The elevator crawled up, dead quiet, but inside Elara's chest? Chaos. Like, full-on battlefield drums.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.
Ding.
Doors slid open and—man, this hallway looked like a strand of grandma's pearls, all creamy and old-money. Those fancy sconces tossed gold shadows everywhere. Somewhere, a kid giggled. Loud, careless, the kind of laugh that didn't know anything bad could happen. Elara stepped out, her scarlet dress swirling around her legs, and just like that, the laughter vanished—locked away behind the elevator's jaws, stuck in some daylight world she'd already left behind.
Room 812 waited at the far end. Brass numbers, polished up like someone actually cared. The lock's little LED eye flashed red, then green, after she slid in Leo's secret keycard (because of course he hid it in his golf bag, the weasel). Elara sucked in a breath—peppermint lip balm and pure, sharp fury on her tongue.
She shoved the door open.
Pitch dark.
And then—bam—the city just spilled in, all those windows showing off a skyline smeared with neon. On the table, a Dom Pérignon bottle sweating in a bucket, two glasses leaning like they'd already surrendered. And, oh, a single red ribbon, curled up like a blood smear in the low light.
Her heartbeat dropped into a low, hungry prowl. In her hand: USB, burner phone, and that tiny vial of sedative she'd swiped from Leo's travel kit. She set them down, careful, like she was setting up chess pieces—except this was less chess, more war.
Bed's already turned down, chocolate on the pillow, fancy card with gold scribbles:
"To Mr. & Mrs. Caldwell—celebrate your forever."
She snorted, one sharp, ugly laugh. Then ripped the card in half, felt it tear right down the middle.
7:42 p.m.
Eighteen minutes.
She yanked open the closet. Two robes, fluffy and white—his and hers, because of course. She stripped fast, letting the red dress puddle at her feet. Underneath? Just black lace and vengeance. She grabbed the bigger robe, cinched it tight, and got moving.
Step one: Champagne. She eased out the cork—quiet, no drama—poured just enough into one flute, then flicked open the sedative. Three drops, no more. Just enough to fuzz the edges, not enough for a news headline. She needed answers, not a homicide investigation.
Step two: The phone. Leo's second device, power on, camera app, prop it just right to catch the bed, window, and door. Livestream set to private—because you better believe she'd watch this later, alone, picking through every noise for evidence like a crime show addict.
Step three: The ribbon. She tied it to the headboard, all soft and loose—come hither, come undone. A tease. Maybe a threat.
7:47.
Footsteps. Fast, sharp. Stilettos, definitely.
Elara's pulse shot up, but her hands? Steady as stone. She slipped into the shadows by the armoire, just in time. Beep—the card reader. Door swinging open.
And in she walked: the redhead. Hair like a wine spill, trench coat barely holding her together, lips bitten red. She paused, catching the weird hush in the air.
"Leo?" she called out, voice all sweet poison. "Lion?"
Elara stepped out, robe falling off her shoulder, smile like a knife.
"Wrong lion."
The woman just... stopped. Like, totally froze up. For a second, they stared at each other—predator, prey, and then, bam, the roles flipped so fast it made the air feel electric. Then the redhead's eyes went wide—recognition, all at once.
"You're—"
"Mrs. Caldwell," Elara cut in, cool as you please. "Yeah, the woman whose peach body butter you've been sneaking."
The redhead—Aria, apparently, Elara had pieced that together from the messages—kind of teetered, one hand gripping the door like she might just melt through it. "He told me you were—"
"What? Frigid? Dying? Who cares," Elara said, crossing the room like she owned the damn place. "Shut the door, Aria. We're way past the part where you get to run."
Aria closed it, but her fingers were white-knuckling the handle like it was a lifeline. "If you're here to threaten me—"
"Threaten?" Elara cocked her head, almost amused. "Nah, I'm here to offer you champagne."
She lifted the glass, all casual. Aria's eyes darted—ribbon, bed, oh, and now she noticed the phone, angled just so on the nightstand. That suspicion crinkled her face, made her look less like a temptress and more like someone about to bolt.
"You drugged it."
"Just a bit." Elara took a sip, bubbles stinging her tongue. "See? Not dead."
Aria relaxed. Barely. "What do you want?"
"The truth," Elara said, sharp and simple. "Let's start with how long."
