Three days later.
The conference room at Stark Industries was a glass box suspended in the sky. It was sterile, cold, and smelled of lemon polish and ozone.
Eleonora sat at the long mahogany table. She wore a tweed suit that was three years old, carefully pressed. Her phone sat in front of her, the screen lighting up every few minutes with payment overdue notifications.
The door opened.
It wasn't Alden. It was a man with a face like a ferret and a suit that fit too perfectly. Almus Sharpe. The fixer.
He slid a document across the table. It landed with a heavy thud.
"Draft of the prenuptial agreement, Miss Compton," Almus said. His voice was dry, like rustling paper.
Eleonora opened it. Fifty pages.
She scanned the clauses. No community property. No shared equity. A confidentiality agreement so strict she wouldn't be able to tell a therapist she was unhappy.
Her finger stopped at Clause 12. During the marriage, the Wife shall participate in all public relations events as directed but shall have no right to inquire into or interfere with the Husband's private life or associations.
She looked up. "Is he hiring a wife or a potted plant?"
"He is hiring a partner."
Alden walked in. He didn't apologize for being late. He took the seat at the head of the table, dominating the room instantly.
"In exchange," Alden said, gesturing to the document, "I will post your father's bail. I will provide you with a residence and an allowance. You will have the Stark protection."
"I want Julian removed from the family trust," Eleonora said.
Alden smirked. "Using me for personal revenge? You're ambitious."
"It's genetic hygiene, Mr. Stark. He is disloyal and stupid. Bad for the brand."
Alden tapped his finger on the table. "Done. But I have a condition."
He leaned back, his eyes narrowing. "You have three days to clean up your own mess. I will not have a wife who comes with baggage."
"Baggage?"
"Julian," Alden said. "He's been calling the front desk. He's been texting you. End it. Publicly. Irrevocably."
Eleonora's phone buzzed again. It was Julian.
Alden glanced at the screen. "Your due diligence period starts now. Prove your value."
Eleonora picked up the phone. She read the text. I know you're broke, El. Come back. I can set you up in an apartment. You can be my side thing.
Bile rose in her throat. She swallowed it down.
"I'll handle it," she said, standing up. "Three days."
"Tonight," Alden corrected. "There is a charity gala. Julian will be there with that... scarlet woman."
Eleonora nodded. She walked out of the room.
In the elevator, she replied to Julian. Meet me at the Gala tonight. We need to talk.
He replied instantly. Knew you'd come crawling back.
She went back to her temporary apartment-a studio with peeling paint. She opened her laptop. She pulled up the video file from the cemetery. In it, Julian clearly mentioned using trust funds to pay for Tiffany's extravagant shopping spree. That was the leverage. Not the affair, but the misappropriation of assets. Then she logged into the dark web browser she hadn't used since law school.
She found Tiffany's academic records. Or rather, the lack of them. The forged transcripts from UPenn.
She had no money for a dress. She looked at the old black gown in her closet. It was too conservative. Too "good girl."
She took a pair of scissors.
She slashed the back open. She pinned the fabric to create a plunging neckline. She sewed it with quick, angry stitches.
When she looked in the mirror, the woman staring back wasn't Eleonora Compton, the victim. It was a weapon sheathed in black silk.
At Stark Tower, Almus watched the security feed of Eleonora leaving her building. "She's going to the Gala alone, sir. Should I send security?"
Alden swirled the whiskey in his glass. "No. If she can't handle an ex-boyfriend, she can't handle being Mrs. Stark."
He took a sip. "Let her bleed. Let's see if she bites back."
