Chapter2

The morning fog in Los Angeles had not yet lifted when the short beep of a keypad lock cut through the apartment’s quiet.

Nicole pushed the door open and casually tossed her Prada handbag reeking of cheap alcohol onto the entryway floor. She did not even take off her coat. She went straight to the bar, poured herself a large glass of ice water, and drank. The early light slipped through the blinds without mercy, exposing the glaring scratch marks on her neck and collarbone.

I sat on the sofa, calmly scrolling through the Wall Street Journal on my tablet.

She did not hide anything, not even the faintest hint of discomfort. After finishing the water, she turned and shot me a look full of undisguised contempt.

Your performance last night was pathetic, Nicole said, slamming the glass down on the marble counter with a sharp clack, her tone cutting as she twisted the blame. If you had not barged into the suite like some bumpkin, my social network would already be in place. David was ready to sign off on the contract that very night. You ruined my entry into high society. You made me look like a cheap joke.

She clicked toward me in her heels and kept going in that condescending voice. I am fighting for our future, and all you do is wreck everything with your miserable pride.

Faced with her black and white reversal, I set the tablet down without a ripple. My pulse stayed steady at sixty five beats per minute. Anger is the fig leaf of the powerless, and I am an actuary who lives with data. Once her behavior is broken into a model that can be calculated, it becomes obvious that the woman in front of me has been blinded by vanity and is accelerating toward a cliff.

I did not argue. I only watched her with a flat, unblinking gaze.

That superior scrutiny made her feel as if her punch had landed in cotton. Frustration flickered across her face. She raked a hand through her hair and stormed into the bedroom, slamming the door.

One month is enough time in Hollywood to manufacture a god out of capital.

The Abyss Kiss wrapped smoothly. With Starlight Media dumping overwhelming resources into the campaign, Nicole was rapidly packaged as a rare pure innocent sweetheart. Her posters were everywhere on the billboards along Sunset Boulevard. The surge of wealth and fame wiped out the last scraps of her reason.

That evening, Nicole returned home with a whole team of assistants, chin high and air of triumph. After they set down dozens of luxury shopping bags, they withdrew with cautious silence.

Nicole kicked off her heels and looked around the apartment we had lived in for more than a year. In the eyes lined so precisely with eyeliner, there was now a sincere, unmistakable disgust.

She pulled a document from her Hermes bag and slapped it onto my keyboard.

It was a separation agreement.

Next week I have to try on couture and get ready to walk the red carpet at the nationwide premiere. My circle is now the top tier of Hollywood, and you clearly cannot keep up anymore, Nicole said, arms crossed, looking at me as if I were industrial waste. My management team has assessed it. A near A list star living in this one hundred square meter dump is not just embarrassing, it also drags down my endorsement rates.

I stopped typing and looked at the agreement. So what do you want.

Beverly Hills, she said, biting down hard on each syllable. I need a mansion that matches my status. It does not have to be huge. A hillside villa in the ten million dollar range will do.

She leaned forward and stared at me with pressure in her eyes. You go get the money and buy it. If you cannot come up with ten million, then sign this right now. We divorce cleanly and you stop trying to ride my coattails.

In her mind, I was nothing more than an ordinary office worker on a fixed salary. Faced with that astronomical demand, there could only be one outcome. I would back down in shame and disappear from her life. She was savoring the thrill of grinding someone under her heel with money and status.

The living room fell into a brief silence. A glint of victory flashed in Nicole’s eyes.

But she had no idea what kind of opponent she was facing. On Wall Street, top tier quantitative actuaries do not need emotion to strike back. I looked at her face, twisted by greed, and my mind had already shifted into the leverage models of finance.

A ten million dollar benchmark. The credit profile of a rising Hollywood star. Tax loopholes in Los Angeles.

Data factors wove together at high speed in front of my eyes. A perfect path of predation formed in an instant.

A mansion. That kind of wish needs lives to pay for it.

I picked up the separation agreement, folded it twice, and dropped it into the trash beside me. Then I adjusted my glasses and met her aggressive stare.

No problem, I said evenly, as if I were agreeing to buy cigarettes at a corner store. A new star really does need the Beverly Hills night view to match. Ten million. I will handle it.

Nicole froze. She had probably imagined me begging, or exploding, but she had never imagined I would accept so lightly. The shock quickly turned into a sneering laugh. She decided I was only bluffing to save face.

Fine, she said with a cold smile, striding toward the walk in closet with exaggerated swagger. I will be watching. I hope you are not wasting my time.

The door shut.

I placed my hands back on the keyboard.

She thought she held the handle of the knife and could order me around. She did not realize I was simply going with the flow, slipping a poisoned financial noose around her neck without a sound.

The blue glow of the screen washed over my calm face. In the depths where data currents surged in silence, a lethal hunting net aimed at her had officially begun to tighten.