The Perfect Victim: Playing The Billionaire's Game

"Do I look like a victim yet?" Ashton Harmon asked, leaning into the harsh, vanity lighting of the restroom mirror.

Sloan Vance didn't answer immediately. She was busy uncapping a small bottle of saline solution. "Tilt your head back. You look too angry. Victims aren't angry, Ash. They're broken."

Ashton tilted her head. The cold liquid hit her eyes, stinging just enough to force a natural redness into the sclera. She blinked rapidly, watching her reflection transform. The sharp, calculating glint in her hazel eyes dissolved into a watery, pathetic shimmer. She looked exhausted. She looked defeated. She looked perfect.

"He's at VIP table four," Sloan said, checking her phone. "The lighting is dim, but the acoustics are good. Three gossip bloggers are at the bar, phones out. They're waiting for a celebrity sighting, but they'll settle for a Harmon family implosion."

Ashton took a breath. It felt shallow, restricted by the corset of her dress-a dress she couldn't really afford anymore, not since the trust fund froze. "Let's give them a show."

She pushed through the restroom door. The bass of the club music hit her chest like a physical blow, vibrating through her sternum. The air smelled of expensive cologne, sweat, and spilled vodka. Ashton moved through the crowd, not with the confident stride of the socialite she used to be, but with a frantic, uneven gait.

She spotted the waiter near the edge of the VIP section. He was balancing a tray of empty flutes.

Ashton timed it. One step. Two.

She clipped the waiter's shoulder.

The tray tipped. The sound of shattering glass cut through the thumping bass like a scream.

Heads turned. In the VIP booth, Carter Sterling stood up.

He looked exactly as he had the last time she saw him-arrogant, flushed with alcohol, his jaw set in that familiar, tightening line that used to make Ashton's stomach turn over. He saw her. His lip curled, not in concern, but in a possessive sneer. He moved toward her, his hand reaching out to grab her arm, a reflex honed by years of ownership.

"Ashton," he barked, his voice audible over the lull in the music. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Ashton didn't flinch away. She stepped into his space. "Why did you stop the payments?" she shouted, her voice cracking perfectly. "The money for my brother's care, Carter! You promised you'd release my portion of the trust!"

It was a calculated lie. Her brother's long-term facility was funded by a separate, untouchable annuity. But Carter had frozen her personal access to the main trust, and the details were far too private for a gossip blog to verify in the moment.

Carter frowned, confusion warring with his anger. "What are you talking about? Shut up."

He reached for her face, likely to cover her mouth.

Ashton waited for his fingertips to brush her skin. The moment they made contact, she threw her weight backward.

She collided with the table behind her. A tower