Chapter 102
Nora's POV
The laptop screen cast a pale glow across my face in the darkened apartment. 2:47 AM. Most of Silverton was asleep, but not me. Not tonight.
The encrypted chat window blinked with a new message from Marcus:
Package delivered. Tracking number attached. Disguised as cosmetic samples—customs won't look twice. Colorless, tasteless. Mix it in her drink, she'll never know.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard, trembling slightly. The cursor blinked, waiting.
Another message appeared:
Works in 30 minutes. Effects last 2-3 hours. I've arranged everything—the "actor," the cameras, Sterling Hotel room 1208. Get her there. That's all you need to do.
I stared at the words until they blurred. My reflection in the dark screen looked like a stranger—hollow-eyed, desperate.
One good fuck on camera, Marcus continued, and her reputation is finished. The perfect attorney, caught in a compromising position. No coming back from that.
My stomach churned. This was further than I'd ever gone. Sabotaging contracts was one thing. This was...
She took everything from me, I reminded myself. Everything.
Rowan's public statement flashed through my mind. The way he'd defended her. "Ms. Grant's professional accomplishments speak for themselves." The admiration in those words. The respect I'd never heard in his voice when he spoke about me.
The job offers that had dried up after the Sterling PR disaster. The whispers at industry events. The pitying looks from people who used to court my attention.
All because of her.
My fingers found the keys: I need a credible reason to get her alone.
Marcus's reply came quickly: Use emotion. Tell her you want closure. That you're tired of the bad blood. She's reasonable—she'll buy it.
I bit my lip, considering. It had to be believable. Lena was smart. Too smart.
Pick somewhere public first, Marcus added. Coffee shop, wine bar. Let her think it's safe. Then suggest moving somewhere quieter—the hotel bar. I'll handle the rest.
I closed my eyes, seeing it play out. The casual meeting. The gradual relaxation. The invitation to continue the conversation somewhere more private.
Closure, I typed slowly. Yes. That could work.
I closed the laptop and walked to the window. The city sprawled below, lights twinkling in the darkness. Somewhere out there, Lena was probably still working. Building her little empire, one client at a time.
The package had arrived this afternoon—a sleek black box with luxury skincare branding. Inside, nestled among tissue paper, was a small glass vial that looked like expensive perfume.
I'd hidden it in my handbag. Just holding it made my hands shake.
She deserves this, I told my reflection. She took Rowan. She took my career. She—
But the reflection just stared back, unconvinced.
I grabbed my phone and opened a new message to Lena. Then deleted it. Then started again.
The words had to be perfect. Genuine. Something that would appeal to her sense of... what? Fairness? Completion?
Finally, I settled on handwriting it. More personal. Less traceable.
Lena, we've both said and done things we regret. I think it's time we talked—really talked. No lawyers, no third parties. Just two people who were friends once, trying to find some kind of peace. Tonight, 7:30 PM, Harbor Café? I hope you'll come. —Nora
I sealed the envelope and set it aside for morning delivery.
My phone buzzed—Marcus again.
The man I hired is a professional. He knows exactly how to make it look... consensual at first. Then desperate. Messy. The kind of photos that ruin careers and marriages.
I set the phone face-down, suddenly unable to look at the screen.
In my mind, I saw myself at twenty-two, watching Rowan across a crowded lecture hall. The way he'd looked at me then—like I was the only person in the world who mattered. Before Lena. Before everything fell apart.
This is the only way, I whispered to the empty room. The only way to get back what's mine.
---
Emily's POV
The building smelled like mildew and decades of accumulated disappointment. I pulled my jacket tighter and knocked on apartment 2C.
"Who's there?" A wavering voice, elderly and suspicious.
"Mrs. Reid? My name is Emily Walker. I'm looking into the disappearance of a former resident—Susan Bergmann? I was told you might remember her."
The door cracked open, revealing a pair of sharp brown eyes behind thick glasses. "You a cop?"
"Social worker. We're trying to locate next of kin." The lie came easily. I'd rehearsed it in the car.
The door opened wider. "Susan... yeah, I remember her. Poor thing worked herself to the bone. Three jobs, can you believe it? And still barely making rent."
Mrs. Reid ushered me into a cramped living room that smelled of mothballs and Earl Grey tea. Photos crowded every surface—grandchildren, probably.
"When did you last see her?" I pulled out my notebook, trying to look official.
"Two years ago, maybe? Hard to keep track." She settled into a worn armchair. "She was here one month, gone the next. Said she was moving to a better neighborhood."
"Did she say why?"
Mrs. Reid's expression shifted—something between knowing and uncomfortable. "There was a man. Came by a few times. Fancy suit, expensive car. Black Mercedes, if I remember right."
My pulse quickened. "Can you describe him?"
"White guy, forties maybe. Balding a bit, wore gold-rimmed glasses. Had that... you know, that way about him. Money. Power. The kind that makes regular folks nervous."
"Did you ever hear his name?"
"Susan called him 'Mr. M' once. Sounded scared when she said it, honestly. Like she owed him something."
I wrote quickly, my mind racing. "Did she say what he wanted?"
"No, but..." Mrs. Reid hesitated. "I saw him hand her an envelope once. Fat one, too. I figure it was money. Lots of it. Next thing I know, she's packing up and telling me she's leaving."
"Did she say where she was going?"