Cash stormed into his office on the 40th floor. He threw the crumpled bag of fries into the trash can so hard it dented the metal mesh.
He felt dirty. He felt foolish.
His phone pinged. An email from Isidora's lawyer. Demand for Asset Disclosure.
"Gavin!" Cash yelled.
Gavin appeared, looking terrified.
"Freeze everything," Cash said. "I want a total blockade. The joint accounts, the supplementary cards, the grocery money. Everything."
"Sir," the CFO spoke up from the corner of the room. "That could be seen as financial abuse in court. The judge will-"
"I don't care!" Cash slammed his hand on the desk. "She wants to play games with lunch? Let's see how she eats when she can't buy food. Do it."
Two hours later, Isidora stood in the checkout line at a bodega in Bushwick. She had toothpaste, ramen, and a bottle of cheap wine on the counter.
She swiped her card.
Beep. Declined.
She frowned. She tried the other one. The emergency backup.
Beep. Declined.
The cashier sighed loudly. "Lady, you got money or not?"
The line behind her shuffled impatiently. A man groaned. "Come on, move it."
Isidora felt the heat rise up her neck. It was a specific kind of shame-the shame of poverty she thought she had escaped forever.
"My mistake," she said calmly, pulling a twenty from her wallet. She paid for the toothpaste and left the rest on the counter.
She walked out of the store. The bell on the door jingled cheerfully, mocking her.
She walked back to the loft. Her stomach growled.
"He cut me off," she told Harper as she walked in.
"That prick," Harper said. "Here, take my card."
"No." Isidora sat down at the burner laptop. Her eyes were dark holes. "He wants to starve me? Fine. I'm going to eat his lunch."
She opened a secure, encrypted email client. She attached the PDF file she had spent the last three nights perfecting.
Subject: Project Icarus - Short Report on Ferguson Tech.
Summary: Revenue recognition irregularities. Undisclosed related-party transactions. The Emperor has no clothes.
She sent the file to the anonymous tip lines for three of Wall Street's most feared financial journalists. Then, she activated a script. A network of burner social media accounts began seeding keywords related to the report on Twitter, creating a digital breadcrumb trail for the algorithms to follow.
She hit Enter.
That evening, Cash was at Chante's apartment.
Chante was standing in front of the mirror, holding the emerald brooch against her chest.
"It's a bit... old fashioned, isn't it?" she complained, wrinkling her nose. "I wanted the diamond choker."
Cash wasn't listening. He was staring at his phone.
"Sir!" Gavin burst into the room without knocking. He was holding a tablet. "The stock. After-hours trading."
Cash grabbed the tablet.
A red line plummeted down the screen like a falling knife.
Ferguson Tech down 12% in after-hours trading following anonymous short report.
Cash read the report. His eyes scanned the data. It was precise. It was forensic. It cited obscure accounting footnotes that only an expert would notice.
Author: Nemesis.
"Who wrote this?" Cash whispered. The blood drained from his face. "This... this is Isidora's work. The precision... it's her signature."
He thought of her quiet competence, the way she dissected financial statements for sport. "That conniving little lawyer," he muttered. "She has the guts after all."
"It's viral, sir," Gavin said. "Twitter is blowing up."
"Get PR on the line," Cash shouted. "Deny everything!"
In the loft, Isidora watched the red line drop.
It was beautiful. It was the color of vengeance.
Her phone rang. It wasn't Cash.
It was Frank Tate. Her foster father.
She answered. "Frank?"
"What the hell did you do?" Frank screamed. "My card was declined at the club! The waiter cut it in half in front of everyone!"
"Cash cut me off, Frank," Isidora said tiredly. "I told you."
"You fix this!" Frank roared. "You get back in that house and you apologize! I have bills, Isidora! You owe us!"
Isidora closed her eyes. The war was fighting on two fronts now.
"I can't," she said.
"Then come here," Frank said, his voice dropping to a menacing growl. "We need to talk. Now."
Isidora looked at the red line on the screen. She had drawn blood. But now the sharks were circling.
"I'm coming," she said.
