Chapter 3

At 7 PM, I showed up at Yummdin House right on time.

The restaurant was on the 88th floor of the tallest building in Liverside's financial district, with floor-to-ceiling glass walls. Standing by the window, I could take in the entire city's night view.

I wore a knee-length black dress, my hair loose over my shoulders, and kept my makeup light.

I didn't do it for Spencer. I did it for myself.

In my previous life, I spent three years stuck in a hospital bed, too scared to look at myself in the mirror. Scars crawled all over my body like centipedes, each one a reminder of how stupid I'd been.

This time, I was going to live my life looking my best.

"Ms. York? This way, please." The waiter guided me through the main hall, all the way to a table at the very back by the window.

Spencer was already there.

He wore a dark gray suit, no tie, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, revealing a defined collarbone.

His features were more striking than the glimpse I'd caught in the elevator. He had prominent brow bones, a straight nose, and thin, razor-sharp lips. His whole face looked like a blade unsheathed.

When he looked up at me, his eyes were completely emotionless, calm as a pool of still water.

But I noticed his gaze lingered on me for a fraction of a second longer than usual, a bit longer than he looked at anyone else.

"Sit," Spencer said, tipping his chin up. His voice was low, carrying a pressure that made it clear he wasn't asking.

I sat down across from him.

The waiter handed me the menu. I flipped through it and casually ordered a few dishes without much thought.

Spencer didn't glance at the menu. He said, "The usual."

After the waiter left, the restaurant grew quiet.

On the 88th floor, city lights sparkled outside the glass walls, and far below, the streets were bustling with cars.

Spencer picked up his glass and swirled it gently, the amber liquid tracing elegant arcs down the sides.

"Ms. York," he said, "I've reviewed the materials you gave Harper."

"And?" I asked.

"And I think," he set his glass down, meeting my gaze directly, "you're smarter than I imagined and more dangerous."

When Spencer said those two words, I couldn't tell if he meant them as a compliment or a warning.

"Mr. Foster, you flatter me," I said. "I'm someone who's been pushed to the edge, nothing more."

"Pushed to the edge?" Spencer's lips curled into a half-smile, his expression unreadable. "Someone who could stick by Karson for ten years isn't some pitiful soul. And someone who can get their hands on that much sensitive information? Definitely not."

He paused, leaning in a little closer. "You came prepared."

I didn't deny it. Because he was right.

Before I died in my previous life, my biggest regret wasn't falling for the wrong guy. It was holding onto all that evidence that could've brought Karson down, and never using it.

This time, I won't repeat that mistake.

"Mr. Foster, how do you want to play this?" I cut straight to the chase.

Spencer leaned back in his chair, his long fingers tapping lightly on the table.

He said, "The stuff you've got is enough to destroy Karson's name in the business world. But that alone isn't enough to take him out completely."

"What's his real power base?" I asked.

"People," Spencer replied. "Karson's biggest advantage isn't his business skills. It's his connections.

"He's got business with a third of Liverside's officials, and family ties with another third. If you want to bring him down, business dirt alone won't cut it. You need something truly lethal."

I got it.

Spencer wasn't trying to ruin Karson's reputation in the business world. He wanted to make sure Karson could never come back from this.

"What counts as lethal?" I asked.

Spencer glanced at me, his eyes scrutinizing. "You've spent ten years at Karson's side. You know who he's been dealing with. There are some names that should never show up in his phone."

I went quiet. I knew.

I'd seen pictures of Karson with people he should never be seen with, records of money transfers to them, and contracts signed in his own hand.

If that ever saw the light of day, it wouldn't be a business scandal. It would reach much higher up.

"I've seen those records," I said. "But I don't know if they're still out there."

"Doesn't matter if they're gone," Spencer replied. "As long as you remember what you saw, that's enough. I'll dig up the rest myself."

The food arrived.

