Chapter 7

~CLAIRE POV~

{FLASHBACK BEFORE SHE RETURNED TO NEW YORK OR BOUGHT THE PENTHOUSE}

"Darling, you're overthinking this," Alexander said, lounging against my Swiss penthouse kitchen counter with that insufferably attractive smirk of his.

"Revenge should be fun, not a doctoral thesis."

I looked up from the color-coded spreadsheet I had been creating…Richard's schedule, his favorite restaurants, his gym times, his coffee shop preference….and realized he was right.

Somewhere between "strategic planning" and "psychological warfare," I had forgotten the most important part of this whole plan.

I was supposed to be enjoying myself.

"You're right," I said, closing my laptop with a decisive snap.

"This isn't a military operation. It's a fashion show, and Richard Blackwood is about to get front row seats to the woman he threw away."

Alexander's grin widened. "Now you're talking. So, what's the first act?"

Three hours later, we were tearing through every designer boutique in Geneva like a hurricane with an unlimited credit card.

"This dress," I said, holding up a stunning red number that hugged every curve I had spent months perfecting, "says 'you could have had this.'"

Alexander tilted his head, considering. "Hmm. What about that one?" He pointed to a backless black creation that was pure sin in silk form.

"That one says 'you never deserved this,'" I laughed, adding it to my growing pile.

"Perfect. We'll take both." Alexander's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Richard always said you looked terrible in red, didn't he?"

"He did." The memory should have stung, but instead it felt like fuel. "He said it clashed with my skin tone."

"Then we're buying every red dress in Geneva." Alexander signaled to the sales associate, who was practically vibrating with commission-induced joy.

"My fiancée needs to make a statement."

The word 'fiancée' still sent a little thrill through me, even though we both knew it was performance art.

Alexander wore the role of devoted billionaire boyfriend like a perfectly tailored suit—natural, effortless, and devastatingly convincing.

"Sir has excellent taste," the associate poured out, her French accent making everything sound like poetry.

"Mademoiselle, you are magnifique in these colors. This red, it makes you glow like fire."

I caught my reflection in the boutique's three-way mirror and barely recognized myself.

Gone was the woman who had changed her entire wardrobe to match Richard's preferences.

This woman chose clothes that made her feel powerful, not palatable.

"We'll take the red dress in three different styles," I decided. "And throw in that burgundy blazer. And the emerald cocktail dress."

Alexander leaned against a display case, watching me with noticeable fondness. "You know what the best part is?"

"What?”

"You're not shopping to please him anymore. You're shopping to torture him."

I grinned, holding up a dress that was so stunning it should probably be illegal. "Is that terrible of me?"

"Darling, revenge fashion is a time-honored tradition. We're just doing it with better funding than most."

*******************

"I want to see every penthouse with a clear view of Richard's office," I told the real estate agent, who was trying very hard not to look confused by my extremely detailed requirements.

"Certainly, Miss Winfred. This property offers spectacular Manhattan views…"

"Can I see his building from the master bedroom?" I interrupted.

"Well... yes, but…”

"Perfect. What about the kitchen? Living room? I want to have my morning coffee while watching him work himself to death."

Alexander snorted with laughter behind me.

"She is very particular about her views," he explained to the increasingly bewildered agent.

The woman…Patricia something-or-other—smiled weakly. "Of course. The telescopic views are quite... comprehensive."

"Telescope-friendly is exactly what I am looking for," I said sweetly. "I am an amateur astronomer."

"She studies celestial bodies," Alexander added helpfully. "Very dedicated to her... observations."

I shot him a look that promised revenge later, but could not stop the smile tugging at my lips.

This was the most fun I had had in years, and that included my year of self-improvement in Switzerland.

When we finally found the perfect penthouse….top floor, corner unit, with a direct sight line to Blackwood Industries…I signed the lease without even asking about the price.

"Excellent choice," Patricia said, practically drooling over her commission. "Will you be needing interior design services?"

"Already handled," Alexander replied smoothly. "My fiancée has very specific tastes."

*********************

"I want to glow so bright Richard needs sunglasses," I announced to my aesthetician, who looked delighted by the challenge.

"Ah, revenge beauty treatment," she said with knowing eyes. "We make you shine like a diamond, yes?"

For the next three hours, I was plucked, polished, and pampered until I felt like a new woman.

Diamond microdermabrasion, oxygen facials, LED light therapy—every treatment is designed to make me look like I've discovered the fountain of youth.

Alexander waited in the spa's lounge, looking perfectly at home surrounded by women in fluffy robes and face masks.

"How are you not uncomfortable being the only man here?" I asked when I came out, glowing like I had been lit from within.

"Please. I grew up with three sisters. This is nothing." He stood up and whistled low. "Though I have to say, the results are spectacular."

I caught my reflection in the spa's floor-to-ceiling mirrors and barely recognized myself.

My skin looked porcelain-perfect, my eyes brighter, my lips naturally fuller from the treatments.

"Richard's going to take one look at you and swallow his tongue," Alexander continued, circling me appreciatively.

"That's the plan."

"And Monica's probably going to have a complete breakdown."

"Even better."

He laughed, that rich sound that had become the soundtrack to my transformation. "I do love a woman with clear priorities."

