The summons came close to midnight. Jazmin was instructed to meet Eleanor in her private study, a room on the third floor of the mansion that smelled of old leather and Cuban cigars.
Eleanor sat behind a massive oak desk, a shadowy figure in a high-backed chair. The only light came from a green-shaded banker's lamp, casting long, distorted shadows across the room.
"Sit," she commanded, gesturing to the chair opposite her.
Jazmin remained standing by the door.
Eleanor's lips thinned in annoyance. She slid a single file across the polished surface of the desk. "I have a proposition. A way for this to end with everyone getting what they want."
Jazmin said nothing.
"You will remain Adrian's wife in name only," Eleanor continued. "You will maintain the public facade. In return for your cooperation, you will receive a generous allowance. And one more thing. You will raise his child."
Jazmin's gaze flickered to the file. It was a birth certificate.
"A model he had a brief dalliance with last year," Eleanor explained, her tone utterly devoid of sentiment. "The girl wants money to disappear. I want the bloodline secured, but without the scandal. You will be the child's mother. It's the perfect solution."
Jazmin felt a wave of something cold and foreign wash over her. It wasn't anger. It was disgust. The sheer, transactional coldness of these people was more alien than any system bug.
She turned to leave.
"Your bank accounts are all tied to the Garrett family trust," Eleanor's voice cut through the silence. "I can have them frozen with a single phone call. You'll be left with nothing."
The door swung open, and Adrian stumbled in. His face was pale, his eyes wild. He had clearly been listening from the hallway. For the first time, Jazmin saw something other than arrogance in his eyes. It was a raw, profound shame.
"No," he choked out, staring at his grandmother.
He lunged for the desk, snatching the file and tearing it to shreds. Pieces of the birth certificate fluttered to the floor like dead leaves.
"I would rather burn every dollar I have than let her raise that child!" he yelled, his voice cracking.
Smack.
The sound of Eleanor's hand connecting with Adrian's cheek echoed in the silent room. "You foolish, sentimental boy!" she hissed.
Adrian staggered back, clutching his face. A dark, resentful fire ignited in his eyes, the look of a dog that had been kicked one too many times.
Jazmin, who had been leaning against the doorframe watching the soap opera unfold, finally spoke.
"My lawyer's office. Tomorrow morning. Nine o'clock," she said, her voice cutting through their argument. "Be there. We're signing the papers. The ones I drafted."
Adrian looked at her. He searched her face for the jealousy, the hurt, the brokenness he was so used to seeing there. He found nothing. Only a flat, bottomless indifference.
That emptiness terrified him more than her violence. It was the look of someone who had already written him out of existence.
"Fine," he bit out, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. "But you sign a non-disclosure agreement. You will never speak of me or my family publicly again."
"Done," Jazmin said without a moment's hesitation.
Eleanor let out a dry, humorless laugh. "You think you've won? The moment you walk out that door, you're on your own. The Garrett name will no longer protect you. It will hunt you."
Jazmin met the old woman's gaze. "I'd rather dance alone in hell than be a dog in your heaven."
She walked out of the study, her footsteps echoing down the long, dark corridor.
Adrian scrambled after her, grabbing her arm. "Wait."
His grip was surprisingly strong. "Who are you?" he whispered, his voice desperate. "What happened to the Jazmin I married? The one who cried when I forgot her birthday?"
Jazmin looked down at his hand on her arm. She pried his fingers off, one by one. It was as easy as breaking twigs.
She leaned in close, her lips brushing his ear.
"You killed her," she whispered.
She left him standing there, frozen in the hallway, a chill creeping up his spine that had nothing to do with the cold of the mansion.
Back in her guest room, Jazmin opened her laptop and replied to the anonymous email.
`I'm listening.`
The reply was almost instantaneous.
`Tomorrow. 10 a.m. The corner of 5th Avenue and 59th Street. I'll be waiting.`
A system notification blinked at the edge of her screen.
`[WARNING: CRITICAL PLOT DEVIATION DETECTED. HIDDEN CHARACTER PROTOCOL INITIATED.]`
Jazmin stared out the window at the endless sea of city lights, her hand tightening on the mouse. The real storm was about to begin.
