The brunch spot in Tribeca was noisy, filled with the clatter of silverware and the hum of gossip. Zoe Nielson was already there, scrolling through her phone.

Angelina slid into the booth. She felt different. Her skin felt too tight, her senses too sharp.

"You're late," Zoe said, not looking up. Then she saw Angelina. She paused. "You look... different. Less 'Stepford', more 'Real Housewife on a rampage'."

Angelina ordered a black coffee. "I'm divorcing him."

Zoe dropped her fork. It clattered against the ceramic plate. "What? Finally? Did you find more texts?"

"I found everything," Angelina said. She pulled out her phone and showed Zoe the photos of the trust fund documents she had photographed weeks ago. "He's moving assets offshore. If I leave now, I get nothing. Unless I prove fault."

"Fault," Zoe whispered. "You need dirt."

"I have a plan," Angelina said. "I need that P.I. you know. The expensive one."

"Brody Brooks," Zoe nodded. "He's the best. But Angie..."

The name hit Angelina like a physical blow. Brody Brooks. Her cousin. The one who had stood by and watched as the Pickett side of the family bled her father's legacy dry, the one who had published a philosophy paper that was a thinly veiled plagiarism of her father's unpublished manuscripts. A cold, calculating fury settled in her chest. Zoe, bless her heart, was clueless about that particular branch of her twisted family tree.

A new plan, dangerous and sharp, formed in her mind. Who better to hunt for Brittain's secrets than a man she already knew was a snake? She could feed him exactly what she wanted him to find, and maybe, just maybe, destroy two enemies with one stone.

"Perfect," Angelina said, her voice smooth as glass, betraying none of the turmoil inside her. "Give me his number."

Zoe leaned in, her eyes narrowing. She pointed a manicured finger at Angelina's neck. "What is that?"

Angelina's hand flew to her collar. She had worn a turtleneck, but it must have slipped.

"Did he hit you?" Zoe hissed, her voice low and dangerous.

"No," Angelina said quickly. "It's... not Brittain."

Zoe's jaw dropped. She stared at Angelina, processing. Then a slow, wicked smile spread across her face. "You didn't. You actually did it? The escort?"

Angelina looked down at her coffee. "Not the escort."

"Who?"

"I can't tell you," Angelina said. "But he's... useful. He hates Brittain as much as I do."

Zoe sat back, looking at her friend with new respect. "Angelina Sherman, you dark horse." She slid a business card across the table. "Call Brody. Burn him to the ground, honey."

Angelina's phone rang. Hubby.

The air left the table. Angelina took a deep breath. Her face relaxed, her eyes softened, her shoulders slumped. In a second, she transformed.

"Hey, honey," she answered, her voice sweet and submissive.

Zoe watched, shivering.

"Where have you been?" Brittain's voice barked. "I need you home. The gala is tonight. And pick up my dry cleaning."

"Of course, darling. I'm on my way," Angelina said.

She hung up. The sweetness vanished. "Back to the dungeon," she muttered.

The townhouse on the Upper East Side was silent as a tomb. Angelina entered, carrying the dry cleaning bags like a penitent carrying a cross.

Brittain was in the living room, nursing a scotch. He didn't look up.

"You're late," he said.

"Traffic was awful," Angelina lied smoothly. She walked over and kissed his cheek. He smelled of alcohol and another woman's perfume-something floral, cheap.

"Is Harrison coming tonight?" she asked, keeping her voice light.

Brittain scowled. "That prick? No. But I need to call him about the board vote."

He pulled out his phone and dialed. He put it on speaker, tossing it onto the coffee table. A power move. He wanted an audience.

Harrison answered on the second ring. "Kane. If you're calling to beg, save your breath."

Angelina's heart skipped a beat. His voice sounded different through the phone-colder, metallic.

"I have the votes, Harrison," Brittain blustered. "Just concede."

"You have nothing," Harrison said. "By the way, enjoy the gala. I assume you're bringing the trophy wife?"

Brittain glanced at Angelina. She lowered her eyes, playing the part.

"Leave Angelina out of this," Brittain said, puffing out his chest.

"Why?" Harrison's voice dripped with mockery. "Is she there? Listening? Like a good little dog?"

Angelina's hands clenched into fists at her sides. She forced the reaction, the slight tremor in her shoulders, the quick intake of breath. Inside, she was cold stone. Harrison was playing his part perfectly, reinforcing the very image she needed Brittain to believe in.

"Woof," Harrison said softly.

Brittain frowned. "What did you say? You're drunk, Juarez." He hung up the phone angrily. "He's jealous," Brittain muttered to Angelina. "He's alone and miserable."

Angelina nodded, turning away to hide her face. "I'll go get ready."

She walked up the stairs, her legs steady. Once inside the walk-in closet, she checked her phone.

A text from Harrison.

Woof.

Angelina stared at the screen. A laugh, half-hysterical, escaped her lips. She typed back a single emoji: The middle finger.

A second text came through almost instantly.

He has to think I despise you. It's the only way you're safe.

She looked at the red dress Brittain had laid out for her. It was backless, revealing. A display piece. She stripped off her clothes and stepped into it. Tonight, she wasn't dressing for Brittain.

The Metropolitan Museum of Art was transformed. towering floral arrangements, endless champagne, the flashing lights of the paparazzi. Angelina smiled until her jaw ached. She held onto Brittain's arm, a perfect accessory in red silk.

They were seated at a prime table. When Angelina saw the place cards, a chill ran down her spine. Harrison Juarez. Placed directly to her right. This was no accident. The seating chart was a declaration of war, and Harrison had fired the first shot.

He was wearing a tuxedo that fit him like a second skin. He didn't look at her when they sat down. He was talking to a senator, charming and dangerous.

Dinner was served. Brittain was droning on about his yacht. Angelina kept her hands in her lap, staring at her salad.

"Mrs. Kane," Harrison said suddenly.

She looked up. He was holding a bread basket. "Roll?"

"No, thank you," she said.

"You should eat," he said, his eyes locking onto hers. "You need your strength."

Under the table, something brushed against her knee.

Angelina jumped slightly. Brittain looked at her. "What?"

"Nothing," she said quickly. "Static."

Harrison took a sip of his wine, his face a mask of polite disinterest. But under the long tablecloth, his hand moved. It slid up her calf, warm and rough against her skin. His fingers hooked around the back of her knee.

Angelina stopped breathing. They were surrounded by hundreds of people. Brittain was right there.

Harrison's hand moved higher, his thumb tracing circles on the inside of her thigh.

"So, Brittain," Harrison said, his voice smooth, "how is the merger going?"

Brittain launched into a monologue. Harrison nodded, pretending to listen, while his hand inched higher, teasing the hem of her dress.

Angelina gripped her fork so hard it bent. She couldn't move. If she pulled away, she'd make a scene.

Harrison squeezed her thigh firmly, once, then withdrew his hand.

He raised his glass to her. A silent toast.

Angelina grabbed her water glass and drained it. Her heart was beating so fast she thought she might pass out. This wasn't just revenge. This was madness.