*******************

"I want the biggest, most offensive engagement ring possible," I announced as we entered Tiffany & Co. "When Richard sees this, he should feel physically ill about that sad little chip he gave me."

The jewelry consultant's eyes lit up like Christmas morning. "I have just the thing."

Twenty minutes later, I was trying on a sapphire that was roughly the size of a quail egg, surrounded by diamonds that caught the light like captured stars.

"It's perfect," I breathed, watching the way it transformed my hand into something worthy of royalty.

"It's vulgar," Alexander said approvingly. "Absolutely perfect for our purposes."

"His ring cost twelve hundred dollars," I said, still staring at the sapphire. "He was so proud of being 'practical' instead of 'flashy.'"

"This one costs more than his car."

"I know." I wiggled my fingers, watching the diamonds throw rainbows across the boutique walls.

"Isn't it wonderful?"

As the consultant wrapped up the ring in layers of Tiffany blue tissue paper, I caught Alexander watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read.

"What?" I asked.

"Nothing. Just... this fake engagement is starting to feel suspiciously real."

For a moment, the playful atmosphere shifted into something more serious.

The weight of the ring on my finger, Alexander's presence beside me, the way he had been looking at me all day—it was dangerously easy to forget this was all performance.

"Alexander…."

"I know," he said quietly. "We are playing a game. I just wanted you to know... if this weren't about Richard, if you were not still in love with him..."

He didn't finish the sentence, but he didn't need to.

The atmosphere around us felt charged with possibility.

Amid our plans for revenge and shopping trips, we started to realize that something genuine was developing between us.

But I couldn't afford real. Not yet. Not when Richard still had the power to break my heart if I let him.

"Let's focus on the plan," I said gently.

Alexander nodded, the moment passing.

"Of course. Though I reserve the right to revisit this conversation after we have destroyed your ex-husband's peace of mind."

{PRESENT DAY}

"I*******m is a weapon, and you are about to learn how to use it," Alexander announced, positioning me on my penthouse terrace with the Manhattan skyline glittering behind me.

"I don't know how to pose," I protested.

"Tilt your chin up—perfect. Now laugh like you just heard the world's most delicious secret." I tried, but it came out forced and awkward.

"Think about Richard seeing this picture and realizing he will never be able to afford to take you somewhere this beautiful."

The laugh that bubbled up was genuine, throaty, and confident. Alexander's camera captured it perfectly.

"There she is," he murmured approvingly. "The woman who eats peasants for breakfast."

We spent the afternoon creating the perfect I*******m presence—shots of me in designer clothes, sipping champagne with Central Park spread below us, the engagement ring prominently displayed in every photo.

"The key," Alexander explained as he edited the photos with surprising skill, "is to look effortlessly happy. Not trying-too-hard happy, not look-how-much-better-I-am happy. Just... genuinely content with your amazing life."

"Were you secretly a social media influencer before you became a billionaire?"

"I have three sisters, remember? I learned photography in self-defense."

When we posted the engagement announcement, complete with a stunning shot of me in the red dress Richard had hated, my phone immediately started buzzing with notifications.

‘Holy shit, Claire! Girl, you GLOWED UP’

‘Is that the same Claire from college???’

‘That RING though’

‘Richard is probably crying into his cornflakes’

"It's working," I said, scrolling through the comments with growing satisfaction.

"Of course it's working. You look like a woman who wins at life." Alexander settled beside me on the couch, close enough that I could smell his cologne.

"The question is, what do we do when Richard inevitably reaches out?"

As if summoned by the question, my phone buzzed with a notification. Not a comment or a like—a direct message from an account I didn't recognize.

But the profile picture made my blood run cold. It was Richard. Different account, different username, but unmistakably him in his profile photo.

The message was short: ‘Welcome back Claire. We need to talk’

I showed Alexander the screen, my hand suddenly unsteady.

"Well," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "That was faster than expected."

"What do I do?"

"What do you want to do?"

I stared at the message, my heart doing complicated things in my chest. A year ago, any contact from Richard would have sent me into a spiral of hope and desperate joy.

Now...Now I felt powerful.

"I want to make him wait," I said finally.

"I want him to wonder if I even saw his message. I want him to sit in his office, staring at his phone, feeling exactly the way he made me feel."

Alexander's smile was proud and predatory. "My vicious little fiancée. I think I'm falling in love with your ruthless streak."

The words hung in the air between us, more truth than performance. But before I could interpret what that meant, my phone buzzed again.

Another message from Richard: ‘Ignoring me now, you think this is a game’

I laughed, the sound sharp and bright as champagne bubbles.

"Oh, but it is a game, Richard. And this time, I am playing to win." I closed the app without responding and turned to Alexander.

"So, darling, what is our next move?"

His grin was absolutely wicked. "How do you feel about making a very public appearance at his favorite restaurant tomorrow night?"

"I feel like it's time to remind Manhattan's elite exactly what Richard Blackwood threw away."

"Then let's go break some hearts."

As we started planning our next move, Richard's messages continued buzzing on my ignored phone. Each unanswered text was a tiny victory, a small payment on the debt he owed me.

The woman who had begged him to give us a chance was gone.

In her place was someone far more dangerous—a woman who had learned that the best revenge wasn't getting even.

It was getting everything.