Chapter 5 5

Cinnamon stepped out of the elevator into the lobby, her heart soaring. She had done it. She had faced the Wolf of Wall Street and walked away with a win. The clicking of her heels sounded like a victory march.

The elevator doors pinged open behind her.

"Well, look at the stray cat strutting around."

Cinnamon stopped. The joy evaporated instantly. She turned to see Tiffany stepping out of the adjacent car, clutching a Birkin bag like a shield. Her face was twisted in a sneer that distorted her heavy makeup.

"Tiffany," Cinnamon said coolly. "I'd love to chat, but I have a life."

Tiffany stepped in front of her, blocking the path to the revolving doors. "Coming from his office? Did you have to get on your knees to get your allowance this month? Just like your whore mother."

Cinnamon saw red. The calm, professional façade she had maintained upstairs shattered. She stepped forward, using her height-she was three inches taller than Tiffany without heels-to loom over her.

"Keep my mother's name out of your mouth," Cinnamon said, her voice deadly quiet. "And how's your ankle? Recovered from your little trip at the gala?"

Tiffany's face flushed a blotchy red. She raised her hand, palm open, aiming for Cinnamon's cheek.

Cinnamon caught her wrist in mid-air. It was effortless. She squeezed, just hard enough to make Tiffany gasp.

"This is Wall Street, Tiffany, not one of your tea parties," Cinnamon hissed, flinging the woman's hand away. "You want to make a scene? The security guards here work for Arturo. Who do you think they'll throw out? The fiancée or the cousin he just threatened to disinherit?"

Tiffany rubbed her wrist, her eyes wide with shock and venom. "You think he cares about you? You stupid little girl. He's using you! He's only keeping you around because of your father's mess!"

Cinnamon froze. "What mess?"

Tiffany realized she had said too much. Her eyes darted around. "Nothing. Forget it."

"Tell me," Cinnamon demanded, stepping closer.

"The hidden money!" Tiffany spat, lowering her voice. "Your father hid millions before he died, and Arturo's been cleaning it up for years. He needs you to sign off on the final transfer. That's why he pays for your clothes, your school, your life. You're not his fiancée; you're his key code."

The world seemed to tilt. Hidden money? Her father died bankrupt. That was the official story.

"You're lying," Cinnamon said, but her voice lacked conviction.

"Ask him," Tiffany sneered. She shoved past Cinnamon, knocking her shoulder hard enough to send her stumbling into a large potted fern.

A security guard hurried over. "Ms. Taylor? Is everything alright?"

Cinnamon straightened her blouse, forcing a smile. "I'm fine. Ms. Watts was just leaving. She seemed... unstable."

The guard nodded knowingly and escorted a protesting Tiffany out the side door.

But Tiffany turned back one last time, shouting over the guard's shoulder. "You'll regret this! Chase Miller is out! He's coming for you!"

The name hit Cinnamon like a physical blow to the gut.

Chase Miller.

The blood drained from her face so fast she felt dizzy. Her hands started to tremble uncontrollably. Chase. The guy from college. The one who sent her jars of his hair. The one who tried to burn down her dorm because she wouldn't go to prom with him.

He was supposed to be in a psychiatric facility for another two years.

Cinnamon stumbled out of the building, forgetting to call the driver. She walked blindly down the busy street, the noise of New York fading into a dull roar.

Chase is out.

She ducked into a Starbucks, her breath coming in short, panic-stricken gasps. She ordered a black coffee just to have something warm to hold. Her hands were ice.

She pulled out her phone. Her fingers shook so bad she mistyped the name twice.

Chase Miller. Search.

A Twitter profile popped up. It was new. Created three hours ago.

The profile picture was a black square. There was only one post.

It was a photo.

A photo of a woman walking down a busy street, wearing a charcoal pencil skirt and a white blouse. Her hair was in a bun.

It was Cinnamon. From behind. Taken five minutes ago.

The caption read: My Angel is back. She looks so pretty when she's scared.

Cinnamon dropped the phone on the table. She whipped her head around, staring out the window at the throngs of people rushing past. Every man in a hoodie looked like him. Every shadow looked like a threat.

He was here. He was watching her right now.

She grabbed her phone to call Arturo. Her thumb hovered over his name. Emergency contact.

But Tiffany's words echoed in her head. He's using you. You're just a key code.

If she called him, he would lock her up. He would use this as an excuse to cancel the FBI deal. He would win.

She couldn't call him.

She dialed Mia instead.

"Mia," she whispered, her voice steadying with grim purpose. "Plan B. He's here. Chase is here."

"Oh my god," Mia said. "Where are you? I'm coming."

"No. Don't come. He's watching me. I'm at the Starbucks on Wall and Water. He just posted a photo of me. I need you to do exactly as I say. Get a burner phone. Contact that freelance security guy, the ex-Mossad one we used for that auction in Dubai. I'm going to lead Chase to a location with full camera coverage. We're not running. We're building a federal case."

Cinnamon hung up. She wrapped her hands around the coffee cup, but the warmth didn't penetrate. She felt eyes on her. A thousand pairs of eyes.

Across the street, in the shadow of an alleyway, a figure in a grey hoodie lowered his phone. He smiled, a jagged, broken thing. He watched the girl in the window shiver, and he felt a rush of pure, unadulterated love.