The Sabotage Pact

CHAPTER 1

AUDREY

The olive in my martini costs more than my current net worth.

I know this because I spent the last forty-five minutes doing the math on a cocktail napkin, right before I aggressively crossed it out so the bartender wouldn’t realize I’m technically homeless.

Well, not homeless. I have a suitcase in the trunk of my Honda Civic, and my best friend Vivian has a couch that smells faintly of dog shampoo.

But as far as my actual life goes—the apartment with the exposed brick, the architecture firm I built from the ground up, the savings account I bled dry to fund said firm—that’s all gone.

Simon took it.

Simon, my fiancé. Simon, the man who kissed my forehead every morning and told me my blueprints were brilliant.

Simon, who, as it turns out, was systematically routing my client contracts through a shell corporation while simultaneously transferring his bodily fluids into Chloe, the twenty-three-year-old receptionist he swore was “just office staff.”

I take a slow, deliberate sip of the martini. The gin burns the back of my throat, but it doesn’t even touch the cold, hollow rage sitting in my chest.

“Arson is too messy,” I say out loud.

I don’t mean to say it out loud. It just sort of slips out, a casualty of my third drink.

The man sitting on the barstool next to me shifts.

I haven’t really looked at him since he sat down twenty minutes ago. I only registered him as a peripheral shadow—a dark suit, a heavy crystal glass of whiskey, and a quiet, immovable energy that made the bartender serve him immediately while ignoring everyone else.

“Arson is amateur,” the man says.

His voice is low. The kind of low that doesn’t ask for attention but demands it anyway. It vibrates right through the jazz music playing softly from the hotel speakers.

I blink, turning my head slowly to look at him.

My brain, currently swimming in premium gin, takes a second to process the visual information.

He’s leaning against the polished mahogany of the bar, facing me slightly.

He isn’t just wearing a suit; he’s wearing the kind of bespoke armor that costs more than my entire college tuition.

Charcoal gray, perfectly tailored across shoulders that are entirely too broad for a Tuesday night in a hotel lobby.

But it’s his face that makes my teeth click together. Sharp jaw, dark hair perfectly styled but looking as if he had just run a hand through it in frustration, and eyes so dark they look like an empty room.

He doesn’t look like a guy who makes small talk at bars. He looks like a guy who buys the bar just to fire the bartender.

I bite the inside of my cheek, a nervous habit I haven’t been able to kill since middle school. “Amateur? Really? Fire destroys everything. It’s highly effective.”

“Fire is unpredictable,” he corrects smoothly, taking a slow sip of his whiskey.

He doesn’t break eye contact. “It leaves chemical traces. It draws attention. And worst of all, it gives the victim a chance to play the martyr for the insurance money. If you’re going to ruin someone, you don’t burn their house down. You make them burn it down themselves.”

I stare at him. I should probably turn away. I should definitely not engage in a hypothetical felony with a stranger who looks like he could actually commit one before dessert.

Instead, a bitter, reckless laugh punches out of my throat. “You’ve put a lot of thought into this.”

“I’m a problem solver by trade.” He rests his glass on the coaster. His hands are large, the knuckles slightly bruised, which is a jarring contrast to the expensive Rolex on his wrist. “And you look like a woman with a very specific problem.”

“I don’t have a problem.” I trace the rim of my glass with my index finger, staring at the condensation. “I have a cliché. I am a walking, talking country song, minus the pickup truck.”

“Let me guess.” He tilts his head. “A man.”

“A parasite,” I correct, my voice tightening.

“A very charming, very handsome parasite who convinced me to put my lease, operating account, and client-management system under his holding company’s umbrella for “tax purposes” right before he locked me out of the office and proposed to a girl who still uses TikTok dances to communicate. ”

The stranger doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t give me that pitying, sympathetic smile I’ve been getting from my mother for the past forty-eight hours. He just watches me, his dark eyes tracking the micro-expressions on my face.

“And now you want revenge,” he says, stating it as a fact, not a question.

“I want justice,” I say defensively.

“Justice is for people who can afford good lawyers,” he replies, his tone flat and entirely devoid of emotion. “Revenge is for people who want results. Which one are you?”

I open my mouth to give him a sarcastic, witty comeback. Something sharp that proves I’m completely fine and not at all one bad inconvenience away from a mental breakdown. But the words die in my throat.

My chest physically aches. I spent four years building that firm. I picked out the tile for the lobby. I stayed up until 3:00 AM drafting proposals while Simon slept soundly in our bed. He didn’t just break my heart; he erased me.

“I want him to hurt,” I whisper. It’s the most honest thing I’ve said in days.

The vulnerability tastes like ash, and I hate it immediately.

I clear my throat, sitting up straighter and forcing a smirk.

“But since I don’t have the budget for a hitman, I’m brainstorming.

Currently, I’m torn between slashing his tires or anonymously sending a box of live termites to his new townhouse. ”

The stranger reaches into his pocket and pulls out a heavy, silver lighter. He doesn’t light a cigarette—he just rolls the cool metal between his long fingers, the rhythmic clack-clack sound strangely hypnotic.

