CHAPTER 3
AUDREY
There are three distinct stages of a premium gin hangover.
Stage one is the false dawn. You wake up, blink at the ceiling, and for about fourteen seconds, you think you’ve survived. Stage two is the dehydration, a sudden, violent realization that your tongue feels like sandpaper and your brain is shrinking inside your skull.
Stage three is the memories.
I groan, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes as stage three hits me like a physical blow.
I pitched a revenge plot to Simon’s older brother.
The Devil of Chicago. The man whose name is whispered in corporate boardrooms like a threat. I sat next to him, drank a martini I couldn't afford, and casually suggested we destroy his family’s upcoming engagement party.
"You're awake," a voice says from somewhere to my left. "And by awake, I mean you are making pathetic noises into my throw pillows. Please don't throw up on them. They’re from Target, but I really like the pattern."
I lower my hands and crack one eye open. The morning sunlight filtering through the cheap blinds is aggressively bright.
Vivian is standing in the cramped kitchenette of her apartment, wearing mismatched socks and a robe that looks like it has survived two world wars. She’s holding a mug of coffee and staring at me with the analytical gaze of a junior defense attorney who is used to dealing with guilty clients.
"I'm not going to throw up," I croak, my voice sounding like gravel. I sit up slowly, pulling the oversized Georgetown University t-shirt Vivian loaned me down over my bare thighs. "I am, however, going to fake my own death and move to a remote island where there is no Wi-Fi and no men."
"Dramatic, but I respect the vision." Vivian walks over, stepping over a pile of legal textbooks and a squeaky dog toy, and hands me a glass of tap water and two Advil. "Drink. And then explain the bomb sitting on my coffee table."
I freeze with the glass halfway to my mouth.
I follow her gaze. Resting perfectly in the center of Vivian’s scratched IKEA coffee table, right next to a stack of unpaid electric bills, is the matte-black business card. The silver lettering catches the harsh morning light.
Malcolm Vance.
My stomach drops, leaving a cold, hollow space behind. I swallow the pills and the water, wincing as it hits my dry throat.
"I can explain," I say, though I’m entirely unsure if I actually can.
Vivian crosses her arms. "Please do. Because I woke up at six, saw that card, and spent the last three hours Googling him. Do you know what the internet says about Malcolm Vance, Audrey?"
"That he’s a billionaire?" I offer weakly.
"That he’s a shark," Vivian corrects, her tone deadpan.
"He runs a private security and crisis management firm.
He cleans up messes for politicians and CEOs.
There are rumors he has ties to people who solve problems with crowbars.
He is not the kind of man who hands out his personal cell phone number to a girl crying into a martini. "
"I wasn't crying," I say defensively, rubbing my temples. "I was strategizing."
"You were drunk."
"I was heavily buzzed and highly motivated.
" I sigh, letting my head fall back against the sofa cushions. The fabric smells faintly of wet dog, courtesy of Vivian’s golden retriever mix, who is currently snoring under the dining table.
"He bought my drink. We started talking.
I didn't know who he was until he gave me the card at the very end. "
Vivian narrows her eyes. "And what exactly were you talking about?"
"Hypothetical ways to ruin Simon's life."
Vivian stares at me for a long, agonizing moment. Then, she takes a slow sip of her coffee. "Okay. I’m a lawyer, so I have to advise you against premeditated felonies. But as your best friend... did he have any good ideas?"
I open my mouth to answer, but a sharp, authoritative knock on the apartment door cuts me off.
We both jump. Buster, the dog, wakes up with a start and lets out a confused bark.
"Are you expecting someone?" I ask, my heart rate spiking.
"It’s nine-thirty on a Wednesday," Vivian whispers, as if the person on the other side of the door can hear us. "The only people who knock at this hour are serving subpoenas or selling religion."
The knock comes again. Three sharp, measured raps.
Vivian sets her mug down, walks over to the door, and peers through the peephole. I watch her shoulders stiffen. She slowly turns her head to look at me, her eyes wide with a mixture of horror and deep, profound fascination.
"Audrey," she whispers. "There is a man in the hallway. He is wearing a custom navy suit, he is roughly the size of a refrigerator, and he looks like he could buy this entire building just to demolish it."
My blood runs cold.
No. It’s impossible. I didn't tell him where I was staying. I didn't even tell him my last name.
Before I can tell Vivian not to open it, she unlocks the deadbolt and pulls the door open. She’s a defense attorney; she has a pathological inability to back down from intimidation.
