Chapter 3 — The Scorched Earth
By noon, the full scope of Jonathan’s pettiness became clear. He wasn’t just waiting for me to crawl back; he was systematically trying to burn down the modest life he thought I had.
My phone rang. It was Mr. Higgins, the senior wealth manager who oversaw my real estate trust, but whom Jonathan knew only as the grumpy landlord of my “cheap apartment.”
“Ms. Vance,” Higgins said, sounding thoroughly amused. “I just received a very aggressive phone call from a Mr. Jonathan Miller. He demanded that I evict you immediately. He claimed you were entirely dependent on his finances, that you had stolen property from him, and that you would be defaulting on your rent by tomorrow.”
“Is that so?” I murmured, staring out the window at the towering glass facade of Ironwood Capital.
“Yes, ma’am. He also hinted that if I threw your belongings onto the street, he would make it ‘worth my while.’ I informed him that the building is owned by a corporate trust, which is entirely accurate. Shall I have our legal team send him a cease and desist?”
“No,” I replied, a cold smile touching my lips. “Let him believe he succeeded. What else?”
“Our operatives monitoring your former ‘workplace’ at the logistics firm reported a disturbance,” Higgins continued. “Mr. Miller sent a mass email to the general inbox, claiming you were a kleptomaniac and a pathological liar who had embezzled from him. He’s trying to make sure you can’t even hold down a temp job.”
I closed my eyes. The sheer malice of it was breathtaking. It was one thing to strike a woman in a moment of drunken rage; it was another entirely to wake up sober and methodically attempt to starve her into submission. It proved, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that Jonathan was not a good man who had made a mistake. He was a predator who enjoyed the hunt.
“Thank you, Higgins. Let him dig his grave,” I said.
I hung up and pressed the intercom on my mahogany desk. “Samuel,” I said to my senior investment director. “Regarding the NexoCloud deal. We are not doing the signing in the boardroom.”
“No?” Samuel asked.
“No. We are hosting the Pre-funding Gala tomorrow night at the Grand Astor Hotel. The press will be there. The board will be there. And I want Jonathan Miller to sign his contract—and his Morals Clause—center stage, under the brightest lights we have.”
As Samuel agreed and disconnected, I touched the faint bruise on my lip. Jonathan wanted to destroy a poor secretary in the shadows. He was about to meet a queen in the light.