A dry, ugly laugh. "You read the texts. Five months."
"Before or after Bordeaux?"
Aria's silence said it all. Elara's stomach did a little somersault, but her face stayed hard as stone.
"And the blindfold?" she pressed. "That little trick—whose idea?"
"His," Aria mumbled, voice dropping. "He said you'd never— That you wouldn't—"
"Let him tie you up in my bed?" Elara finished, her mouth twisting. "Yeah, no. Not my style."
Aria swallowed. "I didn't know he was married, okay? At first. When I found out, he said you two were separated, just playing nice for the world—"
"Do I look separated to you?"
The redhead's eyes flicked over Elara—her robe, her jaw clenched tight, all that fury barely contained. She shook her head.
"Did he ever talk about offshore accounts?" Elara fired off next. "Shell companies? Investors, any names?"
Aria just blinked. "Investors?"
"Think hard."
"I—once. He said something about a guy, Volkov. Russian accent, for sure. They met at the marina, swapped briefcases. Leo came back shaking like a leaf."
Volkov. That name. Elara's heart took off like it'd seen a ghost. She'd spotted it in Leo's secret files—right next to numbers that screamed blood money.
"Atta girl," she muttered, half-smiling. "Now lose the coat."
Aria went all stiff. "Sorry, what?"
"You're gonna help me record something for Leo." Elara raised the second phone, camera feed staring back. "A confession. Out loud. After that, you're free. No cops, no drama, just gone."
Aria's eyes narrowed. "And if I say no?"
Elara's grin turned sharp—wolfish. "Then the livestream goes up. Your parents, your boss, your precious Instagram crowd—they'll all know you screwed a married man in a hotel paid for with stolen cash. And when Volkov wants his money back, guess who's first on his list?"
Aria's face drained. She undid the belt of her trench, letting it drop. Underneath, the blindfold—scarlet, silk—hugged her neck like a warning.
Elara sucked in a breath. Aria clocked it.
"He gave it to me," Aria whispered. "Said it was your anniversary gift."
Those words hit like a sucker punch. Elara tasted blood—real, metallic. She steadied herself, jaw set.
"Put it on. Over your eyes."
Aria's hands shook, but she obeyed. The ribbon, blood-red, slashed across her pale throat. Elara nudged her to the bed, sat her down at the edge.
"Talk," she ordered. "From the top."
Aria's voice trembled, then steadied. Every word, a nail in Leo's coffin. Names. Dates. Wire transfers. The second phone stashed in his briefcase lining. Yacht owned by some shell company. The code to the safe behind the fake Monet in his office.
Elara's phone caught every bit of it.
When Aria finished, tears ran down her face. Elara didn't bother to wipe them. She just picked up the champagne flute.
"Drink."
Aria hesitated—then did. Minutes later, her eyes drooped. Elara eased her back onto the pillows, arranging her like a doll. Left the blindfold—her signature.
7:58.
Elara slid back into the scarlet dress, zipped it up like sealing a body bag. She tucked Leo's burner phone into Aria's limp hand, taped a note to the back:
Tell him the lioness is awake.
She slipped out, closing the door with a soft click.
In the hallway, a room service cart rattled by—champagne flutes clinking, like ghosts laughing. Elara didn't look back.
Downstairs, the bar buzzed—jazz, murmurs, glasses clinking. Elara ordered a Negroni, picked a seat where the mirrors caught her from every angle. Watched the elevators.
At 8:17, Leo tore in—tie crooked, eyes wild. He hammered the elevator button, pacing like a jungle cat.
Elara sipped her Negroni—bitter orange and gin, sunset in a glass.
When the elevator swallowed him, she raised her drink to her own reflection.
"Checkmate," she whispered.
Then she pulled out her phone, opened the banking app for the shell company she now owned, and moved another quarter mil to an account marked: Vengeance – Phase Two.
Behind her, the mirrors shimmered—one Elara, then a dozen, each with a different weapon: a USB. A ribbon. A blade.
She grinned at them all.
Somewhere upstairs, a girl in a scarlet blindfold would wake up alone, clutching a dead phone like a crumpled rose.
Somewhere else, a man would read a note and feel his empire start to crack.
Elara tossed cash on the bar and vanished into the night.
City lights shimmered against her skin.
No guilt.
Just hunger.