Jackson stops short for a beat then his gaze cuts to Chloe. Guilty.
Yeah. That’s what I thought.
“What’s the matter?” I ask, turning toward her now. “You didn’t know? No, of course not.” I set my attention back on Jackson, who’s turned ghostly white. “I’ve got everything. Every email. Every message. Every late-night ‘conference call’ you never knew he had. Pulled from his company phone. Time-stamped. Cross-checked. Explicit.”
Her face goes pale.
“And before you ask—yes. Some of them overlapped with you. More than some, actually.” I tilt my head, smile cold. “Pretty sure Jackson’s dick made it around more departments than the holiday memo.”
“Fuck you,” Jackson growls, stepping forward again.
“No thanks,” I snarl, stepping right back. “You don’t get to touch this narrative anymore.”
I turn to Chloe again, letting the truth hang heavy in the air between us. “Still think he’s worth it?”
She doesn’t answer.
She can’t.
“You both did me a favor, you know that? You broke something that needed breaking. And because of you…” I exhale once, lips curling. “I found a woman who accepts me. Who challenges me. Whoterrifiesme in all the best ways. Someone with power in her step, and fire in her spine.”
I lean in, right into Chloe’s space. “So thank you. For cheating. For lying. For showing your true colors. Because I never would’ve found her if you hadn’t fucked up so royally.”
Then I straighten, glance at Jackson one last time, and walk out without looking back.
Because this time?
I win.
My phone is already in my hand before the door closes behind me.
I text Tammy.
You need to start working your CYA magic. Not for Big Stream—for us. Me, Rorie, and anyone else who’s not a raging liability.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.
Define scope of “magic.”
Get Imogene to pull every second of security footage from today. Especially the ATV relay. Is that possible?
Please. She could hack into the Pentagon with a smartwatch and decent WiFi. Consider it done.
Another message comes in a beat later.
Who do I need to bury and how deep?
I stare at the screen, the corners of my mouth twitching.
I just shoved Jackson into his own grave. Tell Imogene thanks for the last info she pulled. It was gold. Now it’s Thatcher’s turn.
As I wait for Tammy’s next message, a memory flickers to life.
My dad, standing over our kitchen table with the Sunday paper in one hand and a glass of scotch in the other, muttering,“The smart ones don’t get mad. They get strategic.”
He taught me how to read a room before I could drive. How to keep my voice level even when the world was on fire. How to play the long game so well no one even realized they were playing until they’d already lost.
And now here I am, using every trick he ever hammered into me.
