He Found My Secret Revenge

Faith splashed cold water onto her face, gasping as the liquid hit her skin. She kept her eyes squeezed shut, gripping the porcelain edges of the sink in the staff locker room until her fingers ached.

She could still feel him.

The phantom pressure of Earl's hand on her wrist was heavier than the exhaustion dragging at her eyelids.

I'm not leaving.

"Go away," she whispered to the empty room. She grabbed a rough paper towel and scrubbed her face dry, erasing the water, erasing the memory.

She stripped off her scrubs. The blue cotton landed in the hamper with a soft thud. She pulled on her street clothes-a faded grey hoodie that had seen better days and a pair of jeans that were slightly too loose around the waist. She hadn't had time to grocery shop in three weeks.

She looked in the mirror. Dark circles bruised the skin under her eyes. Her hair was a messy knot on top of her head. She looked like a ghost.

He saw this, she thought. He saw this mess and he still looked at me like I was the only solvency in a bankrupt world.

Her phone buzzed in her locker. Three short pulses. The signal.

She pulled it out. The screen was black, text white. An encrypted notification from the 'Oracle' network.

> LOGISTICS NODE 4: DISRUPTION SUCCESSFUL. HAMPTON HOLDINGS STOCK PREDICTED TO DIP 4% AT OPENING.

Faith stared at the screen. She was the one tearing his empire apart, piece by piece, from the shadows. And he had just been in her trauma room, completely unaware that the architect of his misery was stitching his leg.

Guilt, sharp and familiar, twisted in her gut. She cleared the notification.

She rejected the call from her landlady, shoved the phone into her pocket, and grabbed her keys. She needed to get out of here. She needed to go home, check on the encrypted servers, and sleep for fourteen hours.

The night air in the parking lot was biting. Chicago in November was unforgiving. The wind whipped through her thin hoodie, cutting straight to the bone. Faith hunched her shoulders, walking fast toward the far corner of the lot where employees were forced to park.

Her car sat under a flickering lamppost. A ten-year-old Toyota Corolla, beige, with a dent in the rear door and an engine that sounded like a dying lawnmower. It was ugly, reliable, and entirely hers. It was the perfect camouflage for a woman supposedly worth millions.

She unlocked the door and slid into the freezing seat. The engine sputtered, coughed, and then roared to life with a rattle that shook the dashboard.

"Come on, baby," she muttered, putting it into reverse. "Just get me home."

She checked her mirrors. Clear.

She eased off the brake.

A flash of red. A blur of motion.

SCREECH.

CRUNCH.

The impact threw Faith forward against her seatbelt. The strap locked, digging painfully into her collarbone. Her head snapped back.

"Damn it!"

She slammed the car into park and sat there for a second, her heart hammering.

In her rearview mirror, she saw the other car. A bright, cherry-red Porsche 911. It was angled aggressively across the lane, its front bumper kissed intimately against her rear fender.

The driver's door of the Porsche flew open.

Faith groaned. Please, no.

A woman stepped out. She was wearing red-bottomed heels that clicked sharply on the asphalt. Her blonde hair was perfect, despite the wind.

Tiffany Vance. The daughter of one of Hampton Holdings' board members.

And from the passenger side, a man emerged. He smoothed the lapels of his bespoke navy suit, his face twisted in a sneer that Faith knew better than her own reflection.

Chad Miller.

Faith's blood ran cold. Of all the people in Chicago. Of all the parking lots.

She forced herself to open her door. Her legs felt like jelly, but she stood up straight. She wouldn't let them see her shake.

"You were speeding," Faith called out, her voice steady. "And you didn't use a turn signal."

Tiffany marched over to the Corolla, wrinkling her nose as if the car itself smelled bad. "Are you blind? Do you have any idea what this paint job costs?"

Chad walked around the Porsche, inspecting the damage. He looked up, his eyes landing on Faith. A flicker of surprise crossed his face, quickly replaced by a smirk.

"Faith," he drawled. "I should have guessed. Only you would be driving a piece of scrap metal like this in a hospital zone."

"Chad," Faith said, crossing her arms. "You hit me."

"I was driving," Tiffany snapped. "And you backed out without looking!"

"I checked. You were doing forty in a parking lot." Faith looked at the Porsche's bumper. It was barely scratched. Her Corolla, on the other hand, had a new, deep crater in the plastic. "We can exchange insurance and let them handle it."

Chad laughed. It was a dry, condescending sound. He walked toward her, invading her personal space. He smelled of expensive cologne and arrogance.

"Insurance?" He shook his head. "Faith, look at your car. Your deductible is probably more than the vehicle's value. And my premium? I'm not having it spike because you can't drive."

"Then pay for it yourself," Faith said. "It's your girlfriend's fault."

Tiffany bristled. She looped her arm through Chad's, staking her claim. She looked Faith up and down, taking in the baggy hoodie, the tired eyes. "Is this her? The one you told me about? The 'consultant' who vanished?"

Faith felt the heat rise in her cheeks. Shame, hot and prickly, crawled up her neck.

"She used to have potential," Chad said, his voice dropping to a mock whisper. "But some people just... peak in the negotiation room."

"I'm a doctor, Chad," Faith said through gritted teeth. "I save lives. What do you do? Move numbers around on a spreadsheet for Hampton Holdings?"

Chad's eyes narrowed. He stepped closer, towering over her. "I'm a Vice President at Hampton Holdings now, Faith. I make more in a bonus check than you make in a decade."

"Good for you. Move your car."

"Not until you apologize to Tiffany."

"What?"

"Apologize," Chad said. "Admit you were wrong. Admit you're a screw-up. Just like you were in your tenure at the company."

Faith's hands balled into fists. "Go to hell."

She turned to get back in her car.

Chad grabbed her arm.

His grip was hard, painful. He yanked her back.

"I'm talking to you," he snarled. The mask of civility slipped. This was the Chad she remembered. The one who threw wine glasses when he didn't get a promotion. "You always were a bitch, Faith. Maybe if you'd been a little more like Tiffany and less like a nun, Mr. Hampton wouldn't have let you go."

The insult was so vile, so public, that Faith gasped.

"Let go of me!" She tried to wrench her arm free.

"Chad, call security!" Tiffany screeched, pulling out her phone. "She's assaulting you!"

"I said let go!" Faith swung her other hand, trying to push him away.

Chad laughed, tightening his grip. "Or what? You going to cry?"

Suddenly, the light from the streetlamp seemed to vanish.

A shadow fell over them. Massive. heavy.

The air temperature dropped ten degrees.

A hand-large, scarred, and terrifyingly strong-clamped down on Chad's wrist.

Chad yelped. It wasn't a manly sound. It was a high-pitched squeak of pain.

"She said," a voice rumbled from the darkness, low and lethal, "let go."

Chad's fingers sprang open. Faith stumbled back, losing her balance.

She hit a wall. But the wall was warm. It was solid muscle wrapped in a cashmere overcoat.

She looked up.

Earl stood there.

He wasn't looking at her. He was looking at Chad. And the look in his eyes wasn't human. It was the look of a Chairman deciding which division to liquidate.