Location: Westcott Penthouse – Minutes After the Shot
Sirens screamed down 5th Avenue. Helicopters buzzed overhead.
Inside the penthouse, Hartley Sinclair was sitting on the floor, glass in her hair, Declan's arm tight around her.
"Are you hurt?" he demanded, scanning her.
"No," she said breathlessly. "But your taste in windows is officially bullet-prone."
Declan didn't smile. He was already dialing.
"Secure the building. Lock every floor. I want footage from every drone, traffic camera, streetlamp, and God's own eyeball," he snapped into the phone. "And someone get me Camilla LaRue."
Hartley stood on wobbly legs.
"No, Declan, we don't get her. We end her."
********
Meanwhile – Camilla's Private Bunker, Tribeca
Camilla LaRue was swirling a red wine like it was blood.
A black screen flickered with surveillance footage—Hartley and Declan on the floor, ducking for cover.
> "They're starting to bleed," she said to no one.
Behind her, her lawyer-turned-lapdog coughed nervously. "What if they trace the sniper?"
"Oh, honey," she cooed. "That was the trace."
He blinked.
She smirked.
"Let them find him. Let them come for me. That's the fun part."
—-------
The Next Morning – Westcott Estate, Long Island
Declan paced like a lion behind glass.
Hartley sat at the head of the kitchen island, nursing coffee like it was vodka.
"You're too calm," he muttered.
"I'm planning your ex-fiancée's demise," she said sweetly. "It's therapeutic."
"I'm serious, Hartley. She's escalating."
"So let's escalate too."
He turned. "You want to go full war?"
"No, Declan. I want to burn everything she loves to the ground. Starting with her fake charity front."
Declan blinked.
"You knew about that?" he asked.
Hartley smirked. "I didn't almost get stabbed and shot without learning a few things."
She stood up and handed him a tablet.
On it: Camilla's slush funds. Wire transfers. Shell charities. All traced.
"You hacked her?" he asked.
"Correction: I blackmailed someone who hacked her."
He stared at her for a long moment.
Then: "I love you."
She raised a brow. "I know."
*******
Later That Night – Charity Gala, Central Park
Hartley had never looked more lethal.
Jet black gown. Diamond ear cuffs. Eyes lined like a queen preparing for war.
They were back at another gala. This time, uninvited.
Camilla was the guest of honor.
Declan and Hartley arrived fashionably explosive.
"Let me do the talking," Hartley whispered, stepping away from Declan.
He frowned. "What are you—"
But she was already across the floor.
Camilla turned as if smelling war before seeing it.
"Well, well," she purred, "the fake wife lives."
"Still standing," Hartley replied. "Though you seem disappointed."
Camilla laughed. "Not at all. You're making this much more enjoyable than I expected."
Hartley smiled tightly.
"Enjoyable ends now."
She lifted her hand—and gestured toward the giant screen behind them.
Suddenly, the lights flickered.
And Camilla's entire offshore empire exploded across the screen in brilliant, high-def financial hell.
Fake charities. Embezzled donor funds. Bribes to foreign officials.
Guests gasped.
Cameras clicked.
Camilla froze.
"You psychotic little—" she hissed.
Hartley leaned in.
"You sent a man to kill me. Twice. You endangered my brother. My husband. My life. So I gave you the only thing that matters to people like us."
Camilla's eyes narrowed. "What?"
"Public humiliation."
Security approached.
"You should leave," Hartley said sweetly.
Camilla's face twisted. "You don't get to win."
Hartley stepped closer. Whispered:
"I already did."
**********
Back at the Estate – Midnight
Declan poured them both a drink.
Hartley kicked off her heels and collapsed into the couch like a woman who just burned Rome.
"She'll come back," he said softly.
"I know."
"She'll try something worse."
"I know."
He sat beside her.
"Then why do you look like you just had the best day of your life?"
"Because I finally feel like I'm not her prey anymore."
He paused.
Then said carefully, "I want to take you to Florence. Just us. Leo will be safe. I need… I need to see you smile somewhere without bulletproof glass."
Hartley turned to him.
"You want to run?"
"I want to live. With you."
She studied him for a long moment.
Then nodded.
"I want Florence."
—-----
At LaRue Estate, 2:00 A.M.
Camilla threw her wine glass at the mirror.
Shards exploded.
"You want to play dirty?" she screamed. "Fine. Let's get dirty."
Her assistant knocked on the door. "You have a call."
"Who?"
The woman hesitated.
"It's your father."
Camilla went pale.
She took the phone.
"Daddy?"
A raspy voice growled, "You've embarrassed the family."
"I can fix it."
"You'd better. Or I'll fix you."
She hung up. Silent.
Then turned toward her window.
Staring out.
A single word escaped her lips:
> "War