Allison walked up the grand staircase. Each step felt heavier than the last, but she forced herself to keep moving.
She entered her bedroom—a room that had never felt like hers. Soft cream walls, antique French oak furniture, drapes that cost more than most people's monthly rent.
It was beautiful. It was cold. It was a museum exhibit she no longer belonged in.
She didn't allow herself to look back. She walked straight to the closet and pulled a heavy Louis Vuitton duffel bag from the top shelf. The leather was worn, the brass zipper tarnished.
She had bought this bag eight years ago, on her first trip to Paris with her father, before he died. It was one of the few things she truly valued.
She began to pack.
Mechanical.
Efficient.
No hesitation.
She grabbed only the essentials: her laptop, two encrypted hard drives containing her personal company data, her father's old notebook—the one where he had handwritten his strategies for Montgomery Group—and three tailored power suits.
She didn't fold anything. She just shoved.
Her eyes fell on the vanity mirror. Several framed family photos sat on the glass surface.
Her and her father, laughing at a company picnic. Her and Finn, at their engagement party.
Allison didn't pause. She swept her arm across the vanity, knocking the silver frames face down into the trash can. The glass cracked against the metal bin. The sound was satisfying.
Her phone buzzed.
An incoming call from Emilee Costa—her best friend, the only person in the world she trusted completely.
Allison answered, putting it on speaker as she tossed a pair of heels into the duffel bag.
"Hey," Emilee's voice boomed through the speaker, loud and energetic. "Are you ready for our dinner reservation at Le Bernardin? I am starving. I've been dreaming about their lobster thermidor for three days."
"The dinner is canceled," Allison stated flatly, zipping a side pocket.
Silence. Then. "Why? What happened?"
"I caught Finn and Cheyanne screwing in my Range Rover."
A beat of dead silence hung on the line. Then Emilee unleashed a string of creative, high-decibel curses that would have made a sailor blush.
"That worthless, spineless, Wall Street parasite! I am going to castrate him with a butter knife! I'll send his balls to his mother in a gift box!"
Allison almost smiled. Almost.
"Baker and Katharine just gave my engagement ring to Cheyanne," Allison continued, her voice devoid of inflection.
Emilee screamed. Not words. Just a pure, raw scream of disbelief and fury. The audio peaked on the phone speaker.
"Are you kidding me?" Emilee finally managed. "They did WHAT? Where are you right now? Get out of that toxic house this instant!"
Allison grabbed the heavy brass zipper of the duffel bag and pulled it shut. "I'm leaving right now. Can I crash at your place in Soho?"
"Yes! Obviously!" Emilee yelled. "I'll have tequila and a baseball bat waiting for you. We're going to destroy them, Allison. Every last one of them. Hurry up."
Allison ended the call. She slung the heavy bag over her shoulder. The leather strap dug painfully into her collarbone, but the physical discomfort kept her grounded. It reminded her she was still alive, still moving, still fighting.
She walked out of her bedroom and headed down the narrow back staircase used by the staff. She would not walk through the main foyer. She would not give them the satisfaction of seeing her leave with her head down.
She slipped out through the massive industrial kitchen.
The private chef looked up from chopping vegetables, his eyes wide with confusion. "Miss Montgomery? Is everything—"
Allison ignored him and pushed through the service doors, walking out into the crisp New York night. The cold air hit her face, clearing her head. She walked two blocks down the avenue before hailing another cab. She threw her bag into the trunk and slid into the backseat.
"Soho," she told the driver.
As the cab sped downtown, Allison's mind raced. The adrenaline was fading, replaced by cold, hard logic. She mentally reviewed the Montgomery Group's shareholder structure. Her father had left her twenty-five percent of the voting shares. Baker controlled another twenty percent. The rest were scattered among minor shareholders and institutional investors.
Without the Kensington marriage alliance backing her, Baker would immediately call an emergency board meeting. He would try to strip her of her voting rights. He would argue that she was "unstable," "emotionally compromised," "unfit to lead." And the board—most of whom owed their positions to Baker—would likely agree.
She needed a backer. Someone with enough capital to terrify Baker. Someone whose name alone would make the board think twice before crossing her. Someone whose power outranked Finn's branch of the Kensington family.
The cab dropped her off on a cobblestone street in Soho. She took the freight elevator up to Emilee's loft—a sprawling space with exposed brick walls, a massive skylight, and a kitchen island that had seen more therapy sessions than actual cooking. The metal doors slid open, and Emilee instantly tackled her in a fierce, bone-crushing hug.
Allison breathed in the smell of Emilee's expensive perfume—Chanel No. 5, the same kind her mother used to wear before everything went wrong. For the first time all night, she felt her shoulders drop an inch.
Emilee pulled back, grabbed two shot glasses from the kitchen island, and poured a full shot of Patron tequila into each. She handed one to Allison.
"Drink," Emilee ordered.
Allison took the glass and downed it without flinching. The liquor burned a fiery trail down her throat, settling warmly in her empty stomach.
They moved to the plush velvet sofa in the center of the loft. Allison sat down, resting her elbows on her knees, staring at the floorboards.
"I'm about to be ousted from the board," Allison said. "Baker is going to use this to take everything my grandfather built. Everything my father died for."
Emilee paced the floor, her heels clicking aggressively. "We leak the dashcam video to Page Six. We ruin Finn's reputation. We burn them to the ground socially. Finn's mother Eulalie cares more about appearances than anything—if that video goes public, she'll disown him."
Allison shook her head. "No. A scandal like that would tank Montgomery stock. That hurts my own inheritance. I need a surgical strike. Not a bomb."
She looked up at Emilee. Her eyes were cold, focused. "I need a marriage of convenience. Someone with enough capital to make Baker back down, powerful enough to make the entire Kensington family bow."
Emilee stared at her, stunned, before letting out an incredulous huff. "Wait—you're not talking about the Kensington patriarch, are you? Adam Kensington? That old fox who devours his own brothers for profit? You think he'd ever lift a finger to help you?"
Allison said nothing. But her quiet, unwavering silence was answer enough.
Her mind flashed back to the airport terminal. She remembered the impact. The bespoke charcoal suit. The terrifying, suffocating aura of power. The heat of his hand on her waist. And the name the man behind him had called out. Adam.
She closed her eyes for a split second, seeing those dark, piercing eyes again—the ones that had seen straight through her calm facade at the airport. Eyes that had silently spoken. "I know everything you are. I know everything you need."
Allison's eyes gleamed with sudden, dangerous resolve. "What do you know about Adam Kensington?"
Emilee dropped her shot glass onto the glass coffee table with a loud clatter, spilling tequila everywhere. Her jaw unhinged.
"Allison, you're sure?"
"I am," Allison said smoothly. "Becoming Finn's untouchable aunt is the perfect opening move in my war."
