Jodi walked out of the Taylor Corp building like a ghost, the weight of Armand's threat a physical pressure on her chest. Prison. The word echoed in her mind, a death knell for the future she had just started to imagine for her child.
She didn't go home. She walked ten blocks in a daze until she found a small, anonymous coffee shop. She sat in a booth in the back and made the only call she could.
"Brooke," she said when her friend answered. "I need you."
Brooke Smyth was a force of nature, a PR guru who had built her own empire on intelligence and sheer nerve. She was the only person in Jodi's life who knew about Armand and wasn't on his payroll.
They met twenty minutes later. Jodi laid out the entire story—the breakup, the frame-up, the impossible ultimatum. The only thing she kept locked away was the pregnancy. It was a secret too fragile, too dangerous to share.
Brooke listened, her expression shifting from shock to white-hot fury. "That son of a bitch," she seethed, slamming her hand on the table, making the coffee cups jump. "And that little red-headed viper. I'll ruin her. I'll have her blacklisted from every firm in this city."
"Rage isn't a strategy, Brooke," Jodi said, her voice quiet but firm. The initial shock was already hardening into a familiar, cold resolve. "I need a plan."
She leaned forward. "I have to get to Cade Wexler. In person. But I'm radioactive right now. No one from Taylor Corp will help me, and any official approach I make will be blocked."
Brooke's eyes narrowed, the PR strategist taking over. "Cade Wexler," she murmured, already typing furiously into her phone. "Tech genius, borderline recluse. Hates publicity, hates corporate suits even more. Getting to him is a nightmare."
She scrolled through pages of calendars, social registers, and insider memos. "He's not on any public schedule for the next week... wait."
Her eyes lit up. "Here. Tonight. A private fundraiser for the Children's Defense Fund at a private estate in the Hamptons. Wexler is on the board. He never misses it."
Jodi's heart sank. "An event like that? The guest list is a fortress. I'll never get in."
A slow, wicked grin spread across Brooke's face. "You won't. But my client, the CEO of a luxury fashion brand, will. Or she would, if she hadn't just come down with a terrible case of the flu." She winked. "Her plus-one spot, for her 'assistant,' just opened up."
A flicker of hope ignited in Jodi's chest. "Brooke..."
"Don't thank me yet," Brooke said, already dialing a number. "We have to get you there, and you can't show up in a business suit. And I'm guessing 'Taylor Corp Platinum Card' is not an option right now."
"All my assets are frozen."
"Emergency," Brooke barked into her phone. "I need my full glam squad at my apartment in thirty minutes. Red carpet ready. Bring the new season couture samples. All of them."
In his office on the 80th floor, Armand Taylor stared at a screen. He'd had IT reactivate the tracker on Jodi's phone the moment she'd left the building. He watched her icon travel to a coffee shop, then meet with Brooke Smyth.
He expected to see a woman breaking down. Crying. Panicking. Calling a lawyer.
But the grainy satellite image of the cafe's storefront showed something else. Through the window, he could see Jodi leaning forward, her expression intense, focused. There were no tears. There was no despair.
Then he watched them leave. They paused on the sidewalk, and Brooke said something that made Jodi smile. It wasn't a happy smile. It was sharp, confident, and full of teeth.
Armand's jaw tightened.
Why was she smiling? She should be terrified. She should be begging. The fact that she wasn't, the fact that she was doing something he couldn't predict or control, was an irritation that burrowed deep under his skin.
He slammed the laptop shut, but the image of her smile remained, burned into his mind.
Back at Brooke's sprawling SoHo loft, chaos reigned. Racks of gowns filled the living room. A makeup artist and hairstylist worked with frantic precision.
Jodi stood in front of a mirror, a blank canvas. Tonight, she couldn't be the victim. She couldn't even be Jodi Holden.
She had to be someone else.
Her eyes scanned the racks, passing over the sequins, the bright colors, the frothy tulle. Her hand stopped on a dress of severe, liquid black silk. It was deceptively simple, with long sleeves and a high neck. It wasn't a dress designed to be pretty. It was a dress designed to be powerful.
An hour later, she emerged from the dressing room.
Brooke and her team fell silent. The transformation was absolute. The soft, wounded woman was gone. In her place stood a queen. Her hair was swept up in an intricate, regal style. Her makeup was subtle but sharp, emphasizing the cold fire in her eyes.
She looked beautiful, yes, but more than that, she looked dangerous.
"My God, Jodi," Brooke whispered, her voice filled with awe. "Who are you?"
Jodi met her own reflection in the mirror. "I'm the woman who is going to get her life back."
