The Setup

The late morning sun filtered through the stained glass windows of the west gallery, painting kaleidoscopic shadows across the Beaumont Estate’s marble floor. Gabrielle sat on the velvet chaise, ankle crossed elegantly over knee, sipping from a porcelain cup she hadn’t touched. She was all poise and restraint, every movement calculated just like the man seated across from her.

Wyatt Beaumont set his glass down, his cane resting against his thigh. He didn’t smile. He didn’t need to.

“Tell me, Gabrielle,” he said, voice low. “How far would you go to protect your legacy?”

Her eyes didn’t flinch. “My legacy, or yours?”

“They’re the same, aren’t they? My son inherits, but you you inherit access. Influence. Control.” He leaned forward. “Unless, of course, that little charity project of yours collapses under a scandal.”

Gabrielle’s lip curled. “I’ve done everything you asked.”

“Not yet.” He placed a photo on the table between them.

Scarlet. Laughing, mid-conversation. Leaning into Michael Richards in a shot that told an entirely different story than reality ever could.

Gabrielle narrowed her eyes. “Where did you get this?”

“I know every corner of this city, Gabrielle. And I’ve never liked relying on chance.” He tapped the image. “I want her humiliated. Publicly. I want Tucker so flooded in doubt he can’t tell betrayal from breath.”

“I assume you have a plan.”

“I assume you’ll carry it out.”

She stood slowly. “Tell me.”

Wyatt reached into his coat and slid over a gold-trimmed invitation.

“Tomorrow night. A charity gala hosted at the Crown Regency. Women’s Empowerment Network. Scarlet won’t resist. Invite her personally. Tell her it’s a networking opportunity.”

“And what will she walk into?” Gabrielle asked, voice casual, though her fingers were already twitching to text.

“A photoshoot. Carefully arranged. Paparazzi are already on the payroll. Michael Richards will be there. And so will the press.”

Gabrielle laughed softly. “You’re going to crucify her in heels and silk.”

“I’m going to make her untouchable.” Wyatt rose with effort. “The moment that story breaks, every whisper I’ve been planting will bloom into wildfire. And my son will see what she truly is.”

Gabrielle tilted her head. “And if he doesn’t?”

“He will.” Wyatt’s gaze turned razor-sharp. “Tucker wants to believe she’s guilty. I’m just giving him permission.”

Scarlet stepped out of the florist’s van, brushing petals from her apron. The scent of jasmine and tuberose still clung to her hands. The morning had been long, but she welcomed the simplicity bouquets didn’t lie, didn’t threaten, didn’t manipulate.

A voice called across the lot. “Scarlet!”

She turned to see Gabrielle approaching in a pencil skirt and sky-high Louboutins, holding a glossy envelope. Her smile was picture-perfect charming, controlled, and entirely false.

“What do you want?”

Gabrielle’s tone was light. “No claws today. I come in peace.” She held out the envelope. “Invitation.”

Scarlet hesitated. “To what?”

“Women’s Empowerment Gala. Tomorrow night. Crown Regency. You’re not exactly in high society anymore, but your name still carries weight especially married to Tucker.”

Scarlet frowned. “Why would you invite me?”

Gabrielle tilted her head. “Because appearances matter. You’re supposed to be the devoted wife, right? Don’t you want to be seen supporting a cause instead of hiding behind gates like a ghost?”

Scarlet studied her, lips tight. “What’s the catch?”

Gabrielle laughed. “Paranoia’s so unflattering.” She handed over the invitation. “Just show up, wear something red, smile for the cameras. Act like you belong.”

Scarlet looked down at the glossy gold text, then back up. “And if I don’t?”

Gabrielle’s voice dropped, quiet and lethal. “Then people might start wondering what you’re hiding.”

She turned and walked off before Scarlet could answer.

Tucker stepped out of the shower, steam curling off his skin, toweling his face as his phone buzzed on the counter. He glanced at the screen.

One message.

Unknown Number: Tomorrow, Crown Regency. 9 p.m. Ask your wife what she plans to wear.

