The alarm on her phone vibrated at 5:30 a.m. Ashton was already awake.
She folded Isadore's shirt with military precision and placed it on the foot of the bed. She dressed in her own clothes, which the butler had dried overnight.
In the bathroom, she took a tube of red lipstick. On the corner of the mirror, she wrote a six-digit number. A stock ticker for a company Charity's father was secretly shorting. She wiped it away with a tissue, leaving only a faint, red smear, as if she had tried to clean it in a hurry and failed.
She slipped out of the house like a shadow. Sloan was waiting down the road.
"Did you do it?" Sloan asked as Ashton climbed in.
"The seed is planted," Ashton said, buckling her seatbelt. "Isadore doesn't trust Charity. The prenup is brutal. He's protecting his assets from her."
Back at the estate, Isadore woke up. He slept efficiently, without moving much. He didn't check behind the headboard.
He went to the gym. While he was boxing, Charity arrived. She breezed past the butler, her heels clicking on the marble. She was early, manic with wedding planning energy.
"Isadore?" she called out.
"In the gym," the butler said. "He is not to be disturbed."
"I'm his fiancée," Charity snapped. "I'll wait in the bedroom."
She walked into the master suite, her eyes scanning the room, possessive and critical. She sat on the edge of the bed, smoothing the duvet. She reached out to fluff the pillow, her movements jerky and annoyed. She gave the heavy pillow an aggressive shove against the headboard.
Her fingers brushed against something soft. Velvet.
She pulled it out. A black choker with a small silver charm.
Charity froze. She knew this choker. She had seen it in a hundred paparazzi photos of Ashton Harmon.
Her face went white, then a blotchy, furious red. Her grip on the velvet tightened until her knuckles popped.
Isadore walked in, a towel draped around his neck, sweat glistening on his chest. He stopped when he saw her face.
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
Charity held up the choker. Her hand was shaking. "Explain this."
Isadore looked at the object. He recognized it immediately. He remembered the girl in the rain, the oversized shirt.
He didn't flinch. He didn't apologize. "It belongs to the Harmon girl. She crashed in the guest room last night to avoid a stalker."
The truth was so blunt it took the wind out of Charity's sails. But the fact remained: Ashton had been here. In his house. And her jewelry was in his bed.
"In the guest room?" Charity hissed. "Then why was this in your bed?"
"She's a child playing games," Isadore said, walking past her to the dresser. He snatched the choker from her hand and tossed it into the wastebasket without looking at it. "Don't let her trash ruin my morning."
Charity stared at the bin. He had thrown it away. That should have been enough. But his indifference was worse than anger. He didn't care enough to lie.
"I'm going to destroy her," Charity whispered.
"Do it quietly," Isadore said, pulling on a fresh shirt. "I have a merger to close."
Later, at a campus coffee shop, Ashton's phone buzzed. An unknown number.
Stay away from him or you're dead.
Ashton showed the screen to Sloan. "She took the bait."
"You're playing with fire," Sloan said.
Ashton typed a reply. See you at the gala tonight, sis.
Back at the estate, Isadore waited until Charity stormed out. He walked over to the wastebasket. He looked at the black velvet ribbon lying among the tissues.
He reached down and picked it up. He didn't know why. Perhaps because it was evidence. Perhaps because he admired the sheer audacity of the move.
He opened his bedside drawer and dropped the choker inside.
"Ashton Harmon," he muttered. "What do you want?"
