CHAPTER 1
AUDREY
The olive in my martini costs more than my current net worth.
I know this because I spent the last forty-five minutes doing the math on a cocktail napkin, right before I aggressively crossed it out so the bartender wouldn’t realize I’m technically homeless.
Well, not homeless. I have a suitcase in the trunk of my Honda Civic, and my best friend Vivian has a couch that smells faintly of dog shampoo. But as far as my actual life goes—the apartment with the exposed brick, the architecture firm I built from the ground up, the savings account I bled dry to fund said firm—that’s all gone.
Simon took it.
Simon, my fiancé. Simon, the man who kissed my forehead every morning and told me my blueprints were brilliant. Simon, who, as it turns out, was systematically routing my client contracts through a shell corporation while simultaneously transferring his bodily fluids into Chloe, the twenty-three-year-old receptionist he swore was “just office staff.”
I take a slow, deliberate sip of the martini. The gin burns the back of my throat, but it doesn’t even touch the cold, hollow rage sitting in my chest.
“Arson is too messy,” I say out loud.
I don’t mean to say it out loud. It just sort of slips out, a casualty of my third drink.
The man sitting on the barstool next to me shifts.
I haven’t really looked at him since he sat down twenty minutes ago. I only registered him as a peripheral shadow—a dark suit, a heavy crystal glass of whiskey, and a quiet, immovable energy that made the bartender serve him immediately while ignoring everyone else.
“Arson is amateur,” the man says.
His voice is low. The kind of low that doesn’t ask for attention but demands it anyway. It vibrates right through the jazz music playing softly from the hotel speakers.
I blink, turning my head slowly to look at him.
My brain, currently swimming in premium gin, takes a second to process the visual information. He’s leaning against the polished mahogany of the bar, facing me slightly. He isn’t just wearing a suit; he’s wearing the kind of bespoke armor that costs more than my entire college tuition. Charcoal gray, perfectly tailored across shoulders that are entirely too broad for a Tuesday night in a hotel lobby.
But it’s his face that makes my teeth click together. Sharp jaw, dark hair perfectly styled but looking as if he had just run a hand through it in frustration, and eyes so dark they look like an empty room.
He doesn’t look like a guy who makes small talk at bars. He looks like a guy who buys the bar just to fire the bartender.
I bite the inside of my cheek, a nervous habit I haven’t been able to kill since middle school. “Amateur? Really? Fire destroys everything. It’s highly effective.”
“Fire is unpredictable,” he corrects smoothly, taking a slow sip of his whiskey. He doesn’t break eye contact. “It leaves chemical traces. It draws attention. And worst of all, it gives the victim a chance to play the martyr for the insurance money. If you’re going to ruin someone, you don’t burn their house down. You make them burn it down themselves.”
I stare at him. I should probably turn away. I should definitely not engage in a hypothetical felony with a stranger who looks like he could actually commit one before dessert.
Instead, a bitter, reckless laugh punches out of my throat. “You’ve put a lot of thought into this.”
“I’m a problem solver by trade.” He rests his glass on the coaster. His hands are large, the knuckles slightly bruised, which is a jarring contrast to the expensive Rolex on his wrist. “And you look like a woman with a very specific problem.”
“I don’t have a problem.” I trace the rim of my glass with my index finger, staring at the condensation. “I have a cliché. I am a walking, talking country song, minus the pickup truck.”
“Let me guess.” He tilts his head. “A man.”
“A parasite,” I correct, my voice tightening. “A very charming, very handsome parasite who convinced me to put my lease, operating account, and client-management system under his holding company’s umbrella for “tax purposes” right before he locked me out of the office and proposed to a girl who still uses TikTok dances to communicate.”
The stranger doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t give me that pitying, sympathetic smile I’ve been getting from my mother for the past forty-eight hours. He just watches me, his dark eyes tracking the micro-expressions on my face.
“And now you want revenge,” he says, stating it as a fact, not a question.
“I want justice,” I say defensively.
“Justice is for people who can afford good lawyers,” he replies, his tone flat and entirely devoid of emotion. “Revenge is for people who want results. Which one are you?”
