Thomas Winbury had never been more furious in his entire life. Not when he was cut off at the Nantucket Yacht Club bar. Not when Abby made him attend a charity event for turtles. Not even when he lost his Rolex at a bachelor party in St. Barts.

This? This was worse.

Because his entire life had gone up in flames overnight, and the arsonist responsible for the fire was none other than Leighton Murray and her band of mischief-making gremlins.

And now he was standing on the front porch of their Cape Cod rental house, fists clenched, nostrils flaring, and ready to raise absolute hell.

He knocked—hard.

Nothing.

He knocked again—harder.

Still nothing.

With a growl of frustration, he pounded on the door one last time. "LEIGHTON! OPEN THIS GODDAMN DOOR!"

Finally, the door swung open, revealing a very unimpressed Leighton Murray, wearing silk pajamas and sipping a mimosa.

She blinked at him. "Oh wow. A man at my doorstep, yelling my name. What is this, a rom-com? Because I'm not interested."

Thomas shoved his phone in her face. "Explain this."

She took a long, leisurely sip of her mimosa before glancing down at the screen.

Her own Instagram post—of him, stumbling out of the Sand Dollar Motel, looking like a guilty dog caught stealing food off the counter.

Leighton frowned, tilting her head. "Oh. Wow. Look at that."

"YOU POSTED THIS!" Thomas seethed.

Leighton let out a dramatic gasp. "I did?"

"YES, YOU DID!"

She smirked. "Oh, that's crazy. See, I post so many things. Sometimes it's hard to keep track."

Thomas felt his entire soul leave his body. "You're fucking kidding me."

Before she could reply, the rest of the girls wandered into the living room.

Whitney Chase, fresh out of the shower, towel-wrapped hair piled on her head, raised an eyebrow. "Uh… why is Thomas Winbury screaming on our porch like a Karen at Whole Foods?"

Bela Malhotra flopped onto the couch, biting into a croissant. "Oh, this is rich. Please tell me we're fighting."

Kimberly Finkle peered over her book, looking nervous. "Uh, should we maybe—de-escalate?"

Thomas took a deep breath. "Someone—anyone—tell me why you thought it was a good idea to ruin my life?"

Leighton rolled her eyes. "Oh, relax, Thomas. You ruined your own life when you decided to cheat on your pregnant wife at a shady motel."

"I DIDN'T—" He ran a hand through his hair. "This isn't your business!"

Leighton smirked. "Oh, but it became my business when I had to suffer through the secondhand embarrassment of watching you exit a place that charges by the hour."

Whitney winced. "Oof. Yeah, that was a bad choice, dude."

Thomas snapped. "You have NO idea what you've done!"

Leighton took another sip of her mimosa. "You're gonna have to be more specific, sweetie."

"MY LIFE IS OVER!"

Leighton gasped in mock horror. "Oh, no! Did you lose your trust fund?"

Thomas glared. "Leighton, I swear to God—"

She smirked. "Oh wow, threats now? Cute."

"FUCK YOU!" Thomas exploded.

And that's when all hell broke loose.

"FUCK YOU!" Leighton shot back, stepping closer.

"FUCK YOU MORE!"

"FUCK YOU FOREVER!"

"FUCK YOU TO HELL!"

Kimberly, panicked, jumped between them. "OH MY GOD, STOP YELLING FUCK YOU AT EACH OTHER!"

Bela, absolutely living for this, leaned toward Whitney. "I haven't seen two rich people fight this aggressively since Selling Sunset."

Whitney nodded. "It's giving Bravolebrity divorce energy."

Meanwhile, Leighton and Thomas were still locked in a battle of wills, nearly nose to nose.

"You think you can just get away with this?" Thomas growled.

Leighton's smirk turned positively feral.

"Sweetie, this is just the beginning."

She stepped back, taking a final, victorious sip of her mimosa.

"The games begin now."

Thomas stared, breathing heavily, realizing far too late—

He had just declared war against the most chaotic woman in America.