Claudia Sims POV:
Archer's promise bled through the speaker, carrying a metallic scent of real blood. On Wall Street, they called him the "Cleaner." When Archer Dillard said he wanted a man's life, he wasn't speaking in metaphors.
I took a deep breath, forcing the tightness out of my throat. I quickly read off the address of the East Village motel.
"Stay where you are," I said, my voice dropping into a flat, tactical rhythm. "Do not move on him yet. I need to see what cards Ashton plays in the daylight."
The line went dead silent. I could hear the grinding of Archer's teeth. Three seconds passed.
"Fine," Archer bit out, compromising only because it was me. "My team will be at your door before dawn."
I hung up the phone. I slid down the peeling wallpaper until I hit the floor. I pulled my knees to my chest and listened to the rain batter the window. I didn't close my eyes once the entire night.
At 6:00 AM, a harsh beam of sunlight cut through the broken blinds, hitting my pale face.
I picked up the cheap backup smartphone I had bought with cash years ago. The screen lit up with dozens of push notifications.
*Page Six* had the top headline. The bold black letters screamed: *Media Mogul's Crazy Ex-Assistant Has Delusional Meltdown at Gala.*
I tapped the link. The page was flooded with maliciously edited videos. They showed me snatching the microphone, cutting out the part where I recited the data, making me look like a screaming lunatic.
Ashton's PR machine had worked through the night. They were painting the classic picture: the hysterical, obsessed woman who wanted to destroy the man she couldn't have. He used this exact playbook five years ago to drive a rival CEO to suicide.
I opened Twitter. The hashtag #ClaudiaCrazy was the number one trend in the country. Thousands of vile, hateful comments flooded my screen every second.
Bianca's rabid fan base had already started doxxing me. Someone posted a forged psychiatric evaluation with my name on it, claiming I had a history of violent schizophrenia.
I stared at the crude forgery. A cold, mocking smile pulled at the corner of my mouth.
Suddenly, the backup phone vibrated violently in my palm. The caller ID flashed Ava's name.
I swiped to answer. Before I could say a word, a choked, terrified sob burst through the speaker.
"Claudia..." Ava's voice was shaking so hard I could barely understand her. "They're outside the bakery. There are so many of them."
A loud, violent crash erupted in the background. The sound of a brick shattering the front display window of the bakery. I heard a mob screaming outside, demanding she hand over the "homewrecker."
My heart violently contracted. The blood drained from my face. Guilt and pure, volcanic rage exploded in my chest. Ava was the only person who had shown me kindness in my darkest hours. I swore I would never let my shadows touch her.
"And a man in a suit came to the back door," Ava cried, her breath hitching. "He shoved a cease-and-desist letter at me. He said Ashton Miller is suing me for a million dollars for aiding a criminal. Claudia, I'm going to lose the shop."
Ashton was trying to burn Ava's life to the ground just to force me out of hiding.
My fingers clamped around the plastic phone case. My knuckles turned stark white. My fingernails dug so deeply into my palm that the skin broke, and a drop of blood welled up.
I forced my voice to be incredibly soft, incredibly steady. "Ava. Listen to me. Lock the steel door to the back kitchen safe room. Sit on the floor. Do not look out the window."
"Okay," she whimpered.
"I promise you," I said, every word a vow. "In fifteen minutes, every single person outside your shop will be gone."
I ended the call. The warmth in my eyes vanished entirely. I was done waiting.
I picked up the black encrypted phone and hit the single button.
Archer answered before it could ring.
"Archer," I said, my voice sounding like it was echoing up from a frozen hell. "Take over the bakery on Fifth Avenue in Brooklyn. At all costs."
Archer didn't ask questions. He didn't hesitate. "Done."
He paused for a fraction of a second. "My crisis team is downstairs."
I walked to the window and hooked a finger through the broken plastic blinds. Down on the trash-littered street, three black, armored Maybachs sat idling like silent ghosts in the morning light.
"Heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway and stopped outside room 204. Someone knocked on the door three times, deeply respectful."