His jaw tightened.

He called his assistant. “I want the guest list for the Women’s Empowerment Gala. Crown Regency. Tonight.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And find out if Scarlet’s name is on it.”

“Yes, sir.”

He stared at the screen long after the call ended, heart pounding for reasons he couldn’t quite name.

Scarlet adjusted the neckline of her crimson dress, fingers tracing the satin edge as she stared into the hotel suite mirror. The makeup artist had left an hour ago. Her curls were pinned high, her lips painted with a shade called Temptress. Her reflection didn’t look like her.

But that was the point.

She stepped out into the corridor, heels echoing against marble. The elevator opened on the penthouse ballroom floor.

Flashes erupted almost immediately.

“Scarlet Beaumont!”

“Mrs. Beaumont, this way!”

“Is it true your husband’s filing for divorce?”

“Where’s Tucker tonight?”

She blinked through the light, smile frozen, pulse racing. “I’m here to support the Women’s Empowerment Network.”

Cameras clicked. A sea of reporters shouted over one another.

She moved quickly past the chaos and into the ballroom, where gold chandeliers swung overhead and every table gleamed with sponsored glamour.

“Scarlet!” A familiar voice.

Michael Richards.

She exhaled, then smiled relieved to see at least one person she didn’t have to fake with.

“Michael. You look sharp.”

“You look… like trouble,” he teased, eyes kind. “Come sit. It’s chaos out there.”

She sat, laughing lightly. “I forgot what this world feels like.”

Michael poured her a drink. “Plastic and glitter.”

As they spoke, Gabrielle stood by the far pillar, watching. Her lips curved into a slow smile as a man in a gray suit whispered into his earpiece and disappeared through the service door.

Outside, three paparazzi positioned themselves across the street.

Inside, Michael leaned closer. “You okay? You seem… off.”

Scarlet nodded. “Just tired.”

Gabrielle turned and walked toward the main doors, heels slicing into marble, satisfied.

Let the cameras roll.

Tucker’s black Rolls Royce pulled up across from the hotel, engine humming. He stepped out, buttoning his jacket, and scanned the crowd of reporters gathered outside.

Then he saw it.

The massive LED screen over the hotel entrance flickered with new footage.

Scarlet Beaumont. In a red dress. Laughing. Leaning in close to Michael Richards. A hand on his chest. A whisper. A brush of lips near his ear.

Frozen images. Just a few seconds. But more than enough.

Tucker’s throat dried.

His assistant called.

“I have the guest list, sir. She’s listed under Gabrielle’s invite. Gabrielle personally submitted it.”

His jaw locked. “And Michael?”

“He’s the keynote speaker. Scheduled for tonight.”

Tucker didn’t reply. He was already pushing through the front entrance.

Inside, the room hushed when he entered. Eyes turned. Cameras shifted.

Scarlet froze mid-laugh, her hand still on Michael’s forearm.

Tucker’s eyes met hers across the ballroom.

Dead silence followed.

Scarlet stood slowly.

“Tucker,” she said, her voice uncertain.

He moved toward her, each step deliberate. “So this is what empowerment looks like?”

Michael stood. “It’s not what it looks like.”

“Isn’t it?” Tucker’s voice cut like glass.

Scarlet’s eyes burned. “This isn’t what you think ”

“I’ve been here before,” Tucker said. “The moment. The lies. The betrayal dressed in silk.”

She stepped forward. “Gabrielle invited me. She ”

“Oh, I know who invited you,” Tucker growled. “And you walked right into it.”

“Tucker ”

“I should’ve known. I did know.” His voice cracked. “I just didn’t want to admit it.”

She reached for him. “Please ”

He pulled back. “Don’t.”

The cameras caught it all.

Scarlet stood alone in the spotlight, the red dress suddenly suffocating.

Tucker turned and walked away.

Gabrielle smiled from her seat at the bar, sipping champagne like the victory was always hers.

And outside, Wyatt Beaumont lit a cigar.

Game, set, match.