Chapter 2 Opération Freedom 101.

"Okay!" Jasmine said, squinting at her phone like she was plotting a prison break. "First rule of Operation Freedom: make it messy enough that James Red Stevens will be begging your parents to back out."

Leila sat on the edge of a weather-worn park bench, her fingers nervously fidgeting with the silver charm bracelet around her wrist. Her eyes were still damp from the earlier tears she hadn't meant to shed, but Jasmine had insisted they "start somewhere normal" - hence Central Park, caffeine, and a plan. The bracelet had been a gift from her late grandmother, and now it felt like the last real thing in a world that suddenly seemed fake.

"And how exactly do we do that without me ending up on Page Six?" Leila asked, her voice low and unsteady.

Jasmine's grin stretched wide. Mischief sparkled in her eyes. "Exactly by ending up on Page Six."

Leila groaned and tilted her head back, staring at the impossibly blue Manhattan sky. The world around them buzzed - joggers, tourists, children chasing pigeons, street musicians hitting the wrong notes - a normalcy she couldn't feel.

"You know my parents will kill me, right? This could go nuclear. Like, 'you're cut off, pack your bags, and lose your penthouse key' nuclear."

"Then you'll move in with me," Jasmine said without missing a beat. "We'll start a podcast and get sponsorships from chaos. I'll call it Free, Fun-Fridays. You'll be the face."

Leila managed a dry laugh, but it was more exhale than amusement. "I don't want to blow up my whole life."

"No," Jasmine said, suddenly serious, her voice softening. "You want to take it back."

That hit deeper than Leila expected.

The city kept moving, oblivious to her unraveling. Somewhere nearby, a man yelled at a cab; a dog barked; a cyclist cursed under their breath. But all she heard was the roar of her parents' expectations - the kind that echoed even in silence.

"You've never even met him," Leila whispered. "Why do you hate him so much?"

Jasmine stretched her legs across the bench and looked at her best friend, not with judgment, but quiet conviction. "Because I've seen what men like him do to women like you. Not with fists. Not with screaming. But with expectation. With silence. They erase women like you slowly, politely, and efficiently."

Leila blinked. "That's dramatic. But true." She hated that she agreed. And hated more that part of her still wondered if it would be easier to just say yes and fade into the role - the wife, the symbol, the merger.

"Jazz... I'm scared."

"Good," Jasmine said gently. "That means you're still awake."

They sat in silence, letting the spring breeze thread through their hair. A saxophonist down the path played a shaky version of "Someone Like You." Somewhere behind them, a kid squealed with joy. It should have been peaceful. But for Leila, it felt like the last breath before a long dive.

They didn't go home right away. Instead, they wandered through SoHo, window-shopping at boutiques they couldn't afford on passion careers and pretending everything was normal. Leila tried on a pair of oversized sunglasses. Jasmine posed dramatically in front of a gallery window. For a moment, they laughed. For a moment, they weren't caught in a plan.

But the illusion was thin.

By the time they reached Leila's penthouse, the sky had shifted into that golden, reflective dusk where the city looked softer than it was. The skyline glowed, a reminder of all the eyes watching.

Leila walked in and dropped her keys on the marble counter like she was shedding armor.

"I hate this place." Jasmine raised an eyebrow. "Since when?"

"Since I realized it looks like a luxury holding cell."

That earned a snort. "Then let's mess it up."

Jasmine kicked off her sneakers and clapped her hands. "Wardrobe raid! We need scandalous but classy. Think heiress misbehaving - not sloppy, just... unpredictable. The kind of chaos that makes PR people nervous."

Leila narrowed her eyes. "You want to fake a hookup?"

"Not a hookup," Jasmine said, already disappearing into her closet. "An entanglement. Hookups are obvious. Entanglements raise questions."

"Jazz."

"Trust me."

Three outfit changes later, Leila stepped out in a dark wine silk gown that kissed her curves without begging for attention. Her collarbones glinted. Her heels made her taller, stronger. Her hair was a waterfall of power.

