Vernon kicked the metal trash can in the living room. It crashed against the wall, spilling garbage across the cheap carpet.
He held the court dismissal notice in his hand, tearing it into tiny pieces and throwing them onto the floor.
"She beat us!" Vernon roared. "She had the deed the whole time!"
Brenda sat on the worn-out sofa, burying her face in her hands. "The credit card bills are due next week. Ricky's private school tuition is late. What are we going to do?"
Sitting at the vanity mirror in the corner of the room was Harper, Charlotte's younger sister.
Harper was carefully applying a coat of bright red lipstick. She looked at her parents through the reflection in the mirror and rolled her eyes.
"You two are idiots," Harper said smoothly. She turned around in her chair. "You went after the wrong target. Charlotte is a dead end."
Vernon glared at her. "What's your brilliant plan, then?"
Harper smiled, a cunning glint in her eyes. "Charlotte lost her fiancé. Bradly Medina left her at the altar. The Medina family is rich. They owe us for the public humiliation. We sue them for emotional distress, or... we ask for a settlement to keep it quiet."
Vernon's eyes lit up. The greed returned to his face instantly.
"I'll go talk to Bradly," Harper volunteered, standing up and smoothing her skirt. "But I need to look the part. I need cash for a new dress and a blowout."
Vernon didn't hesitate. He pulled out his wallet and handed her three hundred-dollar bills.
Harper snatched the money. She turned back to the mirror, a wicked smile spreading across her lips. She wasn't going to ask Bradly for money. She was going to take Charlotte's place in his bed.
Across town, in the Brooklyn apartment, Charlotte was packing.
She folded Eleanor's knitted blankets and placed them carefully into a cardboard box. She picked up a silver picture frame from the nightstand. It held a photo of Eleanor smiling in a garden.
Charlotte traced the edge of the frame with her thumb. Her tears had dried up. Her eyes were clear and focused.
Her phone buzzed on the bed. It was a text from Jorja.
What's the plan, boss?
Charlotte typed back immediately: I'm listing this apartment for rent. I'm moving to Manhattan to find a new job.
Jorja sent a thumbs-up emoji. Don't forget you still have to go to Medina Group tomorrow. You emailed your boss, but HR needs you to sign the formal exit papers in person and clear out your personal locker.
Charlotte stared at the screen. Medina Group. Bradly's territory.
She locked her phone. She walked over to her closet and pushed aside her casual clothes. She pulled out a sharp, tailored black blazer and a matching pencil skirt. She hung them on the door.
The next morning, the sun was bright.
Charlotte stood in front of her bathroom mirror. She applied a coat of dark, aggressive red lipstick. It felt like war paint.
She slipped into the black suit and stepped into a pair of black stiletto heels. She looked at her reflection. She didn't look like a heartbroken victim. She looked like a weapon.
She took the subway to the Financial District.
She stood outside the towering glass skyscraper of the Medina Group. She took a deep breath, pushed through the revolving doors, and walked straight to the elevators.
When she stepped onto the HR floor, whispers erupted in the cubicles. Employees stared at her, expecting to see a crying mess.
Charlotte ignored them. Her heels clicked sharply against the marble floor.
She walked into the HR manager's office, dropped her badge on the desk, and slid the exit paperwork forward.
The manager looked at her nervously, stamped the papers quickly, and handed her the carbon copy.
Charlotte put the paper in her leather tote bag. She felt a massive weight lift off her shoulders. She was finally free.
She walked back to the elevator bank and pressed the down button.
She waited, staring at the metal doors.
A soft ding echoed through the lobby. The elevator doors slid open.
Charlotte stepped forward, but her feet instantly froze.
