Chapter 10
The terminal lobby was a sea of polished marble and blinding glass,
filled with wealthy travelers who moved with the effortless grace of people who belonged there.
Brielle sank into a cold,
minimalist chair in the furthest corner of the arrivals area,
trying to hide her streaked face behind her oversized designer sunglasses.
Every buzz of a passing phone made her jump,
her mind desperately spinning scenarios where she could salvage her existence,
perhaps by calling an old admirer,
or bargaining with one of Preston's rival associates.
She opened her luxury handbag,
dumping its contents onto her lap,
searching for anything of tangible value she could liquidate immediately.
There were three gold lipsticks,
a half-empty bottle of custom perfume,
several maxed-out platinum cards,
and a diamond-encrusted watch that Preston had given her for their anniversary.
She unclasped the watch,
holding it up to the light,
hoping the stones were real enough to buy her a ticket back to New York,
or at least a few nights in a decent hotel.
As she turned the timepiece over in her trembling fingers,
she noticed a tiny,
laser-etched inscription on the inside of the clasp that she had never seen before.
It didn't say the brand name,
nor did it carry a romantic note from Preston,
instead,
it simply read: "Property of Whitmore Holdings."
A cold dread,
sharper than any she had felt on the airplane,
pierced through her chest,
as she realized that even the jewelry on her wrist was a tracker,
a leash that Eleanor had allowed her to wear until the trap was ready to spring.
Suddenly,
a shadow fell over her lap,
blocking out the harsh terminal lights,
causing her to look up with a gasp of fear.
Standing in front of her was not Jean-Luc,
nor was it the police,
but a tall,
immaculately dressed woman in a charcoal grey business suit,
carrying a sleek leather briefcase.
Miss Monroe,
the woman said,
her voice flat,
unemotional,
and distinctly British,
my name is Cynthia Vance,
and I represent the legal department of Whitmore Holdings.
Brielle tried to swallow,
but her mouth was completely dry,
her voice failing her as she clutched the watch tightly in her palm.
Mrs. Whitmore sends her regards,
Cynthia continued,
opening the briefcase to extract a single,
thick document,
and she wishes to inform you that your apartment in Manhattan has been repossessed as of three hours ago.
Your storage units have been cleared,
your luxury vehicle has been returned to the leasing agency,
and federal warrants have been issued for your arrest regarding industrial espionage.
Brielle felt the room tilt,
the marble floor seeming to rise up to meet her,
as the full,
calculated weight of Eleanor’s vengeance crushed her remaining hope.
However,
Cynthia said,
dropping the document onto Brielle’s lap,
Mrs. Whitmore is a pragmatic woman,
and she is willing to offer you a temporary stay of execution,
provided you cooperate fully with our recovery team.
What do you want from me,
Brielle whispered,
her voice cracking,
the tears starting to flow freely down her cheeks once more,
I have nothing left,
I gave Jean-Luc everything,
the keys are dead.
The keys you stole were fake,
but the server paths you used to extract them left a digital trail,
Cynthia explained,
leaning in slightly,
her eyes cold as ice,
a trail that leads directly to Jean-Luc’s hidden shell companies in the Cayman Islands.
You are going to help us dismantle his network from the inside,
you are going to call him,
you are going to play the desperate,
grovelling woman he expects you to be,
and you are going to feed him the secondary codes we provide.
And if I refuse,
Brielle asked,
looking down at the legal document that detailed a thirty-year prison sentence in a federal maximum-security facility.
If you refuse,
Cynthia smiled,
a small,
terrible movement of her lips,
I will simply walk over to those two French customs officers standing by the exit,
hand them your passport,
and let the international authorities handle your extradition.
You will spend the night in a concrete holding cell in Marseille,
without your designer clothes,
without your makeup,
and without a single person in the world who cares if you live or die.
Brielle looked from the document to the elegant British woman,
then out the glass windows toward the runway where private jets were taking off into the beautiful,
unreachable sky.
She realized then that she had never been a player in the game,
she had never been the clever mistress outsmarting the billionaires,
she had simply been a piece of bait,
used by Eleanor Whitmore to catch a much larger fish.
With a trembling hand,
she picked up her phone,
wiped her tears away,
and prepared to play the final,
May you like
most dangerous role of her life,
knowing that her survival now depended entirely on her ability to deceive the man who had just abandoned her.