Jasmine looked her over with pride. "You look like a problem, they won't see coming."

Leila smirked. "I feel like I'm dressing for war."

"You are," Jasmine said. "This is battle. But we fight with cameras and whispers."

They sprawled out across the white sectional with notepads, wine, and leftover sushi. The city glowed beneath them, their private war room in the clouds.

"Okay," Jasmine said, uncapping a Sharpie like it was a tactical weapon. "A scandal needs three things: the act, the witness, and the reaction."

She drew three circles on the back of a Post dates receipt.

*The Act:*

"Nothing desperate. No fake pregnancy. No rehab rumors. Something that makes people whisper, but also raises brows. Something... entangled."

Leila sipped her wine. "Rooftop bar. Low lighting. Intimate angle. No PDA - just proximity."

Jasmine beamed. "The Vesper Lounge. Perfect lighting. Intimate booths. Smells like power and regret."

*The Witness:*

"Zara," Jasmine said, already texting. "She's interning at Gossip Org. She owes me a favor. We give her the perfect setup - blurry photo, caption-ready moment. She'll leak it with just enough mystery."

Leila raised an eyebrow. "You're terrifying."

"I'm effective."

*The Mystery Man:*

Jasmine grinned. "Damien."

"My friend Damien?"

"He's not blood. Just a family friend. Plus, he's camera-ready, flirtatious, and completely safe. No risk of feelings, no risk of weird headlines like Heiress Caught with Cousin."

Leila rolled her eyes. "Jazz. You're wild."

"Wild enough to save you."

As Jasmine texted logistics, Leila wandered back to the kitchen and leaned on the counter, remembering the conversation with her parents.

"We've found someone," her mother had said over poached eggs. "He's from a good family. Impeccable background."

"Stable," her father had echoed. As if she were an investment to be anchored.

She remembered staring at them, stunned. "You want to arrange my marriage?"

"This isn't just marriage," her father replied. "This is legacy."

Now, in her kitchen, Jasmine walked in and handed her another glass. "Where'd you go?"

Leila shrugged. "Back to the day I stopped being mine."

Later that night, they sat on the rooftop. Jasmine wore an oversized hoodie; Leila still hadn't changed. The wind played in her hair as she stared at the glittering skyline.

"You ever think about what your life would be if no one was watching?" Leila asked.

"Sure," Jasmine said. "I'd probably be in Tulum right now, running a rooftop bar and giving terrible tarot readings."

Leila laughed.

"But I'd still be me," Jasmine added. "And that's the point, isn't it?"

Leila didn't respond. Her fingers curled tightly around the wine glass.

"Do you think they'll ever see me as more than a symbol?" she asked softly.

Jasmine looked over. "No. So stop trying to convince them."

They sat in silence for a while.

"Okay," Jasmine finally said. "Saturday night. Vesper Lounge. Damien's in. Zara's ready. This is it. Step one of Operation Freedom."

Leila nodded, her voice barely a whisper. "Let's do it."

Later that night, while Jasmine showered, Leila wandered her apartment barefoot, the marble floors cool under her skin. She paused by the massive floor-to-ceiling windows. The skyline twinkled. Billboards changed colors like mood swings.

She held her phone in her hand, hovering over the browser. A quick search of James Stevens pulled up a clean-cut image: navy suit, one dimple, a caption that read "The Unshakable Stevens Heir."

Every article described him the same way-disciplined, calculated, poised. His image was so carefully preserved, she half-wondered if he was real at all.

What would someone like that do with someone like me?

Would he try to change me? Would I let him?

A sharp knock at the memory of her father's voice: "This is what strong families do, Leila. They plan. They build. They align."

Her stomach turned.

She scrolled again. Photos from charity galas, economic summits, press conferences. James with politicians. James with CEOs. James with his perfectly pressed suits and perfectly forgettable smile.

There were no stories. No gossip. No scandals. No softness.

Just the face of a man who'd never needed to fight to be taken seriously.

Leila set her phone down like it was burning her hand.