I’m confused. I’m furious. But more than anything… I’m relieved. Because now I know why he shut me out.
And for the first time, it’s a reason I can understand. One I can forgive.
“I need to see Max,” I say quietly. “He has no idea.”
“No,” Vivienne says firmly. “We need proof first.”
I wipe my eyes on my sleeve and clutch the phone tighter. Emily sits beside me, cross-legged on the couch, glaring into the middle distance like she’s plotting a murder—and honestly, I wouldn’t stop her.
She squeezes my shoulder. “We’ll fix this,” she says. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Vivienne’s still on the line. “So. What do we do now?” she asks, her voice sharp with purpose. “Because I swear, if we let Jake get away withthis—”
“We’re not,” Emily cuts in. “We’re going full spy movie on this bastard.”
A shaky laugh escapes me, more disbelief than humor. “I still can’t believe this is real. That someone would go that far.”
“Oh, I believe it,” Vivienne says. “Jake’s been shady for years. But this? This is a whole new level of manipulative.”
“So we trap him,” Emily says, eyes alight. “We set him up to admit it. On record.”
Vivienne hums in agreement. “I know where he’ll be. There’s a label networking event on Thursday. He won’t miss it—it’s where he does most of his slithering.”
Emily turns to me. “You’d have to be there.”
“Me?” I blink. “Why?”
“Because you’re the bait, babe. He won’t confess to me or Vivienne. But if you confront him—play dumb, act like you’re just trying to understand what happened—he might gloat. Guys like him can’t resist taking credit when they think they’ve won.”
Vivienne jumps in. “If you wear a wire—okay, not a literal wire, this isn’t the FBI—but something like a voice memo app or a discreet mic in your bag, we can catch him saying something incriminating.”
“He won’t expect me to fight back,” I say slowly. “He thinks I’m just the… the ‘groupie librarian.’”
“Exactly,” Emily says, fire in her voice. “Let him underestimate you.”
Silence falls for a moment. Then Vivienne says, “Can you do it, Nora?”
I stare down at my lap and I think of Max—his face when I told him I was pregnant, the way his eyes shuttered, the way his voice turned to ice. I think of everything Jake stole from us. And I square my shoulders.
“I can do it,” I say. “Iwilldo it.”
Emily whoops beside me. Vivienne exhales, relieved. “I’ll text you the time and place. And I’ll have someone there in case things go sideways.”
“Thank you,” I murmur.
Emily grabs her phone. “I’m researching recording apps. Let’s ruin this asshole.”
And just like that, the grief inside me hardens into purpose.
***
The rooftop is a glittering blur of fairy lights, rooftop heaters, and too-slick smiles. Manhattan hums below us, but all I hear is the rush of blood in my ears.
Emily’s voice echoes in my memory:“Let him underestimate you.”
I’m wearing a dark green slip dress—chic but unthreatening. Hair down, makeup soft, a single gold pendant catching the light at my collarbone. The voice memo app on my phone is recording, tucked safely into the zipped inner pocket of my bag.
The Manhattan skyline glitters behind Jake Armstrong’s head like a crown he doesn’t deserve. He’s leaning against the rooftop bar, drink in hand, dressed like the smirking devil on the shoulder of every aspiring artist here.
