Ivy's hands were shaking as she applied her lipstick.
She stared at her reflection. Gaslighting. That's what she had just done. She had taken the truth, twisted it into a pretzel, and shoved it down Clive's throat until he choked on it.
It felt… intoxicating.
She had spent six months being the victim. Taking the insults. Taking the emotional abuse. Agreeing that she was boring, that she was lucky to be a Wallace, lucky to be chosen by a Fitzpatrick.
Today, she had fought back.
She grabbed her purse. She checked the mirror one last time. Ivy had chosen the blue dress deliberately. It was the color of obedience, the dress of a dutiful fiancée. It was a perfect camouflage for the predator she was becoming, a way to lower their guard before she struck.
She walked out of the apartment.
Clive was waiting in the car downstairs. The limo driver held the door open.
Clive didn't look up from his phone when she got in.
"Did you throw it away?" he asked.
"Yes," Ivy lied.
"Good."
He finally looked at her. His eyes swept over the blue dress.
"Better. You look like a lady now. Not like that cheap mess you were last night."
Ivy didn't bite. She just smiled. A small, tight smile.
"Where's Catrina?" Ivy asked.
"She's meeting us there. She took her own car."
Ivy nodded. She turned to look out the window.
The city rolled by. Ivy's mind was racing.
Bruno hadn't just left the jacket to test her. He had left it to arm her. He knew Clive wouldn't recognize the custom tailoring-Clive bought off the rack from Armani, thinking the label meant class. Bruno wore bespoke.
The jacket was a physical object of chaos. And Bruno was the god of chaos.
Her phone buzzed in her purse.
She glanced down. It was a notification from her bank app.
A deposit. $50,000.
The sender was anonymous.
Ivy frowned. She opened the message attached to the transfer.
"Consulting fee. For the entertainment."
Ivy felt her face heat up. He was paying her. The initial sting of shame was sharp, a branding iron of humiliation searing her pride. It felt like being paid for a service, a transaction that reduced her to a commodity. But then, a colder, harder emotion pushed through the shame. Anger. If he saw her as an asset, a consultant in his game of chaos, then she would be the most expensive one he'd ever hired. This wasn't a whore's payment. It was seed money.
She typed a reply to the unknown number.
I don't want your money.
Reply: Then donate it. Or buy a new dress. That blue one is tragic.
Ivy almost laughed. A hysterical bubble of laughter rose in her throat. He was insulting her while paying her while saving her while ruining her.
She looked at Clive. He was texting Catrina. She could see the reflection in the window. "Can't wait for tonight, baby."
Ivy gripped her phone.
She transferred the $50,000 to an anonymous trust she'd established through a series of offshore shell corporations-a ghost in the financial system named after a forgotten childhood street.
It was her escape fund. Her war chest.
She looked back at the window.
Game on, Bruno.
