3

Celeste never rushed a case. Especially not one like this.

Julian Cross wasn’t the usual mark—he didn’t reek of entitlement or wear his infidelity like a cologne. He was careful. Controlled. And, annoyingly, attractive.

Not in the usual way. Not the spray-tanned, gym-polished hedge fund type she was used to. Julian was tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair that curled slightly at the collar and a beard that looked like it was trimmed by someone with a PhD in symmetry. His eyes were green—sharp, unreadable. The kind of eyes that didn’t blink unless they meant to.

She pulled up his academic records first. MIT. Cornell. Dual degrees in computer engineering and behavioral economics. Of course. He wasn’t just smart—he was strategic. The kind of man who could build an empire and hide it behind a smile.

But Celeste wasn’t intimidated. She had a Juris Doctorate from Columbia, a minor in forensic psychology, and a résumé that included two years at one of the most cutthroat divorce firms in Manhattan. She’d walked away from that world when she realized she could make more money—and more impact—working for the women who couldn’t afford to lose.

She wasn’t just book smart. She was people smart. She could read a room faster than most people could read a headline. She knew when someone was lying by the way they blinked, when they were hiding something by the way they smiled.

And she’d need every ounce of that intuition now.

Because Julian Cross wasn’t like the others. He didn’t fit the mold. He was elusive, disciplined, and—according to Vivienne—had undergone a sudden, inexplicable shift. That was the crack. The fracture. The place to start digging.

She turned her attention to Vivienne. If there was any infidelity on her end, the prenup would collapse. Celeste dug deep—phone records, financials, social media metadata. Nothing. Vivienne was spotless. Her life was a curated gallery of charity events, wellness retreats, and designer brunches. If she was hiding something, she was doing it with the precision of a surgeon.

Celeste traced their relationship back to its origin: a tech conference in Lisbon, five years ago. Vivienne had been working PR for a luxury brand. Julian had been the keynote speaker. Their courtship had been fast, intense, and—by all accounts—genuine. He’d proposed within six months. Lavish wedding. Ironclad prenup.

For the first three years, he’d been publicly devoted. Photos of them laughing in Capri, holding hands in Tokyo, dancing at a gala in Vienna. No cracks. No shadows.

And then, six months ago, the pattern shifted. Fewer public appearances. A sudden trip to Dubai with no press. A canceled anniversary dinner. Vivienne said he’d grown cold. Distracted. Secretive.

Celeste didn’t believe in sudden changes. People didn’t just become someone else overnight. There was always a trigger. A fracture. A reason.

She opened a fresh notebook and began sketching her cover:

Name: Sloane March

Occupation: Behavioral consultant for high-performance executives

Background: Stanford MBA, boutique firm in Tribeca

Personality: Confident, curious, emotionally intelligent

Hook: She’d “accidentally” cross paths with Julian at a private tech roundtable in SoHo—an event she’d already arranged to be invited to.

She’d need to study his work, his language, his rhythms. She’d need to become someone he couldn’t resist—not because she was beautiful, but because she was a mirror. Someone who understood him. Reflected him. Challenged him.

This wasn’t a seduction. It was a simulation.

And the payout? One percent of over $500 million. Plus expenses.

This one would take longer. She’d have to dig deeper. But that was fine.

She liked puzzles.

Especially the ones that didn’t want to be solved.

Celeste closed the file and stood, stretching the tension from her shoulders. The city outside had shifted from rain-slicked gray to velvet dusk, the kind that made everything feel cinematic. She slipped on her coat, smoothed her hair, and caught her reflection in the darkened window.

Julian Cross.

She hated to admit it, but the thought of him—his voice, his precision, the way his eyes seemed to see without blinking—had her hot under the collar. And not just professionally. He was the kind of man who could make a woman forget herself for a night. And if things went according to plan, she’d be in his bed soon enough.

That part of the job didn’t usually excite her. Most of the men she seduced were predictable, performative, and deeply disappointing. But Julian? Julian might be different. And Celeste had always believed in indulging her appetites—so long as she stayed in control.

She pulled out her phone and typed a message.

You up? I’ve got cereal.

She hit send.

His name was Nate. They’d met at a grocery store two years ago, both reaching for the last box of cinnamon oat clusters. He’d let her have it. She’d laughed. They’d exchanged numbers. She invited him over for a bowl. They never finished it.

Nate was an architect. Not flashy. Not rich. He worked for a small firm in Brooklyn and lived in a modest but beautifully designed studio with warm wood floors and books stacked like sculpture. He never asked questions. Never pried. He just showed up when she needed him and left before the sun rose.

He was the one part of her life that didn’t require strategy.

Her phone buzzed.

Be there in 30. Bring milk?

Celeste smiled.

She locked the file on Julian Cross in her drawer, grabbed her keys, and headed out into the night—already imagining the taste of cinnamon and skin.