"Can I help you?" Vivian asks, using her best courtroom voice.
"I'm looking for Audrey," a low, resonant voice replies.
The sound of it sends a shiver straight down my spine. It’s him.
Vivian doesn't move out of the doorway. "And who are you?"
"My name is Malcolm Vance." He doesn't sound annoyed by her interrogation.
He sounds entirely indifferent to it. "And you are Vivian Hayes.
You passed the bar exam eight months ago, you work for a mid-sized corporate defense firm, and your lease on this apartment expires in forty-two days. May I come in?"
Vivian’s jaw drops. She looks back at me, completely out of her depth, before stepping aside.
Malcolm walks into the apartment.
The space instantly feels too small. The ceiling seems lower. The air feels thinner. He is wearing a dark navy suit today, no tie, the top two buttons of his crisp white shirt undone. He looks immaculate, dangerous, and entirely out of place standing on a cheap rug covered in dog hair.
His dark eyes scan the room, taking in the legal textbooks, the messy kitchenette, and finally, me.
I am sitting on the couch in a ratty t-shirt, my hair in a messy knot, clutching a glass of tap water like a shield. I have never felt more at a disadvantage in my entire life.
"How did you find me?" I ask. My voice trembles slightly, and I hate myself for it. I clear my throat and try again, forcing the tone to be sharper. "I didn't give you this address."
Malcolm doesn't answer immediately. He looks at Vivian. "Miss Hayes. I need twenty minutes with your friend. Privately."
Vivian looks at me, silently asking if she needs to call the police. I give her a tiny, reassuring nod, even though my stomach is doing backflips.
"I'll be in my bedroom," Vivian says, pointing a warning finger at Malcolm. "I have my phone. And I know a lot of judges."
"I'm terrified," Malcolm says flatly.
Vivian retreats into her room, shutting the door firmly behind her.
We are alone.
Malcolm looks down at the dog, who has trotted over to sniff his expensive leather shoes. Malcolm doesn't kick the dog away. He doesn't even flinch. He just reaches into his jacket, pulls out a thick manila envelope, and drops it onto the coffee table, right next to his business card.
"You didn't call," he says, his gaze lifting to meet mine.
"It's nine-thirty in the morning," I snap, pulling my knees to my chest to hide my bare legs. "And I was still debating whether or not you were a hallucination brought on by cheap gin."
"I assure you, I am real." He unbuttons his suit jacket and sits down on the armchair opposite the sofa.
He moves with a slow, deliberate grace that makes my skin prickle.
"And I found you because my head of security tracked your car last night. You parked in a loading zone three blocks from here, by the way. It’s going to get towed by noon. "
I stare at him, my mouth slightly open. "You tracked my car? Are you insane? That's stalking."
"It's logistics," he corrects smoothly, leaning back in the chair. "You have a problem. I have the solution. I don't like wasting time waiting for people to find their courage. Open the envelope, Audrey."
I look at the heavy envelope on the table. It looks like a trap. It feels like a trap.
But the memory of Simon’s smug face yesterday morning—the way he smiled when he told the security guard to escort me out of my own building—burns through the hangover fog.
I reach forward, pick up the envelope, and pull out a stack of stapled documents.
It’s a contract. The legal jargon is dense, but the bold heading at the top is clear enough: Mutual Benefit and Non-Disclosure Agreement.
"What is this?" I ask, my eyes scanning the first page.
"It’s exactly what we discussed," Malcolm says, his voice dropping to that low, quiet register that makes me want to lean in.
"You want to ruin Simon. I want to ruin Simon. But I cannot simply walk into his engagement party and punch him in the jaw. It lacks finesse, and it causes problems for my firm’s board of directors. "
"So?"
"So, we use you." Malcolm rests his elbows on the armrests, steepling his fingers. "Simon’s entire identity is built on the illusion that he is the smartest, most successful man in the room. He discarded you because he thought you were no longer useful. We are going to prove him wrong."
I flip to the second page. My eyes catch a number under the Compensation clause. I blink, sure I’m reading it wrong. I count the zeros.
"This..." I swallow hard, my throat dry again. "This is enough money to buy my firm back from his holding company twice over."
"It’s a standard consulting fee," Malcolm says dismissively, as if we are talking about the price of a sandwich. "Upon completion of the contract, the funds will be transferred to a segregated escrow account in your name, completely untouchable by Simon or his lawyers."
My hands start to shake. I grip the paper tighter to hide it.