Hester stepped out of the bathroom, wrapping a thick, charcoal-colored robe around herself. The fabric was plush, swallowing her slender frame. The master suite was cavernous-minimalist design, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean, and a single, massive bed in the center.

Isham was sitting on the balcony, a laptop balanced on his knees. The wind from the ocean whipped at his white dress shirt, but he didn't seem to notice. He was typing.

Hester approached the glass doors. She hesitated, then slid one open. "Do we...?" she started, gesturing vaguely at the bed.

Isham stopped typing. He closed the laptop with a snap. He looked at her, his gaze clinical. "We are married, Hester. But I don't force things. And I don't sleep with business partners until the merger is complete."

He stood up and walked into the room. Under the harsh light of the chandelier, he noticed something. He reached out, his hand stopping inches from her arm.

"Who did that?"

Hester looked down. There was a dark, purple bruise blossoming on her upper arm, shaped like four fingers. It was from where Haywood had grabbed her backstage, warning her to be Brandy.

She pulled her robe tighter, covering it. "Old news."

Isham's jaw tightened. The temperature in the room seemed to drop. "You are Mrs. Rhodes now," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Your body is a billion-dollar asset. No one damages the merchandise. Not even you."

The phrasing was cold, objectifying. It should have offended her. But as he turned to the bedside table and retrieved a jar of medicinal ointment, his actions betrayed his words.

He stepped closer. "Arm," he commanded.

Hester hesitated, then let the robe slip down her shoulder. Isham dipped his fingers into the jar. The ointment was cool, smelling of menthol. His touch was surprisingly gentle. He rubbed the salve into the bruise with slow, circular motions. He didn't look at her face; he focused entirely on the injury, treating it with the precision of a restoration artist working on a damaged painting.

Hester felt a strange flutter in her chest. It wasn't romance. It was the shock of being cared for, even transactionally. Haywood had never noticed her bruises; he had only caused them. Isham’s fingers paused for a fraction of a second over the bruise, his jaw tightening. He said nothing, but the silence felt heavier than any promise.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Isham wiped his hand on a tissue. "Sleep," he said, pointing to the bed. "Tomorrow, the war resumes."

"Where will you sleep?"

"The couch," Isham said, moving toward the sprawling leather sectional in the corner of the room. "I work late."

Hester climbed into the massive bed. The sheets were cold. She watched Isham settle onto the couch, opening his laptop again. He was a fortress. And for tonight, she was inside the walls.

Meanwhile, in the Mckee Penthouse, the sound of shattering porcelain echoed through the hallway.

Brandy screamed, throwing a Ming vase-fake, like everything else in the apartment-against the wall.

"Stop breaking things!" Haywood shouted, grabbing her wrists. "We're bleeding money! The investors are pulling out because of the 'Mystery Model' confusion!"

"She blocked me!" Brandy shrieked. "I tried to DM her to tell her she's fired, and she blocked me!"

Haywood pushed Brandy onto the sofa. "Listen to me. We control the narrative. If she won't talk to us, we make sure no one listens to her."

"How?"

"We say she's crazy," Haywood said, his eyes lighting up with a desperate idea. "We say the 'Mystery Walk' was a breakdown. That she hijacked the show because she was jealous of your pregnancy. That she's mentally unstable."

Brandy wiped her nose, a cruel smile spreading across her face. "And drugs," she added. "Say she's on drugs. That's why she's so thin."

Haywood hesitated. That was a career-ender. A nuclear bomb.

"Do it," Brandy urged. "Destroy her value. If she's toxic, no agency will touch her. She'll have to come crawling back to us for scraps."

Haywood nodded slowly. He picked up his phone and dialed a contact at the Daily Mail.

"run the story," he said. "Former model Hester Irwin has a psychotic break at Fashion Week."

Hester woke to the smell of coffee-rich, dark, expensive coffee.

She sat up. Sunlight was streaming into the room. Isham was already dressed, sitting at a small breakfast table near the window, reading a tablet. Silas stood next to him, looking pale.

"Good morning," Isham said, not looking up. "Drink this." He pushed a cup of espresso toward her.

Hester took a sip. It was bitter and strong. "What's wrong?" she asked, sensing the tension in Silas's posture.

Silas handed her a tablet. "Headlines are ugly, Mrs. Rhodes."

Hester looked at the screen. The Daily Mail homepage filled her vision.

SUPERMODEL MELTDOWN: Hester Irwin Hijacks Runway in Drug-Fueled Craze?

Below it was a grainy photo of her backstage, looking intense, with a caption analyzing her "manic eyes."

Hester felt the blood drain from her face. Her hands started to shake, rattling the cup against the saucer. "They're going with the 'Crazy Ex' narrative. They're saying I'm unstable."

"Predictable," Isham said, turning a page on his screen. "It's the standard playbook for discrediting a woman with leverage."

Her phone rang. It was Haywood.

Hester looked at Isham. He nodded. "Speaker."

She pressed the button.

"Hester, honey," Haywood's voice filled the room, dripping with fake concern. "I saw the news. My god. The board is furious. They want to sue you for breach of contract and damages to the brand."

