At exactly seven o'clock, Brook walked out of the master bedroom. He was wearing a custom-tailored charcoal suit. He paused in the hallway, adjusting the strap of his heavy Patek Philippe watch.

He looked up. His hands stopped moving. His pupils dilated rapidly.

Farah was standing in the center of the living room. The blood-red silk dress clung to every curve of her body. She wore black stiletto heels that made her legs look endlessly long. She held a crystal flute of champagne in her right hand.

Brook swallowed hard, forcing the raw hunger out of his eyes. He pulled his eyebrows together in a deep frown. "Where do you think you're going dressed like that?"

Farah walked toward him. Her hips swayed with calculated precision. She reached out and wrapped her free hand around his bicep, leaning her weight against him. She tilt her head up and gave him a soft, innocent smile.

"I wanted to make up for my stupid behavior this morning," she said, keeping her voice light and breathy. "I thought I should accompany you to your business dinner tonight. Show a united front."

Brook stiffened. He tried to pull his arm away. "That's not necessary. It's just a boring meeting with some old investors. You'd hate it."

Farah let her smile drop. She blinked rapidly, forcing moisture into her eyes. She bit her lower lip, making it tremble. "Are you still mad at me? Are you ashamed to be seen with me now?"

Brook looked down at her fragile expression. His mind started working. Livia had always been arrogant, always looking down on him.

A cruel, satisfying thought crossed his mind. Bringing his beautiful, devoted, entirely dependent fiancée to dinner might be the exact power play he needed to put Livia in her place.

Brook's frown disappeared. He smiled, leaning down to press a soft kiss against Farah's forehead. "Of course not. You can come. It would be my honor."

Thirty minutes later, the black Maybach pulled up to the discreet, dimly lit entrance of Le Bernardin.

The doorman pulled the heavy door open. Brook placed his hand firmly on the small of Farah's back, guiding her into the hushed, ambient noise of the main dining room.

The hostess led them to a semi-private booth tucked away in the back corner. Livia Alcott was already sitting there, sipping from a glass of water.

Livia looked up. Her eyes locked onto Farah's red dress. Livia's hand tightened around her glass, her perfectly manicured face turning instantly cold.

Brook pretended not to notice the sudden drop in temperature. He pulled out a chair for Farah with exaggerated politeness.

Farah sat down. She put her hand over her mouth, widening her eyes in fake surprise. She looked at Brook. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize your investor was such a beautiful woman. Who is this?"

Brook sat down. "This is Livia. We went to college together. She's a very important business contact now."

Livia let out a sharp, mocking laugh. She leaned back in her chair, looking Farah up and down. "It seems bankruptcy hasn't affected Miss Sterling's appetite for fine dining."

Farah lowered her head. She let her shoulders round forward, playing the part of the wounded, defenseless girl. Beneath the table, her fingernails dug into her own thighs to keep from smiling.

Brook slammed his hand flat on the table. He glared at Livia. "Watch your tone, Livia. Farah is going through a lot."

Livia's eyes flashed with anger. She immediately switched to rapid, flawless French. She began talking to Brook about their time in Paris, intentionally building a linguistic wall to shut Farah out.

Farah sat in total silence. When the food arrived, she picked up her silver knife and fork and began cutting her bluefin tuna into tiny pieces, acting like a pretty, uneducated ornament.

Halfway through the main course, Farah suddenly dropped her fork. The silver clattered loudly against the porcelain plate.She clutched her stomach, leaned forward, and her face turned pale.

Brook stopped talking. He looked at her, his annoyance turning into fake concern. "Farah? What's wrong?"

"My stomach," Farah gasped out, her voice tight with pain. "It's cramping horribly. I think I need to go home."

She looked at him with apologetic eyes. "I'll just take a cab. You stay here and finish your business. I don't want to ruin your night."

Brook's eyes lit up with hidden relief. This was exactly what he wanted-alone time with Livia. He put his hand on her shoulder. "Are you sure? I can have my driver take you."

"Yes, please," Farah whispered.

Brook signaled the waiter to pull the car around. Farah stood up. She gave Livia a weak, pained smile, turned around, and walked out of the booth.