Spencer kept it simple with three dishes and a soup, nothing fancy, no unnecessary frills.

He ate fast, but never sloppily, like someone who's all about efficiency.

I started eating, too.

After three years of hospital food, all liquid, in my previous life, now I savored every meal I could actually chew.

Halfway through the meal, Spencer suddenly spoke up, "Don't you want to ask why I'm helping you?"

"You're not helping me," I said. "You're using me to take down Karson."

"Talking to smart people saves a lot of trouble," Spencer said, that half-smile flickering on his lips again. "But have you ever thought about what I'll do to you after I've gotten what I need?"

"I have," I said, setting down my fork. "Once I've helped you, you'll have proof of everything I did for Karson. After that, I'll be completely at your beck and call."

Spencer's eyes narrowed, his gaze turning more penetrating. "Aren't you afraid?"

"I am," I said calmly. "But I hate him more than I fear you."

But something shifted in Spencer's eyes. There was something in his gaze I couldn't quite put my finger on, part scrutiny, part maybe a hint of admiration.

"Interesting," he murmured. "Really interesting."

He set down his fork, pulled a black business card from his suit pocket, and slid it across the table to me.

He said, "Starting tomorrow, you're a special consultant for Foster Group. One million dollars a year, company car, company apartment, and you'll report directly to me."

I studied the card in my hand.

There were two lines printed on the black card, including Spencer and a phone number.

It was concise and restrained like Spencer.

"What do you need me to do?" I asked.

"First, write up everything you know about Karson and send it to me. Second, stick close to me," he said.

"Stay by your side?" I repeated.

"Literally," Spencer replied. "Karson is the kind of guy who always gets revenge. You quit today, he'll come after you tomorrow. You won't stand a chance on your own."

He was protecting me.

No, he wasn't really protecting me. He was making sure his evidence stayed safe.

But I had no reason to say no.

"Deal," I said, tucking the card into my bag.

Spencer nodded and stood up. "Tomorrow morning at nine, someone will pick you up and bring you to Foster Group headquarters."

He turned and walked away. The hem of his coat swept out behind him in a crisp arc.

I stayed in my seat, watching him disappear into the elevator, then glanced down at my phone.

Seven missed calls were from Karson. More than a dozen missed calls were from Henry. Seven or eight missed calls were from my mom. And a bunch of unknown numbers called, probably Camille's new number.

I didn't respond to any of them.

I opened up my social media app, and the third trending topic was [Graham Group CEO Nearly Assassinated.]

When I tapped on it, the top post was an official statement saying Karson had been involved in an "accident," but thanks to someone close by who reacted quickly, he's fine now.

Under the official statement, the comments section was blowing up.

[Someone close by? Was it Camille? I heard she shielded Mr. Graham from a knife.]

[Shielded him from a knife? Seriously? That's hardcore.]

[Wow, she pretty much owes him her life. He might as well marry her.]

[Looks like she will be Mrs. Graham.]

As I scrolled down, something caught my eye:

[I heard there was a female assistant there who didn't react. Was it Yvette?]

The replies under that comment were going wild. Hundreds of people were piling on.

[Who's the female assistant? Which one are they talking about?]

[You know, the one who's been working for Karson forever. Heard she's super competent.]

[So what if she's good at her job? When it really mattered, she totally dropped the ball.]

[All those years Graham kept her around. What a waste.]

I closed the app and set my phone face down on the table.

Karson supported me? Seriously?

I'd been his assistant for ten years, grinding sixteen hours a day, no days off, and my salary was a joke, less than half the industry average in dollars.

When he needed me, he'd say I was capable, efficient, and absolutely indispensable.

But when he didn't, he'd act like he'd been supporting me all this time. What a joke.

I raised my glass and drained the last of my wine in a single gulp.

The wine was strong, burning as it went down my throat.

But after the poison I swallowed in my previous life, this little burn was nothing.

*****

The next morning at 8:30, I arrived at Foster Group headquarters.

