Left at the Altar

The living room of Davon’s penthouse felt like a crime scene out of a movie, mostly because it was. Blue and red lights from the police cruisers downstairs pulsed rhythmically against the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting rhythmic shadows across the expensive rugs. The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood and the sharp, chemical odor of fingerprint powder.

I watched as a forensic technician in a white jumpsuit carefully bagged the serrated knife that had almost ended my life. Next to it lay the shattered remains of the heavy marble vase Davon had swung to save me. It looked like a piece of modern art, broken and jagged, much like my life had been just a few weeks ago.

I stood up from the velvet sofa, my legs feeling like lead. A female officer tried to put a shock blanket around my shoulders, but I pushed it away. The warmth felt suffocating. I needed the cold. I needed to feel the bite of the air to know I was still breathing.

I wiped a trail of cold sweat from my forehead, my fingers trembling. But as I looked at the bloodstains on the carpet—James’s assassin’s blood—the trembling stopped.

"I'm going to his office," I said to no one in particular.

Davon, who had been huddled in the corner giving a statement to a detective, whipped his head around. His face was a mask of exhaustion and worry, his usually perfectly styled hair falling over his forehead in messy dark tufts. He excused himself from the detective and strode over to me, his boots clicking sharply on the hardwood.

"Scarlett, don’t," he started, his voice a low rumble of concern. "You almost died an hour ago. The paramedics haven't even finished checking your vitals. You need to rest. You’re in shock."

"No," I snapped, the word cutting through his protest. I looked him dead in the eye, and for the first time, I saw him flinch. "James thinks I'm currently bleeding out on your floor. He thinks he won. He thinks he finally erased the last piece of evidence of his crimes—me."

I took a step toward the door, my resolve hardening with every second. "I want to see the look on his face when I walk through his front door. I want him to know that no matter how many people he hires, he can’t kill a ghost."

Davon reached out as if to grab my arm, then stopped himself. He knew that look. It was the look of a woman who had nothing left to lose and everything to burn.

"I can't let you go alone," he said.

"I’m not asking for permission, Davon. And I’m not asking for a bodyguard. I need to do this."

I didn't wait for him to respond. I grabbed a heavy wool coat from the rack by the door—another one of Davon’s and walked out into the cool night air.

The drive to the Stein Empire headquarters was a blur of streetlights and neon signs. The city was just beginning to stir, the sky turning a bruised shade of purple and orange as the sun prepared to rise. By the time the towering glass monolith of the Stein building came into view, the first rays of light were reflecting off the windows, making the building look like it was made of gold.

It was a lie. The whole building was a monument to theft and betrayal.

I pulled the coat tighter around myself and walked toward the entrance. The massive revolving doors groaned as I pushed through.

Near the security desk, a guard was slumped in his chair, a half-eaten donut on a napkin beside him. He was snoring softly, his cap tilted over his eyes. James’s arrogance was his biggest flaw; he felt so untouchable that he didn't even bother to ensure his front door was properly guarded at dawn.

I walked past the desk and got to the executive elevators—the ones that required a biometric scan. I pulled out a small, encrypted keycard Davon had given me weeks ago "just in case." He had told me his tech team had cloned James's master access during a previous gala.

The reader beeped, the light turning a mocking shade of green.

The elevator ride was silent. I watched the floor numbers climb on the digital display. 40... 45... 50... 60. My heart was hammering against my ribs as I stared at my reflection in the mirrored walls. I looked pale, my eyes sunken, but there was a fire in them that hadn't been there when I was Scarlett Stein-to-be.

The elevator dinged and the doors opened. I wasted no time and entered the penthouse office. And sure as I was, James was there, silhouetted against the floor-to-ceiling windows. He was looking out at the city, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. On the mahogany desk behind him sat a half-empty glass of bourbon. His favorite poison.

He didn't even turn around when the doors opened. He simply let out a long, satisfied breath.

"Is it done?" he asked. His voice thick with a confidence that made my stomach churn. "Is the problem... resolved?"

"Not quite," I replied, straightening my shoulders.

