Bridget didn't go back to Long Island. She had her driver drop her off in Soho, then slipped through an alleyway and took a cab to a secure, unlisted apartment in Lower Manhattan.
She locked the deadbolt and pulled the heavy blackout curtains shut.
She sat at a metal desk and opened a matte-black, heavily encrypted laptop. She booted up a custom Linux OS, bouncing her signal through seven different Tor nodes and a hardware VPN.
She opened the browser and navigated to "Helix," the underground biotechnology forum.
She typed in her credentials. The screen welcomed her: User: Schrödinger's Drug.
Bridget opened a secure chat window with her lab partner in Geneva.
The capital is secured, Bridget typed.
She opened her offshore banking portal. She began routing the $100 million through a maze of shell companies in Cyprus and the Cayman Islands, funneling it directly into the research fund for their European lab.
Initiate Project Nirvana, Bridget sent the final command. I want the synthesized peptide algorithm ready in three months.
Confirmed, the partner replied.
Bridget closed the laptop. She walked into the bathroom and stared at her reflection. The crying, hysterical wife was gone. The genius who had secretly built Jayson's entire empire was awake.
The following morning, Bridget walked into the lobby of the Cline Medical headquarters.
She wore a blood-red Chanel Haute Couture suit and towering Louboutins, deliberately ignoring the dull, lingering ache in her sprained ankle.
The lobby fell silent. Employees averted their eyes, whispering behind their hands.
Bridget rode the elevator to the thirtieth floor. She walked down the hall and pushed open the double doors to the PR Director's suite.
Her antique desk was gone. Her oil paintings were gone. A massive, tasteless canvas print of Golda's face hung on the wall.
Tinsley Sharp, the administrative secretary, strutted over. She crossed her arms, a nasty smirk on her face.
"Mr. Cline left orders," Tinsley said, her voice loud enough for the whole floor to hear. "Your new workspace is the cubicle at the end of the hall."
Bridget didn't blink. She turned and walked to the cubicle.
It was a cramped desk next to the printer, piled high with empty cardboard boxes and coated in dust.
Bridget sat down in the cheap mesh chair.
Tinsley walked over carrying a massive stack of files and a steaming mug of coffee.
Tinsley slammed the files onto the desk. As she did, she deliberately tilted her wrist.
The scalding hot coffee spilled directly across the desk, splashing violently onto the sleeve of Bridget's red Chanel jacket.
"Oops," Tinsley gasped, pressing a hand to her chest in fake shock. "My hand slipped. But I guess you can just use Mr. Cline's credit card to buy a new one, right?"
Heads popped up over the cubicle walls. Everyone waited for the famous party-girl meltdown. They waited for Bridget to scream and throw things.
Bridget didn't move. A violent tremor of pain shot up her arm from the scalding heat, the hot liquid seeping dangerously close to the fresh stitches and tight bandages wrapped around her right palm. But she smothered it instantly, her posture remaining rigidly perfect. She allowed only the slightest tightening of her jaw to betray the burning sensation.
She slowly stood up. She pulled a single tissue from the box on the desk and dabbed the dark stain on her sleeve with absolute, chilling precision.
Her eyes were dead. She radiated a suffocating, predatory calm.
She dropped the tissue into the trash. She looked up and locked eyes with Tinsley.
Tinsley's smirk vanished. A cold sweat broke out on the back of her neck. She took a step backward.
The door to the Director's suite opened. Golda walked out, wearing a brand-new Dior skirt suit, surrounded by fawning junior staff.
Golda saw the mess. She walked over, her face a mask of pity.
"Tinsley, be careful," Golda scolded gently. She looked at Bridget and smiled, a sickeningly sweet expression. "Bridget, I'm so sorry you're stuck in this corner. If you need help adjusting to the bottom rung, just let me know."
