The elevator doors slid open with a soft whoosh.
Florrie didn't stand up. She remained seated on the velvet sofa, her back straight, one arm draped casually over the backrest. Her other hand rested on Buster's neck. The Doberman sat at attention beside her, a statue of black muscle and menace.
Boston stepped out first. He scanned the room, his eyes landing on Florrie. For a second, he faltered. He was used to seeing her soft, pliable, eager to please. He wasn't used to this sharp-edged woman in a power suit.
Genevieve followed him out. She immediately pulled a lace handkerchief from her bag and pressed it to her nose.
"God," Genevieve muttered, her voice muffled. "It smells like dog in here. And... is that whiskey?"
"It's called 'freedom', Genevieve," Florrie said. Her voice was cool, echoing slightly in the high-ceilinged room. "I know you're not familiar with the scent."
Genevieve stiffened. She lowered the handkerchief, revealing a mouth puckered in disapproval. "Is this how you greet us? After everything you've put my son through?"
"Put him through?" Florrie raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't the one who cancelled a wedding via phone call three hours ago."
"It was a mercy," Genevieve snapped. "My son is a saint for sparing you the embarrassment of a loveless marriage."
Boston stepped forward, trying to regain control of the room. "Florrie, we're just here for the ring. Let's not make this a production."
He started to walk toward the hallway, presuming he could just waltz into the bedroom.
Buster let out a sound that was less like a growl and more like a tectonic plate shifting. It was deep, vibrating through the floorboards. He bared his teeth-white, sharp, and very close to Boston's groin level.
Boston froze. He took a hasty step back.
"Control your animal," Boston demanded, though his voice cracked slightly.
"He is controlled," Florrie said calmly. "He's trained to protect me from intruders. And right now, you aren't a guest, Boston. You're a trespasser."
She gestured to the chair opposite her. "Sit."
It was a command. Not a request.
Boston glared at her, his jaw working. But he sat. Genevieve remained standing, hovering behind him like a vulture in Chanel.
"The ring," Boston repeated. "Where is it?"
"It's safe," Florrie said. She pointed a manicured finger at the document on the coffee table. "But first, we have some paperwork."
Boston looked down. He saw the title: SETTLEMENT AGREEMENT.
He scoffed. "Settlement? We weren't married, Florrie. There's no divorce. You get nothing. That's how breakups work."
"Read it," Florrie said.
Boston picked up the papers with two fingers, as if they were contaminated. He scanned the first page. His eyes widened. He flipped to the second page. His face began to turn a shade of red that clashed with his tie.
"The maternal trust?" he choked out. "The beach house? Are you insane?"
"It's a fair price," Florrie said.
"For what?" Genevieve shrieked. "For being a glorified girlfriend for four years? You should be paying us for the exposure!"
Florrie ignored the mother. She kept her eyes locked on the son.
"For my silence," Florrie said softly.
Boston went still. "What are you talking about?"
Florrie picked up her phone. She tapped the screen a few times.
A voice filled the room. It was Boston's voice. Slurred. Drunk.
"...the SEC is a joke. My dad cooked the books in '19, and nobody noticed. I just moved the debt to the shell company in the Caymans. It's easy. Just gotta keep the auditors looking at the left hand while the right hand steals..."
Boston's face drained of color. He looked like he was going to be sick.
"That was private," he whispered. "I was drunk. That's inadmissible."
"In court? Maybe," Florrie said, shrugging. "On Twitter? On the front page of the New York Post? It's very admissible in the court of public opinion, Boston. Imagine what happens to Travis Global stock if that clip goes viral tomorrow morning."
Genevieve lunged forward. "Give me that phone, you little bitch!"
Buster barked. A single, thunderous sound that shook the windows. He lunged, snapping his jaws inches from Genevieve's hand.
Genevieve screamed and fell back onto the sofa, clutching her chest.
"Buster, heel," Florrie said quietly. The dog instantly sat back down, licking his chops.
"He's protection trained, Genevieve," Florrie said, her voice devoid of sympathy. "Don't make sudden movements."
Boston was staring at the agreement now with terrified intensity. He knew she had him. The Travis family was currently trying to close a massive merger with a European bank. A scandal about fraud and tax evasion would kill the deal instantly. It would cost them billions.
"This is blackmail," Boston hissed.
"It's a business transaction," Florrie corrected. "You taught me that. Everything is business. Even marriage."
She leaned forward. "Sign the papers, authorize the full transfer of my mother's trust back to my control, and give me the deed to the beach house. Do it now, and the recording disappears."
"I can't just transfer the trust," Boston pleaded. "The assets are tied up. My father will kill me."
"Your father will be in prison if I release this," Florrie countered. "Choose."
Boston looked at his mother. Genevieve was gasping for air, looking old and defeated. He looked back at Florrie. He saw no mercy in her eyes. Only math.
He pulled a gold pen from his pocket. His hand shook as he uncapped it.
"You're a monster," he whispered.
"I learned from the best," Florrie said.
He signed. He pressed the pen down so hard it nearly tore the paper.
He pushed the document back toward her. "There. Are you happy?"
Florrie picked up the papers. She checked the signature. It was valid.
"Happy?" She looked at him, really looked at him. "No, Boston. I'm not happy. But I am solvent."
She placed the papers in a folder.
"Now," she said. "There's one more thing."
