My husband fired me in front of four hundred people beneath the crystal chandeliers of the Grand Meridian,

The safehouse was a nondescript brownstone in Brooklyn Heights, registered to a shell company affiliated with Camden’s personal divorce attorney.

It was nearly midnight when Arthur’s car pulled up to the curb. Rain had begun to fall, slicking the cobblestone streets and turning the city lights into blurred smears of neon.

Arthur stayed in the car with two private security guards while I walked up the stone steps alone. I pressed the buzzer.

No answer. I pressed it again, holding it down for five long seconds.

Finally, the small peephole slid open. A pair of tired, mascara-smudged eyes looked out at me. The peephole slammed shut.

"Go away, Nora!" Sloane’s voice came muffled through the heavy wood. "My lawyer told me not to speak to anyone from Vale & Royce! If you don't leave, I’m calling the police!"

"Call them, Sloane," I said calmly, leaning toward the door. "Tell them to bring the Special Investigations Unit from the Attorney General’s office. I'm sure they’d love to know where you're staying."

Silence hung behind the door. Then came the rattle of three separate deadbolts being unlatched.

The door swung inward.

Sloane Mercer looked like a ghost of the woman who had applauded my humiliation at the Grand Meridian. The glamorous red silk was gone, replaced by an oversized gray sweatshirt and faded leggings. Her blond hair was pulled into a messy knot, her skin pale, with dark purple hollows under her eyes. The living room behind her was a disaster of takeout containers, half-empty wine bottles, and scattered legal documents.

"What do you want?" she spat, crossing her arms defensively. "You've already won, haven't you? You took the company. You had me blacklisted from every agency in the city. What else is there to take?"

"I want the truth, Sloane," I said, stepping past her into the hallway.

She turned around, her eyes flashing with defensive venom. "I gave the truth to Camden’s lawyers. The affidavit is filed. On Monday morning, your shares are frozen. You think you can waltz into this company and erase the last five years of work Camden and I did? You're a tourist in your mother's empire, Nora."

I didn't engage with the insults. I walked over to the cluttered dining table, moved aside an empty pizza box, and set Camden’s burner phone in the center of the wood.

Beside it, I placed a printed dossier of the draft emails Camden had prepared for the federal prosecutors.

Sloane stared at the documents, her arms still crossed tightly against her chest. "What is that?"

"It’s your severance package from Camden," I said.

She hesitated, her eyes darting between my face and the paper. Slowly, almost against her will, she stepped closer and looked down at the first page.

It was an email addressed to the chief of the SEC’s enforcement division, dated three weeks ago, written from Camden’s private account. It detailed the creation of Mercer Strategic Partners, presenting Sloane as the rogue mastermind who had forged Camden’s initials, manipulated the community relations budget, and deceived the executive committee. Attached were falsified internal memos bearing her signature.

Sloane’s breath caught in her throat. Her hand trembled as she turned to the second page—a draft immunity petition Camden’s criminal defense team had prepared, offering full cooperation against Sloane Mercer in exchange for non-prosecution of Camden Royce.

"No..." Sloane whispered, her eyes widening in horror. "No, this... this is fake. You made this."

"That came directly from the biometric safe in the Park Avenue penthouse," I said, my voice steady, merciless, and calm. "You signed that family court affidavit yesterday because Camden promised you that if you helped him freeze my shares, his lawyers would protect you. He lied to you, Sloane. Just like he lied to me for seven years."

Sloane sank into a dining chair, her legs giving out beneath her. She clutched the papers, her knuckles white, her chest heaving as the reality of her betrayal washed over her.

"He told me we were a team," she choked out, tears finally breaking through her defiance, tracking lines through her smeared makeup. "He told me he was leaving you because you were holding him back. He said that once he had the CEO seat, we would take the company public in Europe... he told me I was the only one who truly understood him."

"Camden doesn't have partners, Sloane," I said, looking down at her with a mixture of pity and revulsion. "He has stepping stones. You were just the one he planned to use to cross the river. And the moment the water got deep, he was going to push your head under so he could keep his chin dry."

Sloane buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking violently as she wept. The ruthless, arrogant strategist was completely gone, reduced to a terrified young woman facing the wreckage of her life.

"I’m going to prison," she sobbed. "I signed those transfers. He made me use my personal laptop so his hands would look clean. I’m going to lose everything."

I pulled a second document from my coat—a formal, legally binding proffer agreement drafted by Arthur Vance two hours ago.

I placed it in front of her.

"You don't have to go to prison alone, Sloane," I said. "This is an agreement with my legal team and the corporate special committee. If you execute a full, sworn recantation of that affidavit by eight o'clock tomorrow morning—and if you hand over every audio recording, text message, and encrypted email Camden ever sent you regarding the embezzlement—we will submit a letter of substantial assistance to the Attorney General."

Sloane looked up, her tear-stained face pale and desperate. "Substantial assistance?"

"We won't guarantee you immunity," I said honestly. "You committed a crime, and you will have to answer for your part in it. But you won't take the fall for Camden’s empire. You will be a cooperating witness against the man who tried to destroy us both."

Sloane looked at the pen resting on the table. She looked at Camden’s draft emails—the proof that the man she had loved had prepared her execution long before he ever fired me on that stage.

She picked up the pen.

"I have recordings," Sloane whispered, her voice hardening with a sudden, venomous clarity. "He made me record the board members during private dinners so he could blackmail them if they voted against his compensation package. I have him on tape admitting that the community funds were stolen to pay off his personal margin debt."

She looked at me, her eyes hollow, but resolved.