That night I opened the garment bag hanging at the end of my closet. Inside was the suit. Custom, midnight blue, cut with the kind of precision that makes posture unnecessary because the clothes impose it for you. I paired it with a white silk blouse and black stilettos. I stood before the mirror and studied the bruise on my cheek. I could have covered it. I didn’t. I wanted Prescott to see it while he lost everything. I wanted Randolph to remember exactly how far their contempt had gone. The bruise was no longer evidence of injury. It was evidence of miscalculation.
The next morning Randolph’s headquarters looked like a wedding venue for desperate men. The board members clustered in the lobby with morning champagne and anxious smiles. Randolph barked orders. Prescott basked in attention, telling anyone who would listen that he had personally secured the deal through his back channels. Adeline wore another designer dress and pretended her life was stable.
Down on the street, the Maybach convoy arrived right on time.