At the sound of my voice James spun around so fast I swear I saw his beady little eyes shake in that empty skull of his. I watched his face go from chalky to deathly white when his eyes landed on me. Then, a splotchy red of confusion. Finally, it settled into a mask of pure, unadulterated hatred.

"You?" he breathed, the word coming out like a hiss. "How are you here? It’s impossible."

"I'm hard to kill, James. You should know that by now," I mocked, moving closer without a fear in the world. I didn't stop until I was standing directly across from his desk, the very desk where he had signed the papers that stripped me of my inheritance.

"You sent a man to kill me in my sleep," I said, my voice steady, devoid of the tears he probably expected. "He failed. He’s currently in custody, and Davon’s penthouse is crawling with detectives. It’s only a matter of time before they trace the payment back to one of your shell companies."

James stared at me for a heartbeat, his eyes darting toward the door as if expecting the police to burst in right then. Then, he did something I didn't expect.

He laughed.

It wasn't a nervous laugh. It was a loud, mocking, booming sound that echoed off the glass walls. He leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with genuine amusement.

"With what, Scarlett? You think a low-level thug's confession is going to stick to me? I have lawyers who can turn a murder confession into a misunderstanding before the sun is fully up."

He gestured vaguely at my appearance, his lip curling in disgust. "Look at you. You’re wearing a borrowed coat in an office I pay for. You have no money, no reputation, and no power. You’re pathetic."

"I'm here to give you one chance, James," I spoke up again, ignoring the insult. "Return the assets you stole. Admit to the blogs that the 'embezzlement' charges against me were fabricated. If you do that, I might—might—let you walk away with your freedom."

James walked around the desk, stopping just inches from me. He was taller, broader, and he tried to use his size to intimidate me, just like he always had.

"Or what?" he whispered, his breath smelling of alcohol. "You'll tell your 'childhood friend' Davon to write me a mean letter? You're nothing, Scarlett. You’re the girl I replaced because she was too boring to keep. Everyone thinks you’re a thief and a fraud. Even if I confessed right now, the world would just think I was being 'charitable' to a mental case."

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low snarl. "Now, get out. Before I have security throw you out—again. And this time, I’ll make sure they’re not as 'clumsy' as the man I sent tonight."

I felt the urge to scream, to fly at him and scratch the arrogance off his face. But I didn't. I remembered what I had found on the servers. I was the person who knew where the bodies were buried.

I turned toward the elevator, my movements slow and deliberate. I reached the door and pressed the button, the 'down' arrow glowing like an ember.

As the doors began to slide open, I paused and looked back over my shoulder. James was already reaching for his scotch, his back to me, dismissing me as if I were a common fly.

"By the way, James," I called to him.

He didn't turn, but I saw his shoulders stiffen.

"Check your private server. Specifically the 'Cigar' folder. I think you’ve got a leak. A very... expensive leak."

The sound of his glass shattering against the marble floor was the most beautiful music I had ever heard in a long time. I didn't stay to watch him scramble. I stepped into the elevator and let the doors close, leaving him alone in his golden tower to ponder on the damage I was about to cause.

Downstairs, the sun was fully up, blindingly bright. I walked out of the building and leaned against a cold stone pillar, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps. My phone buzzed in my pocket.

It was a text from an unknown number.

I saw you leave. You shouldn't have gone there alone. Look behind you.

I spun around, my heart leaping into my throat. The street was empty except for a black sedan idling at the curb, its windows tinted so dark they looked like ink.

The back door of the sedan swung open.

"Get in," a voice commanded.

I froze. I wasn’t sure who the man was but I was sure as hell that I wasn’t getting into a car with a complete stranger.

"Who are you?" I whispered to the dark interior of the car.

The figure in the back seat leaned forward just enough for the morning light to catch a flash of silver—a signet ring I recognized from my father's old business journals.

"Someone who hates James Stein as much as you do. But if you stay on this sidewalk for another minute, his 'real' security will find you. And they don't use vases, Scarlett."

I looked back at the Stein Empire building. High up on the 60th floor, I could see the silhouette of James at the window, watching the street. I looked back at the man in the car, silently praying that he wasn’t going to kill me.

With a heavy breath, I got into the car.