It was a calculated move. I needed to interrupt her exit. I needed to establish physical dominance in the conversation withoutappearing threatening. But the moment my palm pressed against the back of her hand, the calculation fractured.
Her skin was freezing. She was trembling, though she was trying desperately to hide it behind a wall of sarcasm. The sheer force of her willpower—standing there, completely ruined, with seventy-four dollars to her name, and still looking at me like she could take me apart—hit me right in the chest.
The elevator chimes, the doors opening to the foyer of my penthouse.
The space is exactly as I left it. Spotless. Minimalist. Cold. The floor-to-ceiling windows offer a panoramic view of the dark lake and the glittering skyline, but there is no warmth in the room. No scattered magazines. No half-empty coffee cups. No evidence that a human being actually lives here.
I walk to the kitchen island, shrug out of my suit jacket, and drape it over one of the leather stools. I loosen my tie, pulling it free with a sharp tug, and unbutton the collar of my shirt.
I walk to the liquor cabinet, pour two fingers of Macallan into a crystal glass, and carry it into my home office.
The office is the only room in the penthouse that feels lived in. The mahogany desk is covered in neatly stacked files, encrypted hard drives, and legal briefs. I bypass all of it and open the bottom drawer of the desk, pulling out a thick manila folder.
I drop the folder onto the center of the desk and flip it open.
A dozen photographs spill out.
Most of them are surveillance shots taken over the last forty-eight hours. Audrey walking out of a coffee shop, holding a cup with both hands to keep warm. Audrey standing on the sidewalk outside her former office building, staring at the new locks onthe door. Audrey sitting in her car, her forehead resting against the steering wheel.
I pick up one of the photos. It’s a close-up, taken from across the street. She’s biting the inside of her cheek. Her eyes are red, but she isn’t crying. She looks furious.
I take a sip of the whiskey, letting the burn settle in my stomach.
I didn’t plan on this.
When I first found out Simon had embezzled funds from his fiancée to finance his new life, I merely ordered a background check to ensure the fallout wouldn’t impact the Vance holding company. It was routine. I look for vulnerabilities, and I neutralize them.
But then I read the file.
I read about a woman who spent four years building a business from scratch, refusing loans from banks, working eighty-hour weeks. I read the transcripts of the emails Simon sent to his lawyers, laughing about how easy it was to trick her into signing the lease transfers, banking authorizations, and client-management access forms.
And then I started watching her.
It was supposed to be a basic threat assessment. I needed to know if she was going to go to the police. If she went to the authorities, the ensuing investigation could expose the shell corporations my father uses to funnel money out of the city. I needed to make sure she stayed quiet.
But watching her turned into a habit. A dangerous, quiet obsession.
I watched her lose her apartment. I watched her pack her life into the trunk of a Honda Civic. I watched her keep her spine straight and her chin high, refusing to break in public.
And tonight, when my security team alerted me that she was sitting at the bar of The Drake, drinking premium gin she couldn't afford, I didn't send Grant to handle it. I went myself.
I drop the photograph back onto the desk and pick up my glass.
The plan is simple. I offer her the resources she needs to destroy Simon. In exchange, she plays the role of my devoted fiancée. We walk into the Vance family engagement party, and we detonate a bomb in the center of their perfect, curated world. Simon loses his mind. My father loses control of the narrative. Audrey gets her company back.
It is a flawless strategy. Mutually assured destruction.
I walk over to the small, biometric safe built into the wall behind my desk. I press my thumb against the scanner. The heavy steel door clicks open.
Inside, resting on a bed of black velvet, is a small square box.
I pull it out, flip the lid open, and stare at the ring.
It’s an emerald-cut diamond, flanked by two tapered baguettes, set in platinum. It is vintage. It belonged to my grandmother, the only person in the Vance family who ever looked at me with anything resembling affection. It is worth more than Simon’s entire real estate portfolio.
I bought it back from an auction house three years ago, intending to keep it locked away forever.
I reach out and brush my thumb over the cold facet of the stone.