Hester gripped the edge of the table. "You leaked this, Haywood."

"Me? Never! But listen, I can fix this. You need to apologize. We've set up a press conference for this afternoon. You just need to admit it was a publicity stunt gone wrong. Say you were under stress. We'll announce you're going to... take a break. Rehab. We'll pay for it."

Rehab meant silence. It meant disappearing.

Hester looked at Isham, panic rising in her throat. She wanted to scream at Haywood. She wanted to tell him to go to hell.

Isham took a pen and wrote on a napkin. He slid it toward her.

Agree. Trap them.

Hester stared at the ink. The letters were sharp, angular.

She swallowed the scream. She forced her voice to be small, defeated. "Okay, Haywood. Set up the conference."

"Good girl," Haywood said, the relief audible. "2 PM at the Plaza. Don't be late. Wear something... humble."

The line went dead.

Hester dropped the phone. "Why did you make me agree? I'm not going to rehab."

"If you fight the rumor now, it spreads," Isham said, standing up. "If you deny it, you look defensive. But if you agree to the stage, you get the microphone. And once you have the microphone, you can say whatever you want."

"He thinks I'm broken," Hester said.

"Let him think that. A confident enemy is a careless enemy." Isham buttoned his jacket. "Get dressed. Wear the black suit. The one that looks like armor."

Hester nodded. She picked up her phone and dialed Josie.

"Phase 3," Hester said. "The Nuclear Option."

"I have the HD photos of the affair," Josie whispered on the other end. "And the medical records from the clinic trash. When do I drop them?"

"Right after I visit Brandy in the hospital'," Hester said. "I want the world to be watching when the truth comes out."

At the Mckee Agency, Haywood hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair, a smug grin on his face.

"She caved," he announced.

Brandy clapped her hands. "She's so weak. Once she admits she's crazy on camera, her career is dead. And we get all the sympathy."

They started drafting the script for Hester. It was humiliating. I apologize for my erratic behavior... I am seeking help...

They were so busy laughing at their own cleverness that they didn't notice Josie in the corner, her phone plugged into the server, downloading the last of the encrypted files.

"I booked a table at DeFay's," Haywood's text read. "Lunch before the conference. A peace offering."

It was a power move. He wanted to make sure she was under his thumb before she stepped in front of the cameras.

Hester walked into the restaurant at 12:30 PM. It was high-end, filled with socialites and business tycoons. Haywood was already seated at a corner booth, waving at her. He stood up to hug her, but she turned slightly so his hands landed on her shoulders.

"You look... tired," he said, scanning her face. "Good. It sells the narrative."

They sat down. A waiter appeared immediately.

"I already ordered for you," Haywood said, smiling benevolently. "The Salmon with dill sauce. I know you're watching your weight."

Hester froze. She stared at him. "I'm allergic to salmon, Haywood. My throat closes up. We went to the ER three years ago because of it."

Haywood waved a dismissive hand. "I know, but it's the chef's special, and Mr. Laurent from Vogue is at the next table. Just have a small bite for appearances. Don't be dramatic. We need to look united."

Before Hester could respond, the Executive Chef appeared at the table. He was a large man with a stern face.

"Mr. Mckee," the Chef said, bowing slightly. "Apologies, but we ran out of the salmon moments ago."

Haywood frowned. "This is a Michelin star restaurant. How do you run out of fish?"

"However," the Chef continued, ignoring him and turning to Hester. "For Ms. Irwin, we have prepared the Wagyu Beef and White Truffle Risotto."

He placed the plate in front of her. The smell was intoxicating-earthy truffle, rich butter. It was her absolute favorite dish. It cost $400 a plate.

"I didn't order that," Haywood snapped. "Who pays for this?"

"Compliments of the house," the Chef said smoothly. "And a patron who wishes to remain anonymous."

A sommelier stepped forward and poured a glass of red wine for Hester. "Château Margaux, 1998. Your birth year, Madame."

Hester's heart skipped a beat. She looked around the room. In the far corner, near the kitchen entrance, she saw Silas. He nodded once, barely perceptible, then vanished.

Isham was watching. He wasn't here, but his reach was.

Haywood laughed nervously. "Ah, I must have mentioned it to my assistant to call ahead. See? I take care of you."

He was lying. He was stealing credit for another man's gesture because his ego couldn't handle not being the provider.

Hester picked up her fork. She cut into the steak. It was rare, red juice flowing onto the white risotto. She took a bite. It melted on her tongue.

She looked at Haywood. He was eating a bread roll, talking with his mouth full about stock prices and how the "apology" would boost engagement. He looked small. He looked cheap.

Her phone buzzed in her lap.

Eat. You need strength to destroy him.

Hester chewed slowly, savoring the truffle. The fear that had been gripping her stomach all morning began to dissipate, replaced by a cold, hard resolve.

Haywood slid a piece of paper across the table. "Here's the script. Memorize it. Don't improvise."

Hester took the paper. She didn't read it. She folded it and put it in her purse.

"Don't worry, Haywood," she said, taking a sip of the 1998 vintage. "I'll say exactly what needs to be said."