CHAPTER SEVEN:
The rooftop shimmered under the midday sun, gold light dancing across glass panels and polished cutlery.
The air smelled like expensive perfume and citrus cocktails — wealth, composed in scent and sound. Servers floated like whispers, all white gloves and subtle bows, weaving between tables of women with curated laughs and men with titanium watches.
Nicole sat early, legs crossed at the ankles, a soft blush silk dress draped effortlessly across her frame. The color was delicate. The statement was not. Her makeup was flawless — lips in a warm nude, brows carved, eyeliner clean.
She stirred her orange blossom tea slowly, porcelain spoon clinking against bone china, eyes locked on the elevator doors like she was waiting for prey rather than a brunch companion.
At exactly 12:30, Kendra stepped out.
Tall. Slender. Wrapped in a coral sheath dress — a little too tight for brunch, a little too loud for the hour, but just right for a woman who needed attention to stay standing. Her heels were Louboutin, her clutch Louis, and her smile was already rehearsed.
Nicole stood to greet her, arms open like forgiveness.
"Kendra," she cooed, brushing the air with soft kisses on both cheeks. "You look beautiful. Still wearing Dior 999, I see."
Kendra blinked, caught just slightly off-guard. "You remembered?"
"Of course," Nicole smiled as they sat. "It used to be my favorite shade of you."
It was a compliment dipped in memory. A reminder that Nicole had once chosen Kendra's lip color, her role, her rise — and could just as easily unpick it all.
The waiter arrived. Kendra asked for a chilled rosé. Nicole requested another tea, fingers relaxed around the teacup handle like it was an old habit.
They made small talk at first — light, easy, intentionally forgettable. The weather. Spa menus. How hard it was to find good staff lately. They even laughed once, the sound a little too bright, too brittle.
Then Nicole leaned in.
Just enough.
Her voice is warm, soft, dangerously intimate.
"I've been thinking a lot lately," she said, eyes locked on Kendra's. "About old friends. Old loyalties."
Kendra's smile froze mid-lip-gloss.
Nicole reached across the table, brushing her hand with feigned affection. "I wanted to see you again. It's been... what? Eight months? Since the last Blake event?"
Kendra nodded slowly. "Right before Julian took on the Manhattan expansion."
Nicole tilted her head, lashes dropping. "That's funny. He told me he was still deciding then." Kendra's fingers tensed around her wine glass. Just slightly. But enough.
Nicole didn't blink.
The waiter returned with fresh silverware. Nicole thanked him like nothing at all had shifted. The rest of the brunch danced forward — laughter, more small talk, faint compliments that felt like puzzle pieces falling into place.
Nicole complimented Kendra's new watch. Asked about her mother's health.
Praised her Realty & Luxe interview.
Kendra smiled through it all. But beneath the matte foundation and coral blush, a shimmer of sweat was beginning to bead along her jawline. She kept glancing at her phone. At the waiter. At the edge of the rooftop. Anywhere but directly at Nicole.
Because Nicole wasn't performing. She wasn't trying.
She just was.
And that made her terrifying.
Under the table, Nicole's fingers rested on her phone — screen black, microphone on, recording every syllable.
When dessert came — fresh fruit and a dainty lemon tart with raspberry glaze — Kendra cracked. Not with a scream. Not with a slip. Just a single, offhanded sentence that didn't quite belong.
"I told Julian he shouldn't fly out again next weekend," she said, with a shrug that tried to sound casual. "He's been stretched too thin."
Nicole stilled.
Set her spoon down with care.
"Next weekend?" she asked lightly.
Kendra blinked too fast. "Oh — I mean, if he flies out. You know Julian. Always planning."
Nicole's smile came slowly. Controlled. A whisper of teeth behind soft lips.
"I'm so glad Julian has you," she said, her voice soaked in honey. "I know how loyal you are."
Kendra swallowed. "I just want what's best for the company."
"Of course," Nicole said, lifting her teacup again. "We all do."
There was silence for a few moments — but not peace. Only performance.
They left arm in arm, stilettos clicking like distant gunshots against the rooftop tiles. The city glittered beneath them — half promise, half threat. Cameras caught them both in a soft beam of light as they exited the rooftop lounge — two polished, powerful women smiling as if nothing was unraveling beneath the gloss.
But in the car, once the door closed behind Nicole and the driver pulled away, her hands moved with practiced ease. She pulled out her phone. Pressed stop. Saved the recording under a folder labeled only "Contingencies." Then forwarded it to Camille with no caption, no context.
Across the city, Camille would know exactly what this meant.
Nicole didn't speak.
She just leaned her head back against the plush leather seat and smiled.
That soft, deadly smile of a woman who wasn't just surviving betrayal anymore. She was repurposing it.
Repackaging it.
Refining it into a weapon.
And somewhere across town, Kendra would spend the rest of her afternoon wondering why she couldn't stop shaking — why Nicole's smile haunted her like a shadow at high noon.
Because Kendra wasn't stupid.
And no matter what color lipstick she wore...
She knew a trap when she'd already walked through it