Chapter 6 6

The door clicked shut behind him, sealing out the office noise.

Anderson stood motionless, letting the room's atmosphere settle. The VIP reception room was designed to soothe: muted lighting, leather furniture, a view of the Hudson River that cost more per square foot than most apartments. The air smelled of lavender and money.

Hailee Spence didn't look soothed.

She paced the length of the room, heels striking the carpet in irregular, agitated rhythms. Her sunglasses remained in place, but Anderson could see the tension in her jaw, the tightness in her shoulders. The bag in her hands was being systematically destroyed, leather creasing under her grip.

"You knew." The accusation came without preamble. "You people always know. You probably have files, photos, dates. And you let me walk into that gala last night like-like-"

"Mrs. Spence." Anderson moved to the water dispenser. He filled a glass, set it on the coffee table. The gesture was deliberate, calming. "Please. Sit."

Hailee stopped pacing. She looked at the water, then at him. Something in his voice, or his posture, or simply the absurdity of being offered hydration in her moment of crisis, seemed to break through.

She sat. The leather sighed beneath her.

Anderson took the chair opposite, leaning forward, hands open on his knees. The position was non-threatening, attentive, designed to convey partnership rather than servitude.

"Your husband's indiscretion is unfortunate," he said. "But it's not fatal. Not to you, and not to your interests."

"My interests?" Hailee's laugh was sharp, broken. "My interest was in having a marriage that didn't humiliate me in front of three hundred guests. My interest was in-" She stopped. Her throat worked. "He promised. After the last time. He promised."

Anderson watched her crumble. The sunglasses came off, revealing eyes swollen with crying, mascara tracking down her cheeks. She looked younger without the armor of her public face. Vulnerable. Betrayed.

He thought of Elianna's letter. Forgive my cowardice.

"Mrs. Spence." He kept his voice low, steady. "May I be direct?"

She nodded, sniffling.

"Your marriage has been a business arrangement for at least seven years. The properties, the investments, the brand partnerships-you've built something together that transcends personal fidelity. What you're experiencing now is a breach of contract. Nothing more."

Hailee's breath caught. She stared at him, tears suspended, something calculating moving behind the grief.

"A breach of contract," she repeated.

"Precisely." Anderson reached for the tablet on the side table, waking it with a touch. "Your prenuptial agreement contains infidelity clauses. Standard language, but poorly structured. If you file for divorce on grounds of adultery, you forfeit your claim to the Malibu property and the tech portfolio."

Hailee's face went pale. "That's-he couldn't have-"

"He did." Anderson pulled up the document, turned the screen toward her. "However. If we reframe this as a hostile attack by business competitors-specifically, if we suggest that these photographs were staged, that your husband was entrapped-we shift the narrative. You become the victim of corporate sabotage. Sympathetic. Wronged. Entitled to compensation rather than penalty."

Hailee's finger traced the screen, reading. Her breathing slowed.

"The charity gala," she said slowly. "Thursday night. I'm the keynote speaker."

"Exactly." Anderson pulled up a second document. "We leak that you've known about the infidelity for months. That you've been gathering evidence. That this 'scandal' is actually your husband's desperate attempt to preempt your own announcement." He paused. "You leave him. Publicly, dramatically, on your own terms. The narrative becomes your strength, not his betrayal."

Hailee sat back. The tears had dried, leaving tracks on her foundation. She looked at Anderson with something approaching respect.

"You're cold," she said. "I like that in a man."

Anderson felt the words land like a small wound. He smiled anyway, professional and empty. "I serve your interests, Mrs. Spence. That's all."

She stood, smoothing her dress, retrieving her sunglasses. The transformation was remarkable-the broken wife replaced by the strategic businesswoman in the span of seconds.

"Execute it," she said. "The gala statement, the leak, all of it. I want him destroyed by Sunday."

Anderson rose, moved to the door, held it open. "It will be done."

Hailee paused on the threshold. Her hand rose, touched his shoulder briefly. "You saved me today, Mr. Calhoun. I won't forget."

Then she was gone, swept up in the entourage waiting in the hallway, restored to her public self.

Anderson closed the door. He leaned against it, feeling the adrenaline drain away, leaving only exhaustion. The room smelled of her perfume now, heavy and cloying. He walked to the coffee table, picked up the untouched water, and drank it in three long swallows.

The door opened behind him.

"Bravo." Luca's voice dripped with insincerity. "Truly. I haven't seen acting like that since the last Oscars."

Anderson set down the glass. He turned slowly.

Luca leaned against the frame, arms crossed, smile fixed in place. "She bought every word. The cold fish routine, the 'I serve your interests.' You almost had me convinced you cared."

"What do you want, Luca?"

The smile vanished. "Raven's transferring the Spence account. To me. Effective immediately." He pushed off the doorframe, stepping closer. "She thinks you need a break. Thinks you're not quite yourself lately. And she's right, isn't she? Look at you. When's the last time you slept? When's the last time you-"

Anderson's hand shot out. He grabbed Luca's tie, silk bunching in his fist, and slammed him against the glass wall.

The impact rattled the frame. Somewhere outside, someone gasped.

"Listen to me," Anderson said. His voice was barely above a whisper. "You have no idea what I'm capable of. You have no idea what I've lost today. So take your account, take your victory, and stay out of my sight. Because the next time you come for me, I will end you."

Luca's face had gone red, then white. His hands clawed at Anderson's grip.

Anderson released him. Stepped back. Straightened his jacket.

He walked out of the room without looking back.