“Termites take too long,” he says, his voice deadpan. “Tires can be replaced in an hour. You’re thinking like an angry ex-girlfriend. You need to think like a hostile takeover.”

I let out a breath, resting my chin on my hand. “Okay, Mr. Problem Solver. What’s your professional advice? How do I ruin a man who already has everything?”

He stops spinning the lighter. He turns his body fully toward me, the sheer size of him making the space between our stools feel dangerously small. I catch the scent of cedar, expensive soap, and something cold.

“You don’t attack his assets,” he says quietly. “You attack his reputation. What does this parasite value most?”

“Other than himself?” I scoff. “His image. He’s obsessed with looking like the smartest guy in the room. He’s throwing a massive engagement party next month just to show off to his family. The Vances are basically local royalty, and Simon is desperate to prove he’s the golden boy.”

The stranger’s hand goes completely still on the bar.

It’s a microscopic shift, but I notice it. The relaxed, bored posture vanishes. His shoulders tense under the expensive wool of his suit.

“Simon,” he repeats. The name sounds different in his mouth. Heavier. Like a curse. “Simon Vance.”

“Yeah.” I wave my hand dismissively, missing the sudden drop in temperature in the man’s eyes. “You probably know the family if you run in circles that require suits like that. Old money. Big real estate developers. Massive egos.”

“I’m familiar with the name,” he says. His voice is quieter now. Lethal.

“Well, Simon is the worst of them,” I mutter, finishing my martini.

“He’s planning this ridiculous, over-the-top wedding.

He wants everything perfect. If I had the resources, I’d crash the engagement party and ruin his life right in front of his snobby, untouchable family.

I’d make him look like an absolute fool. ”

I sigh, the alcohol finally making my limbs feel heavy. I stare at the empty olive pit at the bottom of my glass.

“But I don’t have the resources,” I admit, the fight draining out of me. “I have seventy-four dollars in my checking account and a hangover that’s going to hit me like a freight train tomorrow. So, no hostile takeover for me. Just... me, trying to figure out how to start over at twenty-five.”

I grab my purse from the stool next to me, exhausted. The joke is over. The banter isn’t fun anymore, because the reality of my ruined life is waiting for me in my car.

“Anyway,” I say, forcing a polite smile at the stranger. “Thanks for the criminal consultation. I’ll keep the termite idea in the drafts.”

I stand up. The room tilts slightly, but I lock my knees, refusing to look pathetic in front of a man who clearly has his life entirely put together.

I reach into my wallet to pull out my last twenty-dollar bill to leave for the bartender, but a large, warm hand covers mine.

I freeze.

His skin is rougher than I expected. The heat of his palm radiates right through the thin fabric of my blazer. I look down at his hand, then slowly up to his face.

He’s looking at me with an expression I can’t decipher. It’s not pity. It’s not amusement. It looks like... calculation. Like he’s staring at a chessboard and just saw the winning move.

“Keep your money, Audrey,” he says softly.

My pulse kicks hard against my ribs. I drop my hand, taking a half-step back. My heart gives a hard, erratic thump against my ribs.

“How do you know my name?” I ask, the alcohol haze vanishing instantly, replaced by a spike of cold adrenaline. “I didn’t tell you my name.”

He doesn’t answer right away. He calmly signals the bartender, drops a hundred-dollar bill on the counter, and picks up his silver lighter, sliding it back into the pocket of his trousers.

He stands up.

He’s much taller than I realized. I have to tilt my head back to look at him. He steps into my space, not enough to touch me, but enough to make my body hyper-aware that I am entirely trapped between him and the bar.

“Your revenge plan is flawed,” he says, his voice dropping to a murmur that feels entirely too intimate. “But the motivation is solid.”

“Who are you?” I demand, my fingers tightening around the strap of my purse.

He looks down at me. A slow, dangerous smirk finally breaks the hard line of his mouth. It’s a terrifyingly handsome smile, and it makes every survival instinct in my brain scream at me to run.

“Someone who hates Simon Vance just as much as you do,” he says.

He reaches into his jacket, pulls out a sleek, matte-black business card, and slides it into the front pocket of my blazer. His knuckles brush against my collarbone for a fraction of a second. I suppress a shiver.

“Go home, Audrey. Sleep off the gin,” he murmurs, stepping back. “I’ll be in touch tomorrow. We have a wedding to ruin.”

Before I can formulate a single word, he turns and walks out of the bar, moving with the silent, predatory grace of a man who owns the ground he walks on.

I stand frozen for a long moment, the jazz music sounding too loud in my ears.

Slowly, with trembling fingers, I reach into my pocket and pull out the black card. There is no company logo. No email address. Just a phone number, and a name embossed in silver lettering.

Malcolm Vance.

I stare at the card until the letters blur.

I didn’t just pitch a revenge plot to a stranger.

I pitched it to Simon’s older brother. The billionaire black sheep. The man the media calls the Devil of Chicago.

And he just agreed to help me.