Vic's father's voice tore through the car speakers like a gunshot.
"You stupid little fucker! What the hell did you do?! The Thompsons pulled out! Do you know what that means?"
Vic's knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. "Dad, I—"
"Save it! You leaked the press kits without clearance! We're fucked! You dumb, arrogant prick, you just tanked the biggest deal we've had in five years!"
Vic exploded. "I was trying to help the fucking company! You're the one who—!"
Maya blinked up at him sweetly. Sat quiet in the passenger seat while a storm brewed inches away. Vic cursed, slapped the steering wheel so hard it echoed. The car swerved a little. She didn't flinch.
"Fuck this," he growled. He pulled over fast, unbuckled. "I need a fucking second."
And then he was gone—door slammed shut, footsteps pounding off down the sidewalk.
Maya waited two seconds. Then she slid across the leather seat like a shadow, grabbed his phone, and moved quick. Fingers flying. Text threads. Emails. Voicemails. She wasn't looking for gossip—she was looking for power.
And she found it.
Names. Dates. Blackmail plans. Discussions with his mother. The group's media strategy. And most importantly, his father's exact schedule for tonight—some sketchy hotel in Midtown, 8 PM sharp. She screenshotted everything, sent it to herself, and deleted the evidence just as Vic came stomping back.
She locked the screen and smiled.
"Everything okay?" she asked, voice soft, sugary.
He squinted. "Why are you being so… normal lately?"
She shrugged, casual. "Maybe I'm tired of drama."
He studied her face like he didn't trust it. She looked calm. She looked good. Too good. But he said nothing.
Vic dropped her off in front of her grandmother's house just past seven.
"Don't wait up," he said, still pissy. "I got some damage control to do."
Maya leaned into the open window, touched his shoulder lightly. "You'll fix it. You're smart. Just… be careful."
She turned before he could respond, disappeared behind the gate.
The second the door shut behind her, Maya sprinted upstairs.
She tossed off her outfit, yanked open the box under her bed and pulled out her. The black wig. The deep blue contacts. The smoky palette. The dress—tight, short, plunging down her back like a sin. Stilettos that clicked with intent.
She wasn't Maya anymore. She was Elle.
Text to Sally:
"He'll be there at 8. We hit at 9. You got the drug?"
Sally replied with a skull emoji and "Already on it."
Mr. Delacroix was already on his second whiskey when she walked into the hotel bar.
He looked up—and froze. "Elle?"
She smiled, coy. "I thought I'd never run into you again…"
He grinned, the sleaze practically dripping off his teeth. "You're hard to forget."
She sat beside him like a silk whisper. Legs crossed. Smile dangerous. He couldn't keep his eyes off her thighs.
"You here alone?" he asked.
"Would it matter?" she countered, brushing her fingers across the rim of her glass.
He chuckled. "Dinner?"
She pretended to hesitate, then tilted her head. "Sure. I'm starving."
Dinner was easy. He talked too much, drank too fast. She laughed at the right moments, leaned forward at the perfect angle. She knew exactly how much skin to show, how much mystery to keep. The girls watched from a distance, cameras out, catching every compromising angle. But Maya knew this wasn't enough. Not yet.
As he reached for the check, she rested her hand on his. "Why don't we keep the night going?"
His eyes lit up like Christmas. "What do you have in mind?"
"Something… younger."
He smirked. "There's a club right upstairs. Private access. You in?"
"I'm always in."
The club was rich. Lit in red. Too loud to think, but perfect for not being seen. He dragged her to the dancefloor, gripping her waist, pulling her into him like he owned her. She played along, laughing, twirling, swaying against him just enough to keep him hooked. But her eyes kept darting toward the bar.
Where the hell were they?
She slipped away once. Bathroom break. Then again. Still no sign. Her stomach twisted.
And that's when she saw them—Sally and Luna, dressed like shadows, heading straight for the bartender.
Good.
Back on the floor, Mr. Delacroix got bolder. Hands sliding down her back. Lips near her neck. She tensed.
"You smell like fucking temptation," he whispered.
"You're drunk," she said, still smiling.
He didn't stop. He liked it messy.
But then the next round arrived—vodka, double. His favorite.
He downed it fast. Ten minutes later, his grip loosened. His feet staggered. His words slurred.
She wrapped an arm around him, "Come on. Let's go upstairs. You need to lie down."
He nodded, smiling like an idiot.
The hotel suite was already booked—paid in cash.
Inside, Sally and Luna were waiting. As soon as she dragged him in, they closed the door behind her.
"Let's make this quick," Maya said, voice steel.
They stripped him. Took the photos. Close-ups. Full body. Everything. Proof of everything he was. Enough to destroy his marriage, career, reputation.
He snored loudly on the bed, out cold.
Maya adjusted her wig in the mirror, adrenaline buzzing.
"Let's go," she whispered.
They left fast. Laughed in the elevator. Whispered about freedom, about how close they were to ending it all.
But just as they hit the lobby—
"Shit," Maya hissed. "My bag. Upstairs."
"Girl, leave it!" Luna begged.
"It has the phone. My phone."
She turned back, heels clicking like gunshots.
She reached the room just as the door creaked open.
And that's when she saw him.
Eddie.
Eyes blazing. Jaw tight. And right behind him—Jackie, phone in hand, victorious grin on her face.
Maya froze. Eddie looked her up and down. The wig. The makeup. The dress.
"What the fuck is this?" he barked.
Maya's lips parted, but before she could speak, he stormed into the room—saw Delacroix passed out and half-naked on the bed.
He turned back, grabbed Maya by the wrist hard. "What the fuck are you doing?!"
"Let go of me!"
"Are you selling yourself now? Huh?! You need money that bad? Is Vic making you do this?!"
"It's not what you think—!"
"Why are you acting like a whore, Maya?!"
And that's when she slapped him.
Loud. Sharp. Final.
His head snapped to the side.
"You don't get to call me that. Not after everything."
She snatched her bag and turned on her heel.
He didn't follow.
Back at her grandmother's house, Maya collapsed on the floor with Sally and Luna, breathless. Laughing. Shaking. But alive.
They'd done it.
She was free.
And the war had just begun.