Chapter 8
The first-class cabin of the transatlantic flight to Monaco smelled of warm nuts,
expensive champagne,
and the heavy,
sweet perfume of Brielle Monroe.
She sat in a massive,
reclining leather seat,
sipping a mimosa,
looking out the window at the endless blue expanse of the ocean.
Beside her sat Jean-Luc,
the French developer,
a man twice her age,
with thinning hair,
a thick accent,
and a wallet she believed was bottomless.
She had played the game perfectly,
she thought,
milking Preston for every diamond,
every luxury apartment,
every designer bag,
and bailing the exact second the ship started to sink.
She felt a small thrill of victory,
a sense of superiority,
believing she had outsmarted everyone,
including the great,
terrifying Eleanor Whitmore.
She adjusted the silk blanket over her legs,
pulling out her phone to check the Wi-Fi connection,
eager to see the balance in the offshore account Jean-Luc had set up for her.
She logged into the banking app,
typing in the complex password,
her manicured fingers tapping the screen with practiced speed.
The screen loaded,
a small spinning wheel turning,
and then the numbers appeared.
Zero point zero zero.
She blinked,
rubbing her eyes,
thinking it was a glitch,
a slow connection,
a temporary error in the system.
She refreshed the page,
her heart rate picking up a fraction,
a tiny sliver of unease sliding into her stomach.
The numbers remained unchanged,
staring back at her,
empty,
void,
terrifyingly blank.
She tapped Jean-Luc on the arm,
forcing a sweet,
innocent smile onto her face.
Darling,
she purred,
there seems to be a problem with the account transfer,
it's not showing the funds for the data keys.
Jean-Luc looked at her,
his expression shifting from indulgent affection to cold,
calculating irritation.
Let me see,
he said,
taking the phone from her hand,
his eyes scanning the screen quickly.
He pulled out his own phone,
dialing his financial manager in Geneva,
speaking rapidly in French,
his voice growing louder,
more aggressive with every passing second.
Brielle sat frozen,
the mimosa suddenly tasting like battery acid in her mouth,
the luxurious cabin feeling incredibly small,
suffocating.
Jean-Luc hung up the phone,
turning to her,
his face flushed red with anger,
his eyes narrowing into angry slits.
The keys are useless,
he hissed,
spitting the words at her.
Whitmore Holdings migrated their entire mainframe overnight,
the access codes you provided are dead,
worthless,
garbage.
Brielle recoiled,
her back pressing hard against the leather seat,
her mind racing,
trying to find a lie,
an excuse,
a way out.
I didn't know,
she stammered,
Preston told me they were the master keys,
I swear,
Jean-Luc,
I didn't know.
You stupid,
arrogant girl,
he sneered,
his voice dripping with contempt.
You thought you stole the crown jewels,
but Eleanor Whitmore handed you a box of rocks,
and you were too greedy to notice.
He called the flight attendant over,
his demeanor instantly shifting back to a polite,
commanding presence.
When we land in Nice,
he ordered,
ensure this woman's luggage is separated from mine,
she will not be joining me on the helicopter to the estate.
Brielle gasped,
tears welling in her eyes,
the facade of the glamorous mistress crumbling in an instant.
Jean-Luc,
please,
you can't leave me at the airport,
I have no money,
my cards are blocked.
He didn't look at her again,
picking up his newspaper,
ignoring her weeping,
leaving her to face the devastating reality of her own stupidity,
May you like
trapped in the sky,
with absolutely nowhere to land.
