The brunch spot in Tribeca was noisy, filled with the clatter of silverware and the hum of gossip. Zoe Nielson was already there, scrolling through her phone.
Angelina slid into the booth. She felt different. Her skin felt too tight, her senses too sharp.
"You're late," Zoe said, not looking up. Then she saw Angelina. She paused. "You look... different. Less 'Stepford', more 'Real Housewife on a rampage'."
Angelina ordered a black coffee. "I'm divorcing him."
Zoe dropped her fork. It clattered against the ceramic plate. "What? Finally? Did you find more texts?"
"I found everything," Angelina said. She pulled out her phone and showed Zoe the photos of the trust fund documents she had photographed weeks ago. "He's moving assets offshore. If I leave now, I get nothing. Unless I prove fault."
"Fault," Zoe whispered. "You need dirt."
"I have a plan," Angelina said. "I need that P.I. you know. The expensive one."
"Brody Brooks," Zoe nodded. "He's the best. But Angie..."
The name hit Angelina like a physical blow. Brody Brooks. Her cousin. The one who had stood by and watched as the Pickett side of the family bled her father's legacy dry, the one who had published a philosophy paper that was a thinly veiled plagiarism of her father's unpublished manuscripts. A cold, calculating fury settled in her chest. Zoe, bless her heart, was clueless about that particular branch of her twisted family tree.
A new plan, dangerous and sharp, formed in her mind. Who better to hunt for Brittain's secrets than a man she already knew was a snake? She could feed him exactly what she wanted him to find, and maybe, just maybe, destroy two enemies with one stone.
"Perfect," Angelina said, her voice smooth as glass, betraying none of the turmoil inside her. "Give me his number."
Zoe leaned in, her eyes narrowing. She pointed a manicured finger at Angelina's neck. "What is that?"
Angelina's hand flew to her collar. She had worn a turtleneck, but it must have slipped.
"Did he hit you?" Zoe hissed, her voice low and dangerous.
"No," Angelina said quickly. "It's... not Brittain."
Zoe's jaw dropped. She stared at Angelina, processing. Then a slow, wicked smile spread across her face. "You didn't. You actually did it? The escort?"
Angelina looked down at her coffee. "Not the escort."
"Who?"
"I can't tell you," Angelina said. "But he's... useful. He hates Brittain as much as I do."
Zoe sat back, looking at her friend with new respect. "Angelina Sherman, you dark horse." She slid a business card across the table. "Call Brody. Burn him to the ground, honey."
Angelina's phone rang. Hubby.
The air left the table. Angelina took a deep breath. Her face relaxed, her eyes softened, her shoulders slumped. In a second, she transformed.
"Hey, honey," she answered, her voice sweet and submissive.
Zoe watched, shivering.
"Where have you been?" Brittain's voice barked. "I need you home. The gala is tonight. And pick up my dry cleaning."
"Of course, darling. I'm on my way," Angelina said.
She hung up. The sweetness vanished. "Back to the dungeon," she muttered.