The building stood at the far end of Liverside's financial district, directly facing Graham Group's tower, like two giant beasts squaring off at opposite ends of the city.

A woman in a business suit was waiting for me in the lobby. She introduced herself as Spencer's special assistant, Susie.

"Ms. York, this way, please," she said.

She led me to a private elevator that took us straight to the top floor.

Spencer's office occupied the entire top floor, with floor-to-ceiling windows wrapping around for a panoramic view of the city.

The whole space was black, white, and gray, with no unnecessary decor, a chill, minimalist vibe, cold as an ice cave.

Spencer was seated behind a massive black desk, reviewing documents.

Today, he was in a black suit and tie, his hair perfectly slicked back. He looked sharper and more formidable than he had last night.

"Sit," Spencer said, not looking up.

I settled onto the sofa, and his assistant Susie brought me a cup of coffee.

The aroma was deep and bold, the kind of dark roast I liked.

I took a sip; it was the perfect temperature.

"Karson called you last night?" Spencer suddenly asked.

"He called me seven times," I replied.

"Did you answer?"

"No."

"Smart," Spencer said, finally looking up and sliding a document across the desk. "Here's your contract. See if you have any questions."

I went through the contract, checking each term.

I would get one million dollars a year, a company car, an apartment, plus a year-end bonus.

The contract was for one year, with the option to renew.

Everything was straightforward. There were no hidden clauses or tricks.

I picked up the pen and signed my name without hesitation.

Spencer took the contract, gave my signature a quick look, then locked it in his drawer.

"From today on," Spencer said, "you're part of Foster Group now. If Karson gives you any trouble, come straight to me."

"Okay," I said.

"One more thing," Spencer said, tapping his fingers on the desk. "Next Friday, the Liverside Business Annual Gala. Karson will be there. You're going too."

"Me?" I echoed.

"As Foster Group's special consultant," he said. "You need to let some people know you're not a pushover."

I looked into Spencer's eyes, and in those deep pupils, I could see so much.

He was standing behind me.

It was not because he liked me, not because he pitied me, but because he needed to make a statement. Spencer was officially declaring war on Karson.

And I was the signal flare he fired.

"Alright," I said. "I will."

As I walked out of Foster Group, the last person I wanted to run into was waiting downstairs, Camille.

She had on a cream-colored trench coat, sunglasses, and a bandage wrapped around her arm, as she'd gotten out of the hospital.

But honestly, she looked way too good for someone who supposedly got hurt yesterday.

"Yvette," she said, slipping off her sunglasses. Her eyes immediately welled up with tears. "I finally found you."

Watching her pull off that flawless act, I suddenly realized how clueless I'd been in my previous life.

Ten years, and I never saw through it.

"What are you here for?" I asked.

"Yvette, I know you're upset with me, but you really can't quit. Karson really needs you," Camille said.

"Needs me?" I laughed. "Needs me to jump in front of a knife for him?"

"No, Yvette, you've got it all wrong," Camille said, stepping closer and reaching for my hand. "Karson's all bark and no bite. He's got a soft spot for you, really. Since you left, he's been losing sleep, can't stop thinking about you."

"Camille," I cut her off, "that routine might fool other people, but it doesn't work on me."

"Yvette..."

"You took a knife for Karson, got three stitches, and he had you put in a VIP hospital room, brought in the best doctors, and had ninety-nine roses placed by your bed."

"Do you know what he did after I shielded him from a knife?"

Her tears still clung to her cheeks, but her eyes were already starting to change.

"He transferred 15 thousand dollars to me," I said. "The note said medical expenses. 15 thousand dollars was what my life was worth to him.

"So, do you still think he actually cares about me?"

Camille opened her mouth, but no words came out.

"And one more thing," I leaned in, lowering my voice. "That cut on your arm? It was a scratch. Three stitches would've been more than enough. But your hospital records say seven.

