I woke up in my shoebox apartment with a headache, three missed calls from my mother, and a text from an unknown number.
Unknown: Car will pick you up at 10 AM. Wear something expensive-looking. We have work to do. C
I stared at my phone screen, trying to remember if last night had been real or just an elaborate tequila-induced fever dream.
The business card on my nightstand said it was real.
CAIN MORETTI. Simple. Elegant. Threatening.
I grabbed my phone and scrolled through social media, a masochistic impulse I couldn't resist.
Big mistake.
#SterlingWedding was trending.
There were videos. So many videos. Someone had filmed the whole thing me storming down the aisle, playing the voicemail, Madison's breakdown, everything. The comments were… exactly what you'd expect.
"Who is this psycho???"
"Imagine being THIS bitter"
"Plot twist: she's the villain of her own story"
"Actually I'm here for it. He clearly deserved it"
"UPDATE: Her name is Raven Cross and she's a graphic designer. Already sent screenshots to her clients lol"
My stomach twisted. Cain had been right. I was infamous.
The doorbell rang at exactly 10 AM.
I'd done the best I could with "expensive-looking" black jeans that didn't have rips, a silk blouse I'd bought for a client meeting two years ago, ankle boots that looked designer if you squinted. My hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail, makeup carefully applied to hide the evidence of last night's crying.
The driver was a mountain of a man in a black suit who didn't speak, just gestured to the town car waiting at the curb.
Fifteen minutes later, we pulled up to a glass tower in Midtown that screamed money.
The lobby was all marble and modern art. The receptionist took one look at me and smiled like she'd been expecting me.
"Ms. Cross. Mr. Moretti is waiting. Forty-second floor."
The elevator ride felt like ascending to another world. By the time the doors opened, my heart was hammering.
The office was enormous. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan, minimalist furniture that probably cost more than my annual income, and Cain standing at the window with his back to me, phone pressed to his ear.
"I don't care what he says. The deadline is Friday." His voice was cold, commanding. "If he can't deliver, find someone who can."
He ended the call without saying goodbye and turned to face me.
In the morning light, he was even more devastating than I remembered. The suit today was charcoal gray, perfectly tailored. His dark hair was slightly tousled like he'd been running his hands through it. Those intense eyes tracked over me, assessing.
"You clean up well."
"You said expensive-looking. This is what I've got."
A smile tugged at his lips. "It'll do. Coffee?"
"Please."
He poured from a French press at the bar actual china cups, not paper and handed me one. His fingers brushed mine. That same electric jolt from last night.
"Sleep well?" he asked.
"Not even a little." I took a sip. Perfect. Of course it was. "I'm trending on Twitter."
"I know."
"You know?"
"I have people who monitor these things."
He leaned against his desk, casual but focused entirely on me. "It'll blow over."
"When?"
"When I make it blow over." He said it with such certainty, like he could bend reality to his will. Maybe he could. "But first, we have work to do."
He pulled out a tablet and set it on the desk between us. A photo appeared a man in his fifties, silver hair, sharp suit, that particular brand of confidence that came with inherited wealth.
"James Whitmore. CEO of Whitmore Technologies. His company has proprietary AI software I want. He won't sell."
"So you're going to ruin his wedding to force his hand?"
"I'm going to create a situation where selling becomes his best option." Cain swiped to the next photo a woman in her thirties, beautiful in that polished, expensive way.
"His fiancée, Caroline Ashford. Twenty years younger, comes from shipping money. They're getting married at her family's estate in the Hamptons. Two hundred guests. Very exclusive."
"What do you want me to do?"
"The same thing you did at the Sterling wedding. Get in, cause a scene, disrupt everything." He swiped again. More photos the venue, the timeline, guest lists. "Whitmore is already stressed. The company's stock has been volatile. Adding personal chaos to professional pressure? He'll crack."
I stared at the photos, unease creeping up my spine. "This feels different than the Damien thing."
"How so?"
"Damien deserved it. He called me, confessed he didn't love her. I was telling the truth." I looked up at Cain. "What's the truth here?"
"The truth is that Whitmore is standing between me and something I want." His voice was matter-of-fact, no guilt, no hesitation. "And you agreed to help me remove that obstacle."
"For fifty thousand dollars."
"Plus expenses. Plus fixing your reputation."
He tilted his head. "Having second thoughts?"
I should've said yes. Should've walked out right then.
Instead: "What's my angle? I can't just show up and play a voicemail. I don't know this man."
Cain's smile was slow, predatory. "No. But his ex-wife does."
He pulled up another photo. A woman in her forties, elegant, with sad eyes.
"Patricia Whitmore. They divorced five years ago. He got the company, she got a settlement and a broken heart." Cain's voice was casual, like he was discussing the weather. "She's been quiet about it. Dignified. But rumor has it the divorce wasn't her idea."
"You want me to pretend to represent her? Say she sent me?"
"I want you to tell the truth that Patricia deserves to be heard. That Caroline should know who she's marrying." He pushed the tablet toward me. "I've already spoken to Patricia. She's… willing to share some information."
"Information?"
"About why the marriage really ended. About James's… indiscretions." His dark eyes glittered. "All you have to do is deliver it at the right moment."
My coffee had gone cold in my hands. This was different. This wasn't exposing someone who'd wronged me this was corporate sabotage with a wedding as collateral damage.
"I need to think about it."
"No." Cain's voice turned to steel. "You need to decide. Right now."
"Why the rush?"
"Because the wedding is in twelve days and you need to prepare. Because I have other options if you're not committed. And because" he stepped closer, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact "you already made your choice when you took my card last night."
"That's not fair."
"Fair?" He laughed, sharp and humorless.
"Raven, you crashed a wedding in front of two hundred people and broadcast a man's drunken confession to the world. You think any of this is about fair?"
He had a point.
"What if I say no now?"
"Then our deal is off. No fifty thousand. No reputation repair. And you go back to your apartment to watch your life crumble while Victoria Sterling tells everyone in Manhattan that you're unemployable." He shrugged. "Your choice."
It was the same non-choice as last night. Accept his deal or drown.
I thought about my bank account $347 and dropping. My client list already sending apologetic emails about "going in a different direction." My mother's disappointed voice on those missed calls because she'd probably seen the videos too.
I thought about Damien's face when I'd played that voicemail. The satisfaction. The power.
I thought about the fact that I had nothing left to lose.
"Fine." The word came out harder than I intended. "I'll do it."