Chapter 3

Back at the penthouse, Franco hugged me from behind.

"I know you're overwhelmed," he murmured against the sensitive skin of my neck. "But you need to relax. Why don't you write? Your fans are begging for an update."

He let go and walked to the kitchen to pour himself a drink.

I slid the ring off my finger. The metal was cold against my skin, a dead weight. I threw it into the junk drawer, right next to a pile of dead batteries and loose change. It struck the clutter of loose change with a tinny, insignificant sound.

Franco didn't hear it. He was humming to himself, deaf to any sound but the ones he created.

I sat down at my laptop and logged into my author account. My pen name was a well-guarded secret, known only to my publisher. My book, Smoke & Mirrors, was a thriller about a woman married to a spy.

The readers were clamoring in the comments.

Update soon!

Is the husband actually the villain?

I opened a new document. My fingers flew across the keys. The scene required no invention; I had only to transcribe the memory.

Chapter 56.

The heroine finds the second invoice. She realizes the man she sleeps next to is a stranger. She doesn't scream. She simply sharpens her knife.

I paused, opening a separate, secure file. I was not just writing fiction. I was preparing a portfolio of evidence. I began printing the photographs of the duplicate invoices and the side-by-side comparison of the rings. The printer whirred softly, spitting out damning page after damning page.

"What's all that?" Franco asked, walking back into the room with a glass of scotch.

My heart leaped into my throat. I swiveled in my chair, blocking his view of the papers, and snatched them from the tray.

"Research," I said, my voice miraculously steady. "For the new book. Tax documents, property deeds. It's dreadfully boring stuff." I forced a small laugh.

He grunted, uninterested. He never bothered to ask for the title, let alone turn a single page. "Good. Everyone likes a happy ending." He checked his watch and emptied his glass in a single, practiced motion. "Get dressed. Xavier is hosting a gathering at The Vault. Neutral ground. We need to show face."

I sealed the papers in a thick manila envelope addressed to a journalist who specialized in ruin, hiding it at the bottom of my closet.

The Vault was a high-end club where the families mingled under a fragile truce.

I put on a black dress. It was a sheath of black silk, severe and without ornament.

When we arrived, the music was thumping, a heavy bass that vibrated against my ribs. Xavier, Franco's best friend and a fellow soldier, waved us over to a VIP booth bathed in low, purple light.

"To the happy couple!" Xavier shouted, raising a glass high.

The other associates cheered. I forced a smile, lifting a glass of water to my lips, the liquid tasteless and cold.

Then I saw her.

Camilla.

She was wearing a waitress uniform, but the skirt was hemmed too high, the shirt unbuttoned too low. She was carrying a tray of shots.

She wasn't supposed to be here. It was not an accident. He had placed her here, a deliberate provocation.

She approached the table, her eyes locking onto Franco. Her hand shook visibly.

The crash was a sudden, violent punctuation mark that sliced through the bass. Liquor splashed onto Xavier's expensive Italian loafers.

"You stupid bitch!" one of the associates yelled, jumping up. "Watch what you're doing!"

"I'm so sorry!" Camilla cried, shrinking back, her face a carefully composed mask of terror. "I slipped!"

"Get her out of here," Xavier snapped, wiping at his shoes. "And make her pay for the damage."

Franco slammed his hand on the table. The boom was louder than the bass.

"That's enough," Franco barked. His face was flushed red.

The table went silent. You didn't defend the help. Not here. Not when you were a Made Man.

"She made a mistake," Franco said, his voice tight, a muscle flickering in his jaw betraying the tension. "Leave her alone."

Camilla looked at him with wide, watery eyes. "Thank you, sir."

Xavier looked at Franco, then at me, confused. "Franco, relax. It's just a waitress."

"Then let her show her contrition," another associate jeered, his eyes glinting with a cruel, drunken idea. "Go on, sweetheart. Hug the man you almost soaked. Show him you're sorry."

It was a challenge, laid bare for the whole table to see.

Camilla hesitated. Then she looked at Franco. She took a step toward him. She swayed, putting a dramatic hand to her forehead.

"I... I feel faint," she whispered.

Franco moved before I could blink. He stood up, snatched the glass of water from my hand, and turned to her.

"She has an allergy to the smoke," he announced to the table, a lie constructed with such haste it was an insult to my intelligence.

He put his arm around her waist to steady her. In front of everyone. In front of me.

"I've got you," he said softly, the words meant for her, but loud enough to find their mark in me.

He held her there, his hand splayed possessively on her hip, while the rest of the table stared in stunned silence. He was not aiding a stranger; he was claiming his territory. My hand tightened on the strap of my clutch, my knuckles turning white, the delicate chain digging into my skin. I focused on the pain, on the imminent snap of the metal. Not here, I told myself. Not now. The altar is your stage. The world is your audience. Wait.