I swiped the sleek black keycard against the brass reader. The mahogany door clicked open, revealing a penthouse suite that cost more per night than I made in a year.
I dragged my scuffed suitcase across the threshold and heaved it onto the pristine white velvet sofa.
"Make yourself at home," a deep voice echoed from the hallway.
Julian Vance stepped into the living area. He had removed his suit jacket, the sleeves of his crisp white dress shirt rolled up to his forearms.
"You own this hotel too?" I asked, scanning the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city.
"Vance Hospitality manages the property," he replied. He gestured toward the glass coffee table. "I had my assistant pull a few items for tomorrow."
I walked over. A garment bag lay unzipped across the glass, revealing a stunning emerald-green silk gown. Resting directly on top of the fabric was a brand-new leather key fob.
A Porsche crest gleamed under the chandelier.
"I already have a car," I pointed out, staring at the keys. "Derek just happens to be holding it hostage."
"That fob belongs to a loaner vehicle from my private garage," Julian said. "You cannot arrive at a high-society charity gala in a taxi. It ruins the narrative."
"And what exactly is our narrative?" I challenged. "I walk in, point fingers, and hope your board of directors cares about a cheating scandal?"
"You walk in as my personal guest," Julian corrected. "You wear the dress. You drive the car. You show Derek exactly what he threw away. I will handle the board."
Julian crossed the room and stopped beside me. He held out a silver tablet.
"We start the demolition now," he said.
I took the device. The screen displayed a video editing application. Right in the center timeline sat the footage I had recorded in the underground garage. Derek’s bare chest and Mia’s panicked scrambling played on a silent, continuous loop.
"My media team scrubbed the metadata," Julian explained, his tone strictly business. "We routed the upload through three different proxy servers. By tomorrow morning, this clip will be trending on TikTok under a dozen anonymous gossip accounts."
"Derek's investors monitor social media," I said, watching Derek grab for his shirt on the small screen.
"Venture capitalists hate scandal," Julian agreed. "But we need a finishing touch."
He reached out and tapped a muted audio track at the bottom of the screen.
"I recovered a deleted voicemail from your phone's cloud backup," Julian said. "The one from last month. Do you want to attach the raw audio to the end of the video?"
I stared at the sound wave. I knew exactly which voicemail he meant. Derek had been drunk, screaming about how I was nothing but a walking ATM, useful only for paying his server hosting fees.
"You dug through my cloud storage?" I asked, my voice sharpening.
"You gave my security team access to extract the garage video," Julian replied, unfazed. "They found the audio file. It establishes a pattern of financial abuse. Play it."
I pressed the screen.
Derek's slurred, vicious voice filled the quiet penthouse.
"You think I care about your diner shifts, Chloe? Just deposit the cash! You're an ATM, nothing else. Do your job so I can do mine."
The recording clicked off.
My stomach twisted. Hearing it again, removed from the heat of our arguments, made his cruelty sound so calculated.
"Add it," I said, my voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Put it right at the end. I want everyone in his incubator program to hear how the visionary founder treats the woman who funded him."
I reached out to swipe the timeline back to the beginning.
My hand moved too fast. My index finger dragged sharply across Julian's knuckles.
We both froze.
The sudden heat of his skin against mine sent a sharp jolt up my arm. I stopped moving entirely. Julian did not pull away. He stood still, his dark eyes shifting from the tablet to my face.
I quickly pulled my hand back and curled my fingers into a fist.
"Sorry," I muttered, fixing my gaze on the glass table.
Julian stepped closer. The faint scent of cedar and expensive cologne wrapped around me.
"Look at me, Chloe," he commanded softly.
I forced my chin up. My eyes burned. I knew the rims were red and swollen from the lack of sleep and the sheer adrenaline crash of the morning.
He studied my face, his jaw tightening as he took in my exhausted expression.
"The Vance family does not allow this kind of behavior," Julian said. His voice carried a dangerous, quiet weight. "My sister made a mistake getting involved with your fiancé. But Derek chose to trample your dignity to climb my corporate ladder. I promise you, he will not survive the fall."
I swallowed hard. "He thinks he already won. He thinks Mia is his golden ticket."
"Then we let him believe it," Julian replied. "Right up until we cut the cord."
He took the tablet from my hands and set it next to the emerald gown.
"Get some rest," Julian instructed. "Tomorrow night requires energy."
"Wait," I said.
I dug into my jacket pocket and pulled out my phone. "I need to check something first."
"What are you looking for?" Julian asked.
"Confirmation," I said.
I opened Instagram. Derek always posted updates before his afternoon pitch meetings. He claimed it built brand authenticity.
His profile loaded instantly.
A new photo sat at the top of his grid.
Derek leaned against the hood of the matte-black Cayenne. He wore a brand-new designer suit—one I certainly hadn't paid for. He flashed a brilliant, arrogant smile at the camera.
"Read the caption," Julian instructed, peering over my shoulder.
"Ready for the new life," I read aloud. "Big things coming. Upgrades all around."
"He is predictable," Julian noted.
"He's driving my car," I snapped, my grip tightening on the phone case. "He actually drove it to his office."
"Enjoying the final hours of a stolen prize," Julian said.
I glared at Derek's smug face on the screen. He really thought he had beaten me. He thought shoving me into a kitchen counter and threatening me with his lawyers meant I would just roll over and disappear.
"He tagged Vance Group in the location," I pointed out, tapping the small blue text above the photo.
"He is trying to establish a public connection to my company before the gala," Julian said. "He wants his followers to assume the deal is already closed."
"Can you block him from the building?"
"I could," Julian answered. "But it is much more effective to let him walk into the ballroom and destroy himself in front of my board."
I nodded slowly. The icy calm from the garage returned, settling deep in my chest.
A bright banner notification dropped down from the top edge of my screen.
An unknown number.
I tapped the message bubble.
The text expanded, filling the middle of my display.
"Derek is attending the Vance family gala tomorrow night as my fiancé. Are you ready to cry in the slums?"