She walked down the carpeted hallway. The moment she turned the corner and was out of their sight, she stood up straight. The pain vanished from her face, replaced by the cold, calculating stare of a hunter.

Farah pushed through the heavy glass doors of the restaurant. The cool night air hit her skin, whipping the hem of her red silk dress around her legs.

She ignored the valet holding the door of Brook's Maybach. She waved him off with an apologetic shake of her head, pointed vaguely toward the street as if she had already ordered a car, and walked quickly down the sidewalk. The valet shrugged and turned his attention to the next arriving vehicle.

She walked quickly down the sidewalk, turning the corner to where she had parked her Porsche earlier that afternoon. The car sat exactly where she had left it, swallowed by the deep shadows of the oak tree. She unlocked the door, slid into the driver's seat, and rolled the window down exactly three inches. She kept the engine off. She stared at the illuminated entrance of Le Bernardin.

She pulled out her phone. She opened the encrypted messaging app and found the contact she had connected with hours earlier—a Page Six stringer who went by the handle "RosieNYC" and who had messaged her back within twenty minutes of her initial tip, hungry for the story. She sent a single question mark.

A reply came back instantly: In position.

Farah looked across the street. Deep inside the thick decorative bushes lining the sidewalk, a piece of glass caught the light of a streetlamp and flashed for a fraction of a second.

She sat in the dark car and waited.

Twenty minutes later, the restaurant doors swung open. Brook and Livia walked out together.

Livia had clearly consumed too much wine. Her steps were uneven. As she stepped off the curb toward the waiting car, the heel of her shoe caught on the concrete. She stumbled forward.

Brook reacted instantly. He shot his arm out and wrapped it tightly around Livia's narrow waist, pulling her flush against his side to keep her from falling.

Livia gasped, dropping her head against his chest. The open bottle of wine she had insisted on taking with her sloshed, sending a few dark red drops splashing onto the collar of her white silk blouse.

Brook frowned. He reached into his suit jacket, pulled out his white pocket square, and leaned his head down. He began dabbing the wine off her collarbone, his face inches from her neck.

From Farah's angle, and from the angle of the bushes across the street, it looked exactly like Brook was burying his face in Livia's neck for a passionate kiss.

Across the street, the bushes erupted. A rapid-fire burst of blinding white flashes lit up the dark street like lightning.

The paparazzi held the shutter button down, capturing dozens of frames of the highly compromising position.

Brook jerked his head up, squinting against the harsh light. Panic flashed across his face. He realized instantly what it looked like.

He ripped his suit jacket off and threw it over Livia's head, shielding her face. He turned toward the bushes, his face twisted in rage. "Security! Get them!" he roared.

Brook roared for security, but in the chaos of flashing lights and shouting, the photographer slipped through the stunned onlookers, jumped into a waiting sedan that screeched away from the curb, and vanished into the crosstown traffic before anyone could react.

Farah sat in her car, watching Brook scream at the valets. A slow, deeply satisfied smile spread across her face.

She reached for the ignition to start the car. Suddenly, the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She felt a heavy, physical weight pressing against the side of her face.

She turned her head to the left.

Parked fifteen yards away, sitting perfectly still in the shadows, was a massive black Rolls Royce Phantom.

The tinted window of the backseat was rolled halfway down. A man was sitting in the darkness, staring directly at her.

The faint orange glow of a streetlamp illuminated his sharp, unforgiving jawline. He was holding a lit cigar between his fingers.

The man slowly exhaled a thick cloud of white smoke. He raised his other hand, holding a crystal glass filled with amber liquid, and tipped it toward Farah in a silent, mocking toast.

He had seen everything. He knew she had orchestrated the entire scene.

Farah's heart slammed against her ribs. Her breath caught in her throat. She stared at the stranger, refusing to look away, refusing to show fear. She glared at him, her eyes cold and defiant.

She reached over and hit the window switch. The glass rolled up, cutting off his view.

She twisted the key. The Porsche's engine roared. She slammed her foot on the gas pedal, shooting the car into the Manhattan traffic.

Farah didn't see the man in the backseat of the Rolls Royce watch her red taillights disappear. A low, amused chuckle vibrated in his chest as Eloy Rhodes leaned forward and tapped the glass partition. "Run the plates on that Porsche," he told his driver. "I want everything on her by morning."

