Chapter 23
Mark Sinstack sat slouched in the driver’s seat of his Jaguar, half-shielded by the tinted windows, his eyes locked on the woman walking down the sidewalk.
The bitch.
Jemma Stone.
The woman who’d stolen everything—his job, his company, his pride.
She moved beside some young guy, barely out of college by the look of him. Both of them had red-rimmed eyes, like they’d been crying.
Mark scoffed. What the hell did she have to cry about?
He was the one who had built that company from the ground up. He had put in the hours, played the politics, made the deals. And she? She’d walked in with her polished smile and fake humility and stolen it all out from under him.
He lifted his silver flask to his mouth and tipped it—only to get nothing but air. With a grunt of frustration, he tossed it into the back seat. It clattered off an empty fast-food bag and landed somewhere between a stack of old newspapers and a pair of discarded sunglasses.
His fingers closed around the paper bag beside him, pulling out a new bottle. He twisted the cap off and took a long pull straight from the neck, not even bothering to wipe the bourbon from his lips.
Let the cops see him. He didn’t care. He wasn’t hiding anymore.
He was planning.
Jemma was going to pay.
The only question was how... and how much it would hurt when he finally kicked her off her little pedestal and onto her pretty, entitled ass.
She thought she was so smart. So careful. So damn ethical. She played by the rules, always coloring inside the lines. That was her weakness. Because he didn’t.
Mark licked the taste of bourbon from his teeth and narrowed his eyes. People like Jemma never saw it coming when someone slipped a knife between the ribs from behind. That was the best part—watching them fall, watching that moment of betrayal twist their faces.
This firing? Just a bump in the road. Temporary. He’d be back in his office before the month was out. He still had people inside. Rats in the walls. They were feeding him updates, giving him every piece of intel he needed.
He just needed the right move.
Another swig. He didn’t bother answering the phone buzzing somewhere under the passenger seat. Probably his wife, the nag. She was always calling, always asking where he was, like she had a right to know.
He hadn’t told her about the firing. Why bother? She only cared about keeping the country club membership and maxing out her credit cards.
She’d find out soon enough.
Right after he filed for divorce and left her for someone younger. Someone better.
Marcie, his mistress, had already been eyeing the ring he hadn’t bought yet. But she knew something had changed. The bitch was sulking now, withholding sex until she was sure he could keep her in designer shoes and private resort weekends.
Ungrateful little whore. He’d given her everything, and now she was acting like he was the one who’d failed.
Mark’s lip curled. He thought of his wife, lying rigid as a board every time they’d had sex. Lights off. No talking. No fun. Frigid cow.
No, Marcie was better. At least she used to be. And once this mess was cleaned up, he’d get her back on the leash.
Another swallow of bourbon burned down his throat, and he slammed the bottle between his thighs as a black-and-white cruiser rolled past. He didn’t even flinch.
The cop glanced at him—barely—and kept driving.
Mark smirked.
You idiot. Sitting in a running car, drunk, thinking about how to destroy a woman’s life—hell, maybe even end it—and the cop hadn’t even blinked.
This city’s full of blind fools, he thought. And they were about to learn exactly who Mark Sinstack really was.