Chapter 7: Leverage in Lace.

Ariella’s POV

The morning after the board meeting, Damon was colder than usual. No threats. No raised tone. Just silence and the sharp efficiency of a man recalculating control.

“You’ll be accompanying me to tonight’s charity auction,” he said, eyes never leaving his tablet. “Wear red. Nothing too revealing. No one needs to know you’re working a strategy.”

I nodded. “Of course, husband.”

He paused. The word pricked. He didn’t like sarcasm, especially not when it dripped sweetly.

After he left, I called my stylist. Told her I wanted every seam to suggest devotion and every slit to whisper defiance. Lace, diamonds, perfume sharp enough to be a weapon.

That night, the cameras followed us from car to carpet. Damon wrapped his arm around. I smiled for the crowd, for the lenses, for the illusion.

Inside, the ballroom pulsed with wealth. But the real deals happened in whispers. Damon was drawn into conversation with a senator’s wife. I excused myself to the bar.

Marcus was already there.

He didn’t greet me. Just lifted his glass and murmured, “He’s watching you through someone else tonight. Third floor balcony.”

I didn’t flinch. “Then let’s give him a show.”

I touched Marcus’s hand lightly, lingered a moment too long, let the camera flashes catch it. His eyes flicked upward, where Damon’s planted spy would be watching.

“I need that list,” I said under my breath.

“It’s coming. He’s encrypted his flight records. The informant’s working on it.”

I stepped back and smiled like we were sharing a joke. “Tell your boss I’m devoted.”

Marcus’s mouth twitched. “And deadly.”

Back at Damon’s side, I leaned into him, fingers brushing his jaw. “Miss me?”

He kissed my temple. “You're learning.”

“Am I passing the test?”

He didn’t answer.

Back home, the folder was waiting. The informant delivered through the usual route: a package in the kitchen, hidden under imported fruits. The note inside read:

“Every plane has a fail-safe. Damon’s is named Achilles.”

Attached was a manifest. Hidden beneath fake fuel logs and routine charters were private landings at a property outside Panama, properties never declared to the board.

I head the name Achilles, and a chill slid down my spine. Every empire had a point of failure. A weak heel, a single thread that, once pulled, unraveled everything. Achilles wasn’t just his codename. It was the promise that even Damon Thorne could bleed. Or maybe… I was the weapon meant to make him.

At midnight, I typed:

“What happens if I expose him?”

The reply came in five seconds.

“He’ll crush you. But not if you crush him first.”

I stared at the message. Then, slowly, typed.

“Send me Achilles.”

The next morning, I played the wife again. Poured coffee. Touched his shoulder. Kissed him when he left.

Once the door shut, I called Marcus.

“Tonight. We leak half.”

He hesitated. “Half?”

“If we give it all, he’ll know who. If we give just enough, he’ll panic. I want to see what he protects first.”

He stayed quiet too long. “You’re not playing safe,” he said eventually.

“Safe won’t shake him,” I snapped. “I need him to scramble. I need to see what he hides when the spotlight hits.”

“You’re gambling on panic,” he said. “That’s not strategy. That’s war.”

“Then call it what it is,” I said. “I didn’t come here to play fair.”

“No,” I said. “I’m playing to win.”

The leak made headlines by noon.

“Thorne Jet Linked to Undeclared Landings: Corporate Loophole or Hidden Operation?”

Damon stormed into the penthouse like a man mid-hunt. He didn’t yell. He didn’t throw anything.

He simply poured himself a drink and asked, “Did you leak it?”

I met his gaze. “Why would I?”

I smirked like a queen already sharpening the blade romantically. He wiped her mouth and said mockingly. “Because you’ve started wearing red. And smiling in places you used to frown.”

“Maybe I’m just happy,” I said.

“Liar,” he murmured, stepping closer. “But beautiful.”

He traced a finger along my collarbone. “You forget, Ariella, I built the cage. I know every exit.”

“Then maybe I’ll stop looking for one,” I whispered.

He kissed me.

Hard.

Like he wanted to own the truth before it came out.

But for one flash of a moment, I saw something else in his eyes. Not just control. Not just possession. Confusion. Doubt. A flicker of fear. He was wondering if I still belonged to him, or if I’d already left.

Later, I met Marcus in the parking level of the hotel. He handed me a flash drive.

“Achilles flight footage. Passenger logs. Hidden properties. And, this,” he handed over a sealed envelope “from the informant.”

Inside, a single note:

“He’s already planning your replacement.”

My heart didn’t race. It froze.

The name Damon carved into contracts was now carving me out. Just like that.

“Find out who,” I said. “And fast.”

Marcus nodded. “You sure you want to keep playing the romance angle?”

Meet me upstairs,” a voice said from the shadows.

I followed the informant into a maintenance hallway. But the tone was sharp. “It’s not just a woman,” he said. “It’s a plan. One that erases you, on paper, in memory, in legal standing.”

“Who is she?” I asked.

“Someone cleaner. Easier. Someone who won’t fight. Someone who doesn’t know Panama exists.”

“Why now?”

“Because you're unpredictable. He doesn’t kill what he can replace. And he doesn’t destroy what he can quietly bury.”

I looked at the envelope again.

“So what do I do?”

He stepped closer. “Make him fall in love with the threat. And then become the weapon he forgot he built.”

I walked away with a different plan.

“Until it stops working,” I said, “or until he kisses me with a knife.”

That night, I put on the dress Damon liked most. Sat across from him at dinner. Played soft, sweet but dangerous.

And when he looked away, I smiled, just enough to make him wonder who I’d become.

Because survival wasn’t the goal anymore.

Revenge was.