Chapter 2

Scarlett's POV

I'd been staring at my phone for two solid hours. The screen kept going dark, then lighting up again when I touched it. Nathaniel's message still sat there on "delivered"—no reply, not even a fucking emoji.

That familiar dull ache started creeping up my chest again, like someone slowly tightening a fist around my heart. I fumbled for the tin box on my nightstand, shook out a nitroglycerin pill, and slipped it under my tongue. The bitter taste spread through my mouth as my heart rate finally settled and my hands stopped shaking.

"Cold bastard," I muttered, tossing the phone onto my ratty couch.

I stood in front of the cracked mirror, pulling my last Tom Ford black suit from the closet. My final piece of armor, and the one I'd always loved most.

The woman staring back looked like death warmed over. Hollow cheeks, bloodless lips, eyes shot through with red. I looked like a ghost.

"Perfect," I told my reflection. "Ghosts are excellent at collecting debts."

My hands trembled as I applied lipstick, chest starting to throb again. I opened my purse and made sure the pills were easy to reach.

"Better to die trying than die waiting for scraps," I said to the mirror.

Since he wouldn't answer his phone, I'd go find him. Knowing Nathaniel, he'd be at Velvet Room's VIP section every Friday night—either cutting deals or kissing ass with the other trust fund brats.

The taxi stopped outside Velvet Room.

Still New York's most exclusive private club, still lined with luxury cars out front. I used to be a regular here, but now...

The familiar scent of sandalwood hit me as soon as I walked in. Crystal chandeliers made everything sparkle. Luna behind the reception desk used to be my personal hostess—she'd always rush over asking which table I preferred. Now she looked up and dropped her pen with a clatter, staring for a long moment before speaking: "Miss Ashworth... are you here to see someone?"

"Nathaniel. VIP section." No point dancing around it.

Luna's hands clenched under the desk, voice dropping: "Mr. Cross specifically told us this afternoon... he said not to let you in."

"He said that?" I raised an eyebrow but didn't waste time arguing. I headed straight for the VIP corridor where two security guards blocked the entrance. They stepped forward as I approached, thick palms raised: "Ma'am, this is a private section. You can't go in."

I stopped and looked them dead in the eye, voice steady but sharp: "You sure you want to block an Ashworth? When my father came here, your boss personally greeted him at the door. Now you're stopping me because you think the Ashworth name means nothing anymore?"

The guards exchanged glances, clearly unsure. They'd worked here long enough to remember my family's weight in this city. Even bankrupt, pissing off an Ashworth completely might come back to bite them. While they hesitated, I slipped between them and pushed open the VIP door.

Thick cigar smoke made me cough. Five men sat around a leather sectional, whiskey bottles and scattered cigar butts covering the glass coffee table. I recognized Senator Miller immediately, plus Johnson from Chase Bank—both used to show up early to my father's parties, kissing his ass all night. Now they looked at me like I was something they'd scraped off their shoes.

Nathaniel sat dead center on the couch in a charcoal custom suit, hair perfectly styled, wearing the Patek Philippe I'd given him. When I burst in, his cigar tumbled into the ashtray and he shot to his feet, face twisted with fury: "Scarlett, have you lost your fucking mind? You don't belong here! Get out!"

I walked to the coffee table and slammed our divorce papers down.

"Divorce settlement. Every penny I'm owed."

The room went dead silent.

Nathaniel stepped forward, trying to grab my arm: "Scarlett, whatever this is, we'll discuss it privately. Don't make a scene—we're in the middle of important business."

"Privately?" I jerked away from his reach, voice dripping sarcasm. "I sent you dozens of messages, called you over and over. You either ignored me or blocked me. Now you want to talk privately?"

I paused, scanning the faces around the room before locking eyes with Nathaniel again: "Two years ago, right here in this same room, you had your arms around me promising you'd give me anything I wanted as long as I stayed with you. I told you I didn't need money, and you laughed and said if I wanted, you'd pay me a million for every piece of clothing I took off—proof of how much you loved me. Remember that conversation, or are we pretending it never happened?"

I reached for my jacket collar and started sliding it off my shoulders. The black fabric slipped down my arms and hit the floor, leaving me in a white silk blouse. The pain in my chest started building again, cold sweat running down my spine, but I didn't stop. My fingers found the first button of my shirt.

Nathaniel's face went ashen. He lunged forward, trying to grab my hands: "Shut up! Stop making a fool of yourself!"

"Making a fool of myself?" I dodged his reach, eyes ice-cold. "Either transfer me $100,000 right now, or I keep going. I've got nothing left to lose, nothing left to be ashamed of. But you? I saw in yesterday's paper that you're announcing your engagement to the Harper girl this weekend. What do you think Harpers will say when word gets out about your 'generous ex-wife payments'?"

That hit exactly where it hurt. Nathaniel was banking everything on this marriage alliance—the last thing he needed was scandal.

Senator Miller finally lost patience, stubbing out his cigar: "Cross, handle this shit. We've got real business to discuss, not whatever drama this is."

The others murmured agreement, all eyes on Nathaniel.

His fists clenched so tight I could hear his knuckles crack. His face went through about six shades of red before he yanked out his phone, voice venomous: "Account number."

I rattled off the digits, fingers still trembling. The chest pain was getting worse, but victory was right there.

"Done." Nathaniel put his phone away. "One hundred thousand. Is it there?"

My phone buzzed. Transfer notification.

$100,000.

Account balance jumped from $3,847 to $103,847.

"Thanks for your generosity, Nathaniel." I bent down, picked up my jacket, and put it back on. "Looking forward to our next conversation."

As I walked toward the door, I caught whispers behind me.

"She's completely lost it..."

"The Ashworths are finished..."

"Cross, your ex-wife is fucking psycho..."

I didn't turn around. The moment the door closed, I nearly collapsed in the hallway.

My chest felt like it was being crushed, but I forced myself to stay upright. Couldn't fall apart here. Not in front of them.

Outside Velvet Room, I hailed a cab.

Sitting in the back seat, I stared at my phone screen. $130,847. Still a long way from five hundred thousand, but this was just the beginning.

I leaned back and closed my eyes.

In that room, I'd seen something in Nathaniel's eyes. Worry. He still cared, even if he was trying to hide it.

But that didn't matter anymore.

I wasn't doing this to win back his love. I was doing this to survive.

"Just the beginning," I whispered to myself. "There are more people who need to pay for what they did."

The taxi rolled through New York's neon-lit streets, and my revenge was only getting started.

Next target: Sebastian Kane.

My childhood "brother" who vanished into thin air when I needed him most.

Time for him to settle his tab.