The thick carpet of the hallway muffled Abigayle's bare footsteps as she approached the elevator bank.
She reached out to press the down button, but before her finger could touch the metal panel, the elevator doors slid open with a soft ding.
Four massive bodyguards in identical dark suits poured into the corridor, instantly fanning out.
Right behind them stepped Martha, the Chief Public Relations Officer for the Sullivan family.
Martha adjusted her thin, wire-rimmed glasses, her face a mask of corporate detachment.
The bodyguards moved in unison, forcing Abigayle to take three steps backward until her spine hit the cold, hard wall of the dead-end corridor.
She was trapped.
Abigayle pressed her back against the wallpaper.
"What do you want, Martha?" Abigayle asked, her voice tight but unwavering.
Martha didn't blink. She unzipped her leather briefcase and pulled out a thick stack of stapled papers.
She held the Non-Disclosure Agreement out toward Abigayle.
"Sign this," Martha commanded in a flat, robotic tone. "It states you admit to the infidelity, you waive all rights to any financial compensation, and you agree to permanent silence. Sign it, and we let you walk out of here."
Abigayle didn't reach for the papers.
She stared at the bold legal jargon on the front page, a bitter smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.
"The Sullivan family thinks they can bury me with a piece of paper?" Abigayle met Martha's cold eyes. "You're dreaming."
Martha's brow furrowed slightly. She took a deliberate step forward, invading Abigayle's personal space.
"The lobby is swarming with paparazzi from the New York Post," Martha warned, dropping her voice to a harsh whisper."You're wearing a men's shirt. You can't live on the street. ”
Abigayle let out a short, sharp laugh.
"If I walk into that lobby right now, looking exactly like this," Abigayle challenged, tilting her head. "Whose scandal do you think will make the front page tomorrow?"
She raised her voice, making sure the bodyguards heard every word.
"The world will see the former future daughter-in-law of the Sullivan family, drugged, assaulted, and paraded half-naked. That's a much juicier headline than a simple cheating scandal, don't you think?"
Martha's stoic expression cracked.
Her eyes darted to the bruises on Abigayle's neck, realizing the socialite wasn't bluffing about the physical evidence.
Abigayle didn't give her a second to recover.
"Jeffery's fake lab report has a date that places me in Paris," Abigayle stated, her tone turning to ice. “All I have to do is walk into the police station and ask for a blood test, and all your public relations strategies will completely collapse.Martha hesitated. Her fingers tightened around the NDA.
It was obvious the PR team had been kept in the dark about the forged documents. They were just the cleanup crew.
Abigayle saw the hesitation. She seized the power dynamic instantly.
Her posture shifted from defensive to commanding.
"Get me clothes," Abigayle ordered, her voice echoing off the narrow walls. "A decent coat and shoes. Now."
Martha stiffened, trying to salvage her authority.
"Do not push your luck, Miss Pena. The Sullivan family is not to be threatened."
Abigayle pulled her phone from her clutch.
She tapped the screen, bringing up the dial pad, and typed 9-1. Her thumb hovered over the final 1.
"Three," Abigayle counted down, her eyes locked on Martha. "Two."
Right as she formed the word 'one', Martha snapped her fingers.
She gestured to a junior assistant hovering near the elevator doors, silently ordering her to move.
Ten agonizing minutes later, the assistant returned, breathless, clutching a black paper shopping bag.
She handed it to Abigayle. Inside was a simple, tailored black trench coat and a pair of black leather flats.
Abigayle snatched the bag without looking at Martha.
She turned the handle of an unlocked housekeeping closet nearby and stepped inside, shutting the door firmly behind her.
She pulled the men's shirt over her head, her stomach twisting with disgust, and shoved it deep into the trash can.
She slipped her arms into the trench coat, buttoning it all the way up to her collarbone to hide the bruises, and shoved her bare feet into the stiff leather flats.
She took a deep, shuddering breath, locking all her trauma behind a wall of pure ice.
Abigayle pushed the closet door open and stepped back into the hallway.
She wore no makeup, her hair was still messy, but the sheer force of her presence made the bodyguards subconsciously step aside.
She walked directly up to Martha.
She reached out, snatched the thick NDA from Martha's hands, and ripped it straight down the middle.
She tore the halves again, letting the shredded pieces of paper flutter down onto the carpet like dirty snow.
"Tell Elmer Sullivan," Abigayle said, her voice dangerously low. "I'm keeping a tab."
One of the bodyguards twitched, reaching for Abigayle's arm, but Martha held up a hand, stopping him.
Martha watched in complex silence as Abigayle walked past them.
Abigayle pressed the elevator button. The doors opened immediately.
She stepped inside, turning around to face the PR team as the metal doors slowly slid shut, severing their visual connection.
The moment the elevator began its descent, Abigayle's rigid shoulders dropped.
She leaned heavily against the cold metal wall of the cab, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
