Chapter 3
The 1982 Château Margaux swirled in my glass, a deep, blood-red vortex that caught the candlelight of the private dining room. Across the pristine white tablecloth, Julian Vance, the CEO of Radiance Tech, was sweating. It was a subtle thing—a sheen on his upper lip, a nervous tapping of his index finger against the stem of his wine glass—but to me, it was the signal of a man realizing his safety net had just been set on fire.
"The supply chain issues at Howell Industries are... temporary," Julian said, though the conviction in his voice was as thin as the crystal. "Mark assured me the raw materials are secured."
"Secured in a warehouse he can't unlock," I corrected gently, slicing into my filet mignon. The knife slid through the meat with zero resistance. "Because the liens on that inventory belong to me. Mark Howell is currently sitting on three tons of silicon he can neither use nor sell. If you sign with him, Mr. Vance, you aren't buying a partnership. You're buying a lawsuit."
Beside me, Wells Ortiz leaned back, his presence a warm, solid wall against my shoulder. He didn't speak, but he didn't have to. The mere fact that the head of Ortiz International was dining with me, pouring my wine, signaled to Julian exactly where the power in Seattle now resided.
"My subsidiary, Veridian Dynamics, has the logistics network you need," I continued, lifting my gaze to Julian’s. "And unlike my ex-husband, I pay my debts."
By the time the espresso arrived, the partnership was mine. Mark had spent months courting Radiance Tech, banking his entire fourth-quarter recovery on this deal. I had dismantled it between the appetizer and the entrée.
***
Rain lashed against the windows of my temporary office, blurring the city lights into streaks of neon and gray. It was late, but the adrenaline of the kill kept me awake. On the wall of monitors, the stock ticker for Howell Industries was a plummeting red line, a hemorrhaging artery that no tourniquet could save.
Rebecca Chen, my assistant, entered the room. Her usually stoic expression was fractured by hesitation. She held my personal cell phone as if it were a live grenade.
"Ms. Howell," she said softly. "I have a call on the private line. It’s... the residence."
My fingers froze over the keyboard. "Mark?"
"No. It’s the girl. Maddie."
The name was a hook in my chest, pulling at scar tissue I thought had hardened into armor. I closed my eyes, and for a second, I wasn't the CEO of a global conglomerate; I was a mute woman on a dusty floor, shielding a screaming child from a man with a knife. I remembered the drawings we used to make—crude crayons of knights and dragons. She had been the princess. I had been the silent shield.
"She left a voicemail before I could intercept," Rebecca said, her voice tight. "She... she found the old drawings, Ma'am. In the attic. She was crying. She said she remembered the screaming."
The silence in the office was heavy, suffocating. Maddie was remembering. The guilt was finally piercing the fog of Diana’s manipulation. She wanted her stepmother. She wanted the woman who had lost her voice to save her life.
But that woman didn't exist anymore.
I opened my eyes and looked at the rain-streaked glass. If I answered, if I offered even a whisper of comfort, the resolve I needed to burn this family to the ground would crumble. Mercy was a luxury I could not afford.
"Block the number, Rebecca," I said. My voice was steady, but my hands were clenched so tight beneath the desk that my nails dug into my palms.
"Ma'am?"
"Tell her..." I swallowed the lump in my throat, forcing the coldness back into my veins. "Tell her Ms. Howell is unavailable to strangers."
***
The final blow landed an hour later. I authorized the freeze on Mark’s personal accounts—a clause in the debt acquisition that allowed me to seize liquid assets in the event of a default. It was a cruel, necessary mechanics.
Almost immediately, my phone lit up. It wasn't Maddie this time. It was Mark.
I answered on speaker, leaning back in my leather chair, watching the storm rage outside.
"You bitch!" Mark’s voice was a jagged scream, distorted by panic. In the background, I could hear the distinct sound of shattering glass and a woman’s shrill, hysterical sobbing. "What did you do? We’re at the boutique! Audrey’s cards—my cards—everything is declining!"
"Default has consequences, Mark," I replied, my tone conversational. "I seized the accounts. I assume the engagement ring is refundable?"
"Audrey is hysterical!" he shouted. "She’s threatening to walk out! She says she didn't sign up for poverty!"
A dark, bitter smile touched my lips. I could picture it perfectly: Audrey Baker, the woman who had sneered at my thrift-store clothes, now realizing that the golden goose was actually a carcass. Her love was as transactional as the credit card terminal that had just rejected her.
"She’s leaving you because the money is gone, Mark," I said, letting the truth hang in the air between us. "Tell me... when I had nothing, when I couldn't even speak to defend myself... did I ever threaten to leave you?"
The line went silent. The sobbing in the background continued, a pathetic soundtrack to his realization. He was beginning to see the difference between a woman who loved him and a woman who loved his lifestyle. But it was too late for epiphanies.
"Fix this, Amaia!" he begged, his anger dissolving into desperation. "Please."
"I am fixing it," I whispered, and ended the call.
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