"Camille, you fake the little things. Do you really think you know what 'genuine' means?"

Her face turned pale in an instant.

She clutched her bandaged arm, her eyes avoiding mine. "Yvette, I-I don't know what you're talking about."

"If you don't get it, that's fine," I said, stepping back. "But there's one thing I want you to remember. Let the games begin, Camille. This time, I'm not going to go easy on you."

I turned and walked away, Camille's sobs ringing out behind me.

Her cries were louder, more dramatic, and downright gut-wrenching compared to what she pulled in the hospital.

But I knew she wasn't putting on this show for me.

She was crying for the reporters lurking nearby, waiting to catch the drama.

Sure enough, the next morning, every entertainment headline was running the same story:

[Camille Tearfully Begs Her Cousin to Come Back. Touching Sisterhood Moves Everyone.]

The photo showed Camille standing outside Foster Group, tears streaming down her face.

The picture was crystal clear, showing her tears, her bandage, and that helpless, sorrowful look, all perfectly.

Everyone in the comments was gushing over her:

[Camille is honestly so kind. After everything her cousin did to her, she's still sticking up for her.]

[Yvette is seriously heartless. Camille took care of her guy for years, and instead of being grateful, she goes off on her?]

[Heard Yvette quit. Maybe she's jealous of Camille.]

[Camille jumping in front of that knife was seriously gutsy. You don't see girls like her every day.]

I read every single comment, word by word, then slipped my phone back into my pocket.

Since Camille wanted to play the media game. I was in.

I shot the file I'd prepped over to Harper.

Then I made another call. "Hey, is this the Liverside Evening News? I've got a hot tip for you. It's about Karson, CEO of Graham Group, and his girlfriend, Camille. Are you interested?"

The voice on the other end was practically buzzing with excitement. "Oh hell yes. What's the scoop?"

"Camille took a knife for Karson. She only needed three stitches, but her hospital records say seven," I said. "She was only in the hospital for one day, but she's claiming she was badly hurt and hospitalized for days.

"You can check the records at First People's Hospital. It shouldn't be hard to find."

There was a moment of silence, then the reporter burst out laughing. "Ms. York, this scoop is seriously explosive."

After hanging up, I called another number. "Hey, is this Finance Today Magazine? I've got a file on Graham Group's financial moves over the past few years. Interested?"

All day long, I was on the phone, making more than a dozen calls. I called newspapers, magazines, TV stations, and online media.

I categorized every bit of dirt I'd dug up on Karson and Camille in my previous life and blasted it out to every outlet I could find.

Some of it was legit, some vague enough to stir up rumors. The real stuff was enough to ruin them completely.

The rumors and half-truths were enough to keep them running around in circles, never catching a break.

That night, I lay back in the apartment Spencer arranged for me, slowly sipping coffee as I gazed at the city's nightscape through the window.

My phone rang. It was Karson.

I picked up.

"Yvette," Karson said, his voice low with barely suppressed anger. "Did you spread those stories?"

"What stories?" I feigned ignorance.

"Drop the act. Every major media outlet got slammed with dirt about Camille and me today. Who else would do it but you?" he snapped.

"Mr. Graham," I replied, "you've pissed off plenty of people. What makes you so sure it was me?"

He went silent for a long moment on the other end.

Karson's voice shifted. Gone was the anger, replaced by a kind of exhaustion I'd never heard from him before. "Yvette, what do you want?"

What did I want? Karson asked me what I wanted. I wanted him to taste the pain I suffered in my previous life. I wanted him to know what it was like to be abandoned by everyone.

I wanted him to bow before me, crying and begging for my forgiveness.

"Mr. Graham," I said, "what I want is something you could never give me."

"What?" he said.

"Justice." I hung up. I tossed my phone onto the couch and closed my eyes.

I never got justice in my previous life, not as I lay dying. But this time, I was going to claim it myself.