False Revenge

"I will attend to you in a while, please be patient." Cora said.

"We are running late on time." The crowd roared.

The rain came down in heavy sheets, soaking the cracked pavement of Brooklyn’s narrow streets as Cora Black weaved through the late-night crowd outside the coffee shop.

Her coat was too thin, her boots were worn through, and her fingers trembled as she clutched her umbrella against the wind. Inside the café, the warmth barely registered,just another night shift in a string of endless ones.

She wiped down the counters mechanically, her mind elsewhere. It had been three days since she last painted, two weeks since she’d gotten more than four hours of sleep, and three months since her brother Caleb’s condition worsened.

The hospital bills were coming in faster than she could pay. Even with two jobs and her freelance commissions, the money disappeared as soon as it landed in her account.

“Cora,” came the voice of her manager, Will, peering out from behind the office door. “You’re clocked out. Go home.”

She blinked, glancing at the wall clock. 10:15 p.m. Her shift had ended fifteen minutes ago. “Sorry,” she mumbled, yanking off her apron.

“You okay?” Will asked, kindly.

“Yeah. Just tired.”

Will gave her a sympathetic nod. “Get some rest. You’ve earned it.”

Outside, her best friend Rox waited under the bus stop awning, wrapped in a coat and flashing her signature lipstick-red smile.

“There she is,” Rox said, linking her arm with Cora’s. “The artist-turned-barista-turned-human-punching-bag.”

“I’m not in the mood, Roxy.”

“Exactly why we’re going out. My birthday, remember?”

Cora groaned. “I thought we were just grabbing drinks. Somewhere low-key.”

“Plans have changed. I got us on the list for Vesper. My birthday, my rules.”

Cora froze. “You mean the Vesper? The one that turns people away in $5,000 heels?”

“Girl, don’t start. I have a dress for you. And makeup. And a cab waiting. Just say yes.”

Cora hesitated, the weight of her responsibilities crashing down on her like a second downpour. But Rox was relentless—and somewhere deep inside, Cora was tired of saying no to life.

“Fine. One drink.”

“Atta girl.”

By midnight, they stood outside Vesper, the line wrapping around the block but Rox was right, her name was on the list, and within minutes, they were whisked through velvet ropes and into a world of gold light and pulsating music.

The club was a cathedral of excess, crystal chandeliers reflected across glass walls, bass-heavy music vibrating through the marble floors, and people who looked more like fashion ads than partygoers.

Cora tugged at the borrowed black dress, feeling exposed and completely out of place.

“Stop fidgeting,” Rox hissed. “You look hot. Trust me.”

Cora scanned the crowd, her artist’s mind already cataloguing colors and contrasts: the sharp reds of lipstick, the cool silvers of tailored suits, the dark glint of something dangerous hovering beneath all that beauty.

That’s when she saw him, Harvey Pritchard.

He stood near the bar, drink in hand, wearing a midnight-black suit that clung to his frame like it was made for him. His jawline was sculpted, his hair tousled just enough to look effortless, and his eyes were fixed directly on her.

“Cora” Rox's voice came out sharp. “Do not engage.”

“Who is he?” she whispered, unable to look away.

“That is Harvey Pritchard. Tech billionaire, scandal magnet, cold as ice. Don’t stare back. He’s like a panther, give him attention and he’ll pounce.”

But Harvey was already moving, weaving through the crowd like the sea parted for him. And when he reached her, he didn’t say hello nor smile, he simply offered a glass of something golden and said, “You look like you don’t belong here. That’s the most interesting thing I’ve seen all night.”

Rox's eyes widened, Cora hesitated. Then, against every instinct, she took the glass.

“Then let’s give you something more interesting,” she said.

They sat in a private booth, Harvey ordering drinks with a subtle nod, the waitstaff responding as if he owned the place.

Rox hovered nearby at first, wary, but Harvey's charm seemed to ease even her concerns. Eventually, she drifted off to the dance floor, leaving Cora alone with him.

“You don’t strike me as someone who belongs in a place like this,” Harvey said, sipping his drink.

“I don’t,” Cora replied honestly. “My friend dragged me here.”

“She has good instincts.”

“I’m not some party girl, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I wasn’t,” he said smoothly. “You’re different. You are not pretending or anything, and I like that.”

She flushed, uncomfortable under the intensity of his gaze. “What do you do, exactly?”

“I build things. Systems, Empires...” He paused, his voice quieting. “Control them.”

“That sounds… ominous.”

He smiled for the first time, just slightly. “Only to people who think control is a bad thing.”

Cora wasn’t sure how to respond to that. But before she could, he stood and extended a hand. “Come. I want to show you something.”

Every warning bell in her mind went off. But she took his hand anyway.

His penthouse was at the top of a tower she’d only seen in skyline photos. The elevator was private. The ride was silent. She stared at their reflection in the mirrored walls, how small she looked next to him.

When the doors opened, her breath caught. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed the city glittering below. Everything inside gleamed, modern, sterile, cold.