care what Lola was up to.

Ivy chewed the flesh on the inside of her cheek, tapping on the next photo. It was an image of Lola and her husband. Ivy lingered on that photo—on the husband.

He wore a black tuxedo, and Lola was in a platinum dress, her hair pulled up into a tight bun. Her skin was glowing and flawless. They were attending a fundraising dance.

Ivy’s eyes shifted back over to Lola’s husband. She tapped the photo, and a username popped up where he was tagged. That took her to a profile for a man named Corey Maxwell.

So that was his name. Corey Maxwell. Corey was divine, really, and that said a lot coming from Ivy, seeing that she didn’t care much for men in general after her ex. She never felt normal with that fucker, and she hadn’t trusted many people afterward, especially men.

There was something about Corey Maxwell that drew Ivy in, though. He had deep brown eyes and a beautiful, boyish smile. He even had dimples that sank into his brown skin when he revealed his teeth. She could tell, despite only seeing him in photos, that he was tall—she guessed six feet or taller.

Corey Maxwell had broad shoulders and his face was cleanshaven in most photos, but when he rocked a five-o’ clock shadow, it made him appear more rugged and handsome. He was eye candy for sure, and something about him made her want to talk to him. Touch him. Hear his voice for the first time.

She scrolled through his profile pictures until she found an image of him in front of a building with his hands in the air, as if he were proud.

Maxwell’s Aesthetics. It was a #throwbackthursday photo, to when he first opened his company in 2003.

Ivy quickly left the Instagram app and went to Google to search for the company.

So, Corey Maxwell was a plastic surgeon? He was the best in South Beach, Florida, according to several articles. He even performed surgery on celebrities. Now that was interesting. No wonder Mrs. Maxwell was so well off.

Ivy was filled with so much knowledge now about the infamous Lola. With a smile on her face, she walked to the kitchen with her phone, going back and forth between Lola’s profile and Corey’s.

Her phone rang. She rolled her eyes and ignored the call.

She prepared a hot turkey sandwich with potato chips and then sat down on her patio to eat it all, letting the seed of an idea plant itself in her mind.

She didn’t have a great view from her studio apartment, and it always smelled like fast food, thanks to the McDonald’s across the street. Music was blasting in the apartment downstairs from Streeter, the punk weed dealer who loved having parties ever. . .