An hour later, the Uber pulled up to the curb in Lower Manhattan.
Charlene stepped out in front of an unmarked, heavy oak door. It was an exclusive, underground speakeasy, a place where privacy was guaranteed.
She pushed the door open and followed the hostess down a dimly lit hallway into a private VIP booth.
Willow was already sitting there. She wore a sharp, tailored navy suit. When she saw Charlene, she stood up immediately.
They hugged tightly. Willow pulled back, her eyes scanning the bandage on Charlene's forehead. "Are you okay?"
Charlene walked over to the table, poured herself a neat glass of whiskey, and threw it back in one gulp. The alcohol burned a fiery trail down her throat.
She exhaled sharply. "I'm faking the amnesia."
Willow's eyes widened. Then, a slow, wicked grin spread across her face. She slapped the table. "Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant."
They got straight to work. Charlene handed over the silk pouch containing the gold necklaces. Willow promised to fence them through a discreet jeweler by tomorrow morning to build Charlene's cash reserves.
Next, Willow opened her laptop. She walked Charlene through the legal loopholes required to quietly freeze Dawson's secondary assets without triggering an alert from his primary bank.
With the battle plan set, they left the claustrophobic VIP booth and walked out into the main lounge.
The room was dark, filled with the low hum of jazz and the clinking of crystal glasses.
As they approached the main bar, Charlene stopped dead in her tracks.
Standing near the bartender, surrounded by a group of wealthy socialites, was a woman in a flowing white gown. Deandra Ball. Angelita's younger sister. She possessed a face strikingly similar to her late sister's, and she clearly went out of her way to mimic Angelita's pale, ghostly aesthetic.
Deandra turned her head. Her eyes locked onto Charlene's vibrant red dress. A flash of pure, unadulterated jealousy crossed Deandra's face, quickly masked by a sickeningly sweet smile.
Deandra clicked her heels across the floor, approaching Charlene.
"Charlene, darling," Deandra cooed, her voice dripping with fake sympathy. "I heard about the crash. Are you recovering well?"
Charlene's stomach churned. But she remembered her role.
Instantly, the sharp confidence vanished from Charlene's eyes. She widened them, filling them with the terrified confusion of an amnesiac.
She lunged forward and grabbed Deandra's wrist. Her grip was tight, her nails digging into Deandra's pale skin.
"You!" Charlene gasped loudly, her voice echoing over the jazz music. "You're the woman Dawson loves, aren't you?"
The chatter around the bar abruptly stopped. Heads turned. Wealthy patrons lowered their drinks, staring at the scene.
Deandra's smile froze. She tried to yank her hand back, but Charlene held on like a vice.
"Charlene, please, you're confused-" Deandra stammered, her face flushing red.
Charlene let a tear slip down her cheek. She raised her voice even louder, making sure every single person in the room heard her.
"I don't remember anything!" Charlene cried out, sounding utterly broken. "I'm trapped in a house with a man who terrifies me! He doesn't want me, he wants you!"
She dropped to her knees slightly, pulling Deandra down with her.
"Please," Charlene begged, her voice cracking. "Please have mercy on me. Tell him to sign the divorce papers. Take him away. I'll give him to you. Just let me go!"
The crowd erupted into loud whispers. The socialites stared at Deandra with blatant disgust. In their eyes, Deandra wasn't a tragic muse; she was a homewrecker torturing a brain-damaged woman.
Deandra's face turned purple with humiliation. Her perfect, angelic image was shattering into pieces on the floor.
"Let go of me, you crazy bitch!" Deandra hissed under her breath. She violently shoved Charlene's shoulder, tearing her wrist free.
Deandra turned and practically sprinted out of the lounge, her white dress flying behind her as she fled the judging stares.
Willow stood nearby, taking a sip of her martini to hide her massive grin.
Charlene stood up slowly. She brushed the invisible dust off her red dress. The tears vanished from her eyes, replaced by a cold, triumphant smirk.
