Imogen pushed into the corridor leading to the restrooms. She needed cold water on her face. She needed to reset her adrenaline before she did something stupid, like leaking Julian's personal tax returns to the press.
Three men were blocking the hallway. They were in expensive suits that strained at the buttons, their faces flushed with alcohol and entitlement. Wall Street types. Hedge fund bros.
"Hey," the heavy one in the middle slurred. He pointed a meaty finger at her. "You're the girl. The one who tried to outbid Reeves."
Imogen didn't slow down. "Move."
"Feisty," the man laughed. He stepped in front of her, blocking her path. "What's a pretty thing like you doing playing with the big boys? Who's backing you? Need a new sponsor?"
He reached out to grab her arm. "Come have a drink. Let's talk about your... assets."
On the balcony above, Branson had stepped out to take a call. He looked down and saw the scene unfolding. He frowned.
"Should we intervene?" Quentin asked.
Branson ended his call. "Let her sweat for a minute. Maybe she'll learn that actions have consequences in this world."
Below, the man's hand touched Imogen's sleeve.
The switch flipped.
Imogen didn't think about fighting. She thought about leverage. Her eyes went dead, void of any emotion except calculation.
She let him grab her wrist. She didn't pull away. Instead, she leaned in, her voice a confidential whisper.
"Markham, isn't it? From Sterling-Price. I heard the SEC is looking into your trades on that pharma merger. The ones you made from your wife's maiden name account."
She paused, her gaze sweeping over his face, her tone suddenly turning colder. "By the way, your sclera are yellowing, and you have clear liver palms. Get tested for hepatitis C. I'd bet your mistress shared your needles, didn't she?"
Markham's face drained of color in an instant. Not because of the SEC — he could fix that.
But this... How could she possibly know? He'd only gotten his lab results the week before.
The other two men stared, their drunken brains trying to process what was happening.
Imogen's eyes flicked to the second man. "And you're with Biltmore Capital. Funny, I just saw a wire transfer report. A hundred thousand dollars to a 'consultant' in Panama, right after you tanked the pension fund you manage. I wonder if the board knows about your 'consultant'."
He went pale, taking a step back as if she'd physically struck him.
The third man started to back away, wanting no part of this.
Up on the balcony, Branson straightened. He couldn't hear what she was saying, but he could see the effect. He saw the bravado drain from these men, replaced by sheer panic.
Imogen leaned closer to Markham, her face inches from his terrified eyes.
"Go back to your kennel," she whispered. "And tell your friends that if they ever touch me again, I won't be this gentle. Next time, the tip goes straight to the Wall Street Journal."
She pulled her arm free. He let her, his hand falling limply to his side.
Imogen straightened her jacket. She smoothed a stray hair from her face. She stepped past the stunned, silent men as if they were statues.
The whole thing had taken less than thirty seconds.
She looked up.
Branson was standing at the top of the stairs, frozen. His expression was no longer arrogant. It was stunned. That wasn't a plea for help. That was an execution. She hadn't fought them; she had dismantled them with information.
Imogen locked eyes with him. She knew he had watched the whole thing. She knew he had waited to see if she would break.
Slowly, deliberately, she raised her hand and gave him a small, dismissive wave, a gesture of pure contempt.
Then she turned and walked out the door.
Branson stood there, a reluctant, dangerous curiosity tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Clean this trash up," he said to Quentin, gesturing to the men who were now arguing in panicked whispers. "And get me that name. Now."
