Part Three: The Reckoning

The sea bass was perfect.

Scarlett ate every bite. Not because she was hungry—she hadn’t felt hunger in years. She ate because it was delicious, and because Alexander had remembered, and because refusing would have been a waste of something precious.

She finished her meal alone.

Then she looked down at her black dress. The same high-necked, long-sleeved one she had worn to dinner. It was elegant enough for a gala. Alexander had chosen the restaurant, and he had known she would go straight to the event from here. He had planned it that way.

She stood up, smoothed the fabric over her hips, and walked out.

The Mercedes was waiting.

“The gala,” she said.

The driver nodded.

The venue was a converted warehouse in TriBeCa, all exposed brick and crystal chandeliers. Scarlett had been here once before, three years ago, when Richard was still pretending to love her.

She walked through the front door without an invitation.

No one stopped her.

Security parted like the Red Sea. Alexander’s people. They had been expecting her.

She found Richard near the bar. He was laughing with a group of men in expensive suits. His face was flushed with champagne and confidence. He looked handsome. Charming. The kind of man women smiled at on the street.

Then he saw her.

His smile flickered. “Scarlett. What are you doing here?”

“We need to talk.”

“Now is not the time—”

“Now is the only time.”

She stepped closer. Close enough that only he could hear her.

“Alexander Morgan owns your company now,” she said quietly. “Every building. Every loan. Every partnership. It’s all gone, Richard. You have nothing.”

His face went pale. Then red. “You’re lying.”

“Check your phone.”

He pulled out his phone. Scrolled. His hands started shaking.

“You stupid bitch,” he whispered. “What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything. You did this to yourself.”

His hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. Hard. The same grip he had used a hundred times before. The grip that meant he would hurt her later, in private, where no one could see.

“We’re leaving,” he said through his teeth.

“No.”

“Scarlett—”

“No.”

She didn’t pull away. She stood perfectly still and looked him in the eye.

“Take your hand off me,” she said. “Or I will scream so loud every reporter in this room will hear. And then I will show them the bruises on my wrist. The ones you just made.”

His grip tightened.

“There are cameras everywhere, Richard. Alexander made sure of it.”

Richard looked up. Toward the ceiling. Toward the walls. Black domes in every corner.

His hand dropped.

“You’ll regret this,” he said.

“I already regret three years,” Scarlett replied. “What’s one more?”

She turned and walked away.

She made it to the coat check before her legs gave out. She leaned against the wall and pressed her palms against her eyes. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps.

“You did well.”

Alexander’s voice. Close. Too close.

She opened her eyes.

He stood a few feet away, hands in his pockets, watching her. His expression was unreadable.

“He’s going to kill me,” she said.

“No. He’s not.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.” Alexander stepped closer. “Because I’ve already filed a restraining order. I’ve already transferred security to your house. I’ve already assigned a detail to follow you everywhere you go for the next six months.”

“You can’t just—”

“I can. I did. And you’re going to accept it, because you’re not stupid, and you know Richard better than anyone.”

She wanted to argue. She wanted to push him away. She wanted to go back to her cold bathroom floor and count the cracks in the tile and pretend none of this was happening.

But she was tired of pretending.

“Why?” she asked. “Why now? After ten years?”

Alexander was silent for a long moment.

Then he reached into his jacket and pulled out a photograph. Old. Worn at the edges. He handed it to her.

It was a picture of the two of them. Ten years younger. She was laughing at something off-camera. He was looking at her like she was the sun.

“I carried this in my wallet every day,” he said. “Even when I hated you. Even when I told myself you were dead to me.”

She stared at the photograph.

“I didn’t come back because you were in trouble,” he said quietly. “I came back because I never left.”

Scarlett looked up at him.

His eyes were wet.

The Ice King of Wall Street was crying.

Not for her. Not for what he had lost. But for what she had become. A woman who counted bathroom cracks instead of fighting back. A woman who had forgotten her own strength.

“I can’t do this,” she whispered.

“Do what?”

“Let you save me.”

“I’m not saving you.” He took the photograph from her hands and tucked it back into his jacket. “I’m giving you the tools to save yourself. What you do with them is your choice.”

He stepped back.

“There’s a car outside. It will take you anywhere you want to go. Your house. A hotel. An airport.” He paused. “My penthouse.”

Her breath caught.

“The choice is yours, Scarlett. It always was.”

He turned and walked away.

Scarlett stood alone in the coat check, surrounded by strangers’ jackets, holding nothing but her own two hands.

She thought about the bathroom floor. The seven cracks. The blood in the sink. The concealer that was almost empty.

Then she thought about the sea bass. Perfectly cooked. Just the way she liked it.

She walked outside.

The car was waiting.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

Scarlett looked up at the night sky. The stars were invisible behind the city lights. But she knew they were there. Hidden. Waiting.

“His penthouse,” she said.

The driver nodded.

And for the first time in three years, Scarlett Hayes did not feel like a victim.

She felt like a woman who was about to remind the Ice King of Wall Street exactly why he had never been able to forget her.

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