Farah drove fast. Her phone buzzed in the passenger seat. She glanced down. It was a message from RosieNYC on the encrypted app. Attached was a high-resolution photo of Brook and Livia. It was absolutely devastating.

At exactly seven o'clock the next morning, Farah's phone began to vibrate violently against the mahogany nightstand.

She opened her eyes. She grabbed the phone. The screen was overflowing with push notifications.

TMZ and the Daily Mail had published the photos simultaneously. The headline took up half the screen: Wall Street Lover Boy's Late-Night Rendezvous with Mystery Blonde.

Farah clicked the link. The photo was a masterpiece of forced perspective. Brook's arm was wrapped tightly around Livia's waist, his face buried in her neck. It looked like a desperate, drunken kiss.

She opened the financial app on her phone. The pre-market trading data for Tyler Enterprise was a sea of red. The stock was already down five percent and dropping fast. Investors were panicking over the CEO's sudden moral scandal during a sensitive acquisition.

From the living room, a loud, violent crash echoed through the penthouse. It sounded like a heavy porcelain vase shattering against the hardwood floor.

Farah locked her phone and shoved it under her pillow. She ran her hands through her hair, tangling it to look like she had just woken up. She rubbed her eyes until they were red.

She pushed the bedroom door open and walked barefoot down the hallway.

The living room was a disaster zone. Shards of a Ming dynasty vase were scattered across the rug.

Brook was pacing back and forth like a caged animal. His dress shirt was wrinkled, the top three buttons ripped open. His hair was a mess.

Evan, the PR director, stood near the sofa. Sweat was pouring down his forehead as he scrolled frantically on his tablet.

"Buy the trends!" Brook screamed into his phone, his voice hoarse. "Pay Twitter whatever they want! Take the photos down now!"

"Mr. Tyler, we can't," Evan stammered, his hands shaking. "It's everywhere. If we try to scrub it now, it'll just prove we're guilty. The board is threatening a vote of no confidence."

Brook let out a roar of frustration. He pulled the phone away from his ear and hurled it as hard as he could against the marble wall. The device shattered into pieces.

Brook turned around, breathing heavily. He froze.

Farah was standing in the shadows of the hallway. Her hands were covering her mouth. Her eyes were wide with absolute horror.

Brook's face dropped. Panic flashed in his eyes. He took a step toward her, holding his hands up in surrender. "Farah. Sweetheart. Let me explain."

Farah took a massive step backward. She forced her breathing to turn shallow, letting her face go completely slack to project a cold, numb despair. She let her knees buckle slightly, projecting a hollowed-out emotional collapse, replacing the tears with a trembling, breathless silence. "Who is she?" she whispered, her voice hollow and devoid of life.

Brook stopped. He swallowed hard. "It's not what it looks like. She was just a client. She had too much to drink and stumbled. I caught her, and she spilled wine on her shirt. I was just wiping it off."

Farah bit down on her lip. No tears fell; instead, her eyes were wide, completely vacant, locked onto the mess in front of her. She pointed a shaking finger at the shattered porcelain on the floor.

"If she was just a client," Farah asked, her voice barely a ghost of a sound echoing in the large room, "then why are you destroying our home? Why are you so angry?"

Brook opened his mouth, but no words came out. He pulled at his collar, suffocating under his own lie.

Evan stepped forward, his eyes pleading. "Miss Sterling, please. The company is bleeding. We need you to issue a public statement saying you trust him. We need to show a united front."

Brook looked at her. His eyes were desperate, begging her to save him.

Farah looked at Brook. She let her face twist into an expression of unbearable agony. She shook her head slowly.

"I can't," she whispered. "My head is a mess. I don't know what is real anymore. I can't trust anyone."

She turned around and ran back down the hallway. She slammed the bedroom door shut and twisted the deadbolt.

She slid down the heavy wooden door until she hit the floor. The moment she sat down, the tears stopped completely.

She heard Brook's heavy footsteps run down the hall. He slammed his fists against the door. "Farah! Open the door! You have to help me!"

Farah sat in the silence of her room. She listened to the man who ruined her family beg for his life. She closed her eyes and let the feeling of pure, unadulterated revenge wash over her.