1

The rain came down like it had something to prove—sharp, relentless, and just loud enough to drown out regret. From the second-floor window of her office above the Blue Note Lounge, Celeste Virelli watched the city blur behind streaks of water and neon. Manhattan always looked better in the rain. Softer. Like it was trying to apologize.

She lit a cigarette she wouldn’t smoke and let it burn between her fingers, the scent curling around her like memory. The office was dim, lit only by the amber glow of a banker’s lamp and the flicker of a dying candle. A record played low in the background—Chet Baker, all brass and heartbreak.

Celeste didn’t believe in love. Not anymore. But she believed in contracts. And she believed in consequences.

The buzzer rang.

She crushed the cigarette in a crystal ashtray and smoothed the silk of her blouse. No one came here by accident. If they found her, it meant they were desperate—or dangerous. Sometimes both.

She opened the door.

The woman standing there was porcelain-perfect, with eyes like polished steel and a coat that cost more than most people’s rent. She didn’t smile.

“You’re Celeste Virelli?”

Celeste nodded.

The woman stepped inside, dripping elegance and something colder. “I need proof. And I need him to pay.”

Celeste gestured to the chair across from her desk. “Then let’s talk about your prenup.”

The woman sat. The door clicked shut behind her.

Outside, the city kept weeping. Inside, the game had just begun.

Celeste poured two fingers of bourbon into a cut-glass tumbler and slid it across the desk. Vivienne didn’t touch it.

“I don’t usually take walk-ins,” Celeste said, settling into her chair. “But you’re not a walk-in, are you?”

Vivienne crossed her legs with the kind of grace that came from years of being watched. “No. I do yoga with a woman named Elise. She said you helped her… rebalance her life.”

Celeste’s mouth curved slightly. Elise had been a hedge fund wife with a Cartier ankle monitor and a husband who thought NDAs were a substitute for fidelity. “Elise is flexible. I’m glad she’s found her center.”

Vivienne’s lips twitched. “She said you don’t advertise. That you only work by referral.”

“I don’t need to advertise,” Celeste said. “The women who need me always find me. Eventually.”

Vivienne leaned forward, her voice low. “My husband is Julian Cross.”

Celeste didn’t blink, but the name landed like a dropped match. Julian Cross—tech mogul, media darling, and the kind of man who wore charm like a tailored suit. She’d seen his face on magazine covers and IPO billboards. He was the kind of client Celeste usually avoided: too public, too powerful, too many eyes.

“I see,” Celeste said, folding her hands. “And what makes you think he’s cheating?”

Vivienne hesitated. “He’s changed. He’s colder. He travels without telling me. Passwords I used to know are suddenly encrypted. And he’s… careful. Too careful.”

Celeste studied her. “And your prenup?”

Vivienne reached into her handbag and slid a folder across the desk. “Fidelity clause. If he cheats, I get half. Plus spousal support.”

Celeste flipped it open, scanning the language. Ironclad. Brutal. Delicious.

“And you want confirmation,” she said.

Vivienne nodded. “I want him to fall into the trap. I want him to choose it. I want to watch him do it.”

Celeste closed the folder. “You understand what I do. I don’t follow him with a camera. I don’t dig through his trash. I become the temptation. If he takes the bait, it’s over.”

Vivienne’s eyes didn’t waver. “That’s exactly what I want.”

Celeste stood and walked to the window, watching the rain smear the city into watercolor. “Then we begin tomorrow. I’ll need a photo of him. His schedule. His habits. And a list of his weaknesses.”

Vivienne rose, smoothing her coat. “He likes brunettes with sharp tongues and expensive shoes.”

Celeste turned, her brown eyes catching the light. “Then he’s already halfway mine.”