Chapter 21
May 30, 2025
Third Person’s POV…
Vivian Carrington didn’t believe in bitterness. Bitterness was for women who’d lost. She believed in legacy. And right now, Celene Monroe was stomping all over hers, in heels, no less. The private lounge at The Whitney Club oozed old money and quiet power. Dark wood, deeper secrets. No press. No prying eyes. Just Vivian, a glass of eighteen-year scotch, and two people who hated Celene as much as she did.
Bianca was already halfway through her second martini, one manicured hand draped dramatically over the velvet armrest. Across from them sat Warren Cain, sour-faced, sharp-suited. A Monroe board member passed over during the last restructuring Celene had authored. He hadn’t forgotten. He hadn’t forgiven. Perfect.
“I want her gutted,” Vivian said, voice smooth, but sharp enough to cut glass. “Not embarrassed. Not rattled. I want her out.”
Bianca smirked. “So we’re not just burning bridges, we’re pouring gasoline and lighting the match ourselves?”
Vivian swirled her scotch. “Sweetheart, she was never invited on the bridge to begin with.”
Warren leaned forward, elbows on the mahogany table. “She blocked my promotion with that ridiculous efficiency pivot. Think she can rewrite this company in her image? I’ll show her how fast that image can crumble.”
“You have something?” Vivian asked.
“I’ve got a document batch we can weaponize, outdated projections, inactive licensing contracts, internal notes she archived before the merger. Useless in context, but damning if released the right way.”
Bianca leaned in, eyes gleaming. “And the leak?”
Warren’s grin was slow and malicious. “From her laptop. Through a misconfigured proxy. VPN logs will show activity. Metadata will point to her drafts folder. Rookie error, but believable.”
Vivian’s lips curved. “She’s the golden girl right now. Everyone’s watching. A perfect little fall will look… tragic.”
“Or deserved,” Bianca added, venom in her smile. “She acts like she was forged in fire. Let’s remind her she came from ashes.”
Warren’s voice dropped an octave. “One leak, and the media will eat her alive. ‘Heiress Fakes Numbers.’ ‘Ghost of Monroe Empire.’ She’ll be radioactive by Monday.” Vivian stood, slowly. Her heels echoed on the marble floor like warning shots.
“She thinks this is about power,” Vivian said. “It’s not. It’s about memory. And I remember who she was before she learned how to sharpen her voice.” She turned to Bianca.
“And you?”
“Oh, I remember,” Bianca said, eyes blazing. “I remember the little assistant with hand-me-down blazers and shaky knees. Now she struts like she invented the company?”
“She forgets who let her into this world,” Vivian muttered.
“Then let’s drag her out of it,” Bianca spat. There was a moment of silence. Electric. Buzzing. Alive with malice. Then Vivian raised her glass.
“To legacy,” she said. The glasses clinked. No one drank. They didn’t need to. They were drunk on the high of coming for revenge. What they didn’t see, just beyond the frosted glass of the lounge, was the man who’d paused mid-step. Damon Ashcroft stood in the hallway, phone still in his hand, face carved from stone.
He had only caught a few words: “leak,” “VPN,” “Celene”-but they were enough. His eyes narrowed. His jaw flexed. And when he moved, it wasn’t away from the door. It was toward it.
