Genius Wife's Revenge: Too Late For Regret

The morning sun sliced through the windows of the penthouse suite at the Royal Court, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Julian sat in a velvet armchair, fully dressed in a charcoal three-piece suit. He looked like a weapon sheathed in Italian wool.

Lana sat opposite him, clutching a cup of coffee. She was wearing the clothes Gavin had procured-a modest cream dress that cost more than most people's cars. Her hand kept drifting to the necklace, twisting the silver chain.

"Last night was an anomaly," Julian said. He didn't offer a preamble. He didn't offer breakfast.

Lana's smile faltered. "Julian, I thought..."

"You thought wrong." He placed a single sheet of paper on the coffee table between them. "I am a recently divorced man. The ink isn't even dry. The last thing I need is a relationship scandal."

Lana picked up the paper. It was a list. Movie roles. Endorsement deals. An invite to the Met Gala.

"What is this?" she asked, her voice trembling with feigned insult.

"Compensation," Julian said coldly. "For your time. And for your silence."

Lana looked at the list. It was a goldmine. It was everything she had been clawing for in Hollywood for five years. But she was greedy. She looked up at him through her lashes.

"People saw me come up here, Julian. The staff. The paparazzi outside. If I walk out of here and say nothing, they'll invent stories. Worse stories."

Julian's jaw tightened. He hated being cornered.

"What do you suggest?"

"Let them think we're... exploring things," Lana said, leaning forward. "Just friends. Close friends. It protects your image. You're not a lonely divorcé; you're the most eligible bachelor in New York moving on."

Julian studied her. He saw the ambition in her eyes. It was ugly, but it was predictable. He preferred predictable to the chaotic mess of emotions he had felt in the dark last night.

"Fine," he said. "But you do not speak to the press without my team's approval. And do not think this makes you the mistress of Sterling Manor."

Lana beamed. "Of course not, darling."

Julian stood up. He walked to the door, pausing to sniff his cuff. There was a faint trace of that scent again-Wild Rose. He looked at Lana. She smelled like a department store perfume counter.

He frowned, shaking his head. It must be his imagination.

Vivian slammed the door of her Chevy Malibu. She stood in front of the brick building that housed S.W. Studios in Brooklyn.

Or rather, what used to be S.W. Studios.

Movers were hauling boxes out to a truck with the Sterling logo on the side.

"Hey!" Vivian shouted, running up to a mover who was carrying her drafting table. "Put that down! That's personal property!"

"Company property now, lady," the mover grunted, not stopping.

"Dante!" Vivian screamed.

Dante, her business partner and the public face of S.W. Studios, emerged from the building. He looked like a man walking to the gallows.

"Vee," he said, avoiding her eyes. "I'm so sorry."

"You sold us?" Vivian grabbed his lapels. "We had a pact, Dante. No corporate buyouts. We stay independent."

Dante began to cry. Actual tears. "I had to. The gambling debts... they were going to break my legs, Vee. Sterling offered a buyout that cleared everything."

Vivian let go of him as if he burned her. "You coward."

"There's a catch," Dante sniffled, digging into his pocket. He pulled out a thick contract. "The acquisition... it was contingent on the talent. On 'Rose'."

Vivian snatched the contract. She flipped through the pages. Her eyes widened.

Clause 14.b: The Lead Designer (alias 'Rose') must remain with the company for a minimum of two years post-acquisition. Failure to comply will result in a penalty of $50,000,000.

Fifty million dollars.

Vivian laughed. It was a dry, hysterical sound. "He owns me."

"He doesn't know it's you," Dante whispered. "He just knows he bought the designer named Rose. You can still be anonymous. Just... go to the Sterling HQ. Do the work."

Vivian looked at the signature at the bottom of the page. Julian Ford-Sterling IV. The pen strokes were aggressive, tearing through the paper.

She had escaped his house only to walk right into his cage.

"I can't pay fifty million," Vivian said, her voice hollow. Her hidden accounts had money-Rose earned well-but not that much, and moving that kind of volume would trigger every federal agency she had spent a decade avoiding.

"I'm sorry, Vee," Dante wept.

Vivian stared at the Sterling truck swallowing her life's work. The anger that had been simmering since the divorce, since the night at the club, since the necklace was lost, finally boiled over.

It crystallized into something cold and hard.

"Fine," she said. She smoothed her skirt. "I'll go."

She looked at Dante with eyes that could cut glass.

"But tell Mr. Ford-Sterling to prepare himself. He wanted Rose? He's going to wish he bought a cactus."