I am a liar.
I told Audrey this was about revenge. I told Grant this was about leverage. I told myself this was about teaching Simon a lesson.
But as I stare at the ring, the quiet, ugly truth settles over me in the silence of the empty penthouse.
I don’t just want to ruin my brother.
I want to take the only good thing he ever had, and I want to make her mine. I want to put this ring on her finger, and I want to watch the realization hit Simon’s face that he threw away a queen for a pawn.
But more than that, I want to see Audrey Jennings standing in my kitchen, scattering her blueprints over my sterile countertops. I want to hear her sarcastic, biting voice echoing in these quiet rooms. I want to see how far she’s willing to go when she realizes I will never tell her no.
I snap the velvet box shut.
The trap is set.
Now, all I have to do is wait for her to walk into it.
I place the box on the center of the desk, right on top of her file. I finish my whiskey in one swallow, the alcohol doing absolutely nothing to dull the sharp, predatory anticipation humming in my blood.
I glance at the heavy silver clock on the wall.
It’s 2:14 AM.
She’s probably asleep in the back of her car, wrapped in a coat, clutching my business card like a lifeline.
Call me, Audrey,I think, staring at the dark screen of my phone resting on the desk.Call me, and let the devil in.
CHAPTER 3
AUDREY
There are three distinct stages of a premium gin hangover.
Stage one is the false dawn. You wake up, blink at the ceiling, and for about fourteen seconds, you think you’ve survived. Stage two is the dehydration, a sudden, violent realization that your tongue feels like sandpaper and your brain is shrinking inside your skull.
Stage three is the memories.
I groan, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes as stage three hits me like a physical blow.
I pitched a revenge plot to Simon’s older brother.
The Devil of Chicago. The man whose name is whispered in corporate boardrooms like a threat. I sat next to him, drank a martini I couldn't afford, and casually suggested we destroy his family’s upcoming engagement party.
"You're awake," a voice says from somewhere to my left. "And by awake, I mean you are making pathetic noises into my throw pillows. Please don't throw up on them. They’re from Target, but I really like the pattern."
I lower my hands and crack one eye open. The morning sunlight filtering through the cheap blinds is aggressively bright.
Vivian is standing in the cramped kitchenette of her apartment, wearing mismatched socks and a robe that looks like it has survived two world wars. She’s holding a mug of coffee and staring at me with the analytical gaze of a junior defense attorney who is used to dealing with guilty clients.
"I'm not going to throw up," I croak, my voice sounding like gravel. I sit up slowly, pulling the oversized Georgetown University t-shirt Vivian loaned me down over my bare thighs. "I am, however, going to fake my own death and move to a remote island where there is no Wi-Fi and no men."
"Dramatic, but I respect the vision." Vivian walks over, stepping over a pile of legal textbooks and a squeaky dog toy, and hands me a glass of tap water and two Advil. "Drink. And then explain the bomb sitting on my coffee table."
I freeze with the glass halfway to my mouth.
I follow her gaze. Resting perfectly in the center of Vivian’s scratched IKEA coffee table, right next to a stack of unpaid electric bills, is the matte-black business card. The silver lettering catches the harsh morning light.
Malcolm Vance.
