Chapter 10
“I’m with you, Caroline,” he said finally, clipped and cold. “We’re getting married. You won.”
Won. What a joke.
Winning implies she’s not still playing. And judging by those photos–by that smirk, those eyes, that killer body–Amelia Winsock is just getting started.
I held the phone tighter.
“She’s nothing,” I said out loud, maybe to myself. “I’m the one wearing the ring. I’m the one with the Cunninghams. I’m the future.”
But deep down, in that little corner I keep hidden behind pearls and good lighting… I felt it.
That twinge. That ugly, burning itch.
Insecurity. Because for the first time,
Amelia wasn’t the one trying to catch up.
I was.
He was waiting for me at the rooftop bar–discreet, tucked in the corner like a man who used to own the world but now preferred shadows. Hugo Durant. Former CFO of Cunningham Industries. Fired two years ago with zero press coverage, no severance, and a gag order so tight it could’ve strangled a king.
I didn’t need the file in his hand to know he was the real deal. The bitterness in his eyes told me everything.
“Miss Winslock,” he greeted, not Mrs. Cunningham. Smart man. “I must say, you’re… nothing like you were before.”
I sat down slowly, crossing my legs, keeping my tone light. “That’s the point.” I picked up my espresso. “I heard you had something for me.”
He slid the envelope across the table. Black, sealed with gold wax. Funny how revenge always came in such luxurious packaging.
“I kept this,” Hugo said, his voice low, almost guilty. “I was supposed to destroy all copies. Internal audit reports, laundering trails, off–the–books subsidiaries. I couldn’t stomach it anymore. I worked for that family for ten years. And they erased me like I was nothing.”
I opened the file, flipping through numbers and fake shell companies that even I hadn’t heard of. It was a goldmine. No–an arsenal.
“They’ve been siphoning funds through a dummy charity,” Hugo added. “All under Mrs. Cunningham’s personal directive. It’s her slush fund. Ties to a few offshore accounts in Dubai and the Caymans. One leak and Cunningham Industries burns.”
I looked up at him, dead in the eye. “What do you want?”
“Protection. A comeback. I want to work again. Not under her. Just… somewhere I’m not buried alive for telling the truth.”
Chapter 9
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I smiled. Not the polite kind. The kind that makes men either afraid or aroused. “You give me the match, Hugo. I’ll burn them down myself. And when it’s all ash, I’ll build you your empire back.”
His eyes widened, just a flicker. “You’re serious about this.”
“I asked for one billion,” I said calmly. “They laughed. Mocked me. Tricked me. Killed my child. Stripped me of everything and left me with nothing but headlines and ghosts.” I leaned forward, softening my voice but not my intent. “But now, I don’t want the money. I want the throne. If she won’t give me the billion-” I tapped the folder- “I’ll take it from their corpse.”
He nodded, slow. “You’re not afraid of her?”
I chuckled and closed the folder. “She should’ve been afraid of me the moment she thought I was weak.”
As I stood, I adjusted my blazer, smoothing the silk down my arms. “You’re on my team now, Hugo. And I don’t lose.”
I walked away with the file under my arm, my heels clicking like war drums on marble. Mrs. Cunningham thought she played me. She thought the divorce ended the story. But this wasn’t about love anymore.
This was a business war.
And I just found her Achilles‘ heel.
It was funny–how power slipped through people’s fingers the second they got too comfortable. That’s what I thought when I walked into the Lucente Gallery, dressed in black velvet and blood–red silk, my heels clicking over marble like a clock counting down. I knew he’d be here. The art auction was a Cunningham–sponsored event. Big names, bigger
egos.
I made sure to arrive late. Grand entrances hit harder when people are already watching.
I stood by a sculpture installation, champagne glass in hand, pretending to be absorbed in the abstract mess of steel and broken mirrors. Then I felt the shift. The hush. The familiar presence that once used to melt me.
Favio Cunningham.
I turned like it was pure coincidence–like I hadn’t orchestrated this moment to the second.
“Favio,” I said, smooth, cool. “Long time.”
His eyes widened, just slightly. Still sharp in a dark suit, tailored perfectly, but suddenly unsure of himself.
He stammered my name like a prayer. “Amelia-?”
I sipped my drink. “Rodrigo now. You know how names work in business. Hope your new fiancée enjoys sharing you with your boardroom. Or… did Caroline finally learn how to keep you off your assistant’s desk?” I let the words drip off my tongue like venom wrapped in
silk.
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He blinked. His jaw flexed. “You just disappeared. After everything. I gave you an option- you could’ve stayed. You could’ve had both. Her and you.”
I turned slightly, watching his reflection in the sculpture’s broken mirrors.
“Wow,” I murmured, voice soft but sharp. “You really thought I was built for second place.”
His hand twitched like he wanted to reach for me, and I caught the slip in his gaze–the way it raked over me like he hated himself for still wanting me.
“Why?” I asked suddenly, voice louder now. “Do I give you a boner now?” I raised an eyebrow, playful and cruel. “Didn’t you tell Caroline I was a nerd? Outdated? Not hot enough for your image? So why do you look like I just walked out of your wet dream, Favio?”
He stepped closer, and I let him, knowing damn well I was pulling every string in this game. His hand reached out to grab my arm–same controlling move I remembered–but I shifted, stepped away, letting his fingers catch air.
Then I leaned in, close enough to make him forget where he was. My whisper landed right under his ear like a dagger wrapped in lace.
“I know it was you,” I said slowly. “The night at the stairwell. You shoved me. I was four months pregnant with your child, and you took that from me… for her.”
His eyes went dead quiet.
“And you know what’s funny?” I laughed, leaning back, sharp smile playing on my lips. “The baby Caroline’s parading around as yours? Is it even yours, Favio?”
I saw it then. That crack. That instant flicker of doubt behind his perfectly sculpted arrogance. And it was delicious.
