Chapter 3: Business Before Pleasure
The low thrum of a bassline vibrated up through the soles of my boots as the elevator descended. The air in the car shifted, growing warmer, tasting of cigar smoke and spilled bourbon. The Aurora’s jazz club, ‘The Vault’, was my father’s legacy project, a place of shadow and brass. Tonight, it felt like the perfect arena.
Minho walked beside me, a silent, brooding presence. A leather portfolio containing the final merger amendments was tucked under his arm. My own mind was elsewhere, replaying the dossier I’d spent the last forty-eight hours compiling on Celeste Dubois. Art history degree, unfinished. A string of vague ‘brand ambassador’ roles for bankrupt crypto startups. An apartment in a building owned by a notoriously lax LLC. A mother with a chronic, expensive illness. The foundation of her power was flimsy, propped up by favors and fascination. It was a house of cards. I just needed the right gust of wind.
Ethan had texted the location. At The Vault. Smoothing things over with the band’s manager. Join us? The ‘us’ had set my teeth on edge.
We pushed through the heavy soundproofed doors. The music hit first—a mournful, sultry saxophone weaving through the chatter and clink of glass. The light was amber and low, catching the sheen of velvet banquettes and the sweat on the brow of the trumpet player. I scanned the room, my gaze methodical. Bar. Stage. Booths.
Then I saw them.
In the circular VIP booth at the back, partially obscured by a haze of blue smoke, Celeste was a pale, possessive silhouette. She wasn’t sitting beside Ethan. She was straddling him, her back to the room, her spine a deliberate curve. Her hips moved in a slow, grinding circle. Ethan’s head lolled against the velvet cushion, his eyes closed, his face slack. Not drunk. Wasted. A half-empty bottle of Glenfiddich sat on the table beside an overflowing ashtray.
Celeste’s hands were framing his face, and as we watched, she bent him backward, sealing his mouth with hers. It was a performance of ownership, sloppy and desperate and calculated.
Minho stiffened beside me, a low growl forming in his throat. “I’ll kill him.”
“No.” The word came out flat, analytical. My heart was a cold, hard stone in my chest. This wasn’t a betrayal of affection—we had none. This was a betrayal of terms. A breach of contract. A monumental, stupid, strategic error.
I felt it then, the shift. The furious heat banked, replaced by a glacial clarity. This was the pressure point. Not hers. His.
I pulled my phone from my clutch. I switched it to silent. I opened the camera.
“What are you doing?” Minho whispered, horrified.
“Due diligence,” I murmured, and raised the phone.
The screen glowed in the dim light. I zoomed in. The image was stark, cinematic in its depravity. Celeste’s profile, her triumphant, closed-lidded expression. Ethan’s limp hands resting on her thighs. I took three rapid shots. Different angles. Unmistakable.
I took a step forward, then another, Minho trailing behind me like a storm cloud. The music swelled, covering our approach.
We were ten feet away when Celeste’s eyes flickered open. She saw me over Ethan’s shoulder. Her smirk was immediate, viscous with victory. She deepened the kiss, a final, vulgar display, then slowly peeled herself away. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, her eyes never leaving mine.
“Look who’s here, darling,” she cooed, tapping Ethan’s cheek. “Your future wife. Come to join the party?”
Ethan stirred, his eyes bleary and unfocused. He tried to focus on me, confusion drowning in the alcohol. “Tracey? What’re you…”
I didn’t look at him. I kept my eyes on Celeste, a small, polite smile on my lips. I lowered my phone, sliding it back into my clutch. “Celeste. You seem to be fond of repeating your performances. This one lacks the aquatic flair of the last one, but I suppose the setting is appropriate.”
Her smirk faltered for a second. She’d expected screams. Tears. A scene to match Minho’s shattered glass. She hadn’t expected calm appraisal.
“He was feeling nostalgic,” she said, running a finger down Ethan’s stubbled jaw. He flinched, finally pushing weakly at her waist. She didn’t move.
“Clearly.” I gestured to the portfolio under Minho’s arm. “We were just finalizing the merger documents. The clause regarding public conduct and moral turpitude is particularly robust. You should have your lawyer look it over, Ethan. Given your current… proclivities.”
Ethan managed to shove Celeste off him. She slithered to the side, her robe—a different one, dry this time—gaping open. “Baby, it’s not what it looks like,” he slurred, trying to stand and falling back into the cushions.
“It looks exactly like what it is,” I said, my voice cutting through the saxophone’s wail. “It looks like a liability.” I turned my full attention to him. The man I was to marry. He was a ruin of good tailoring and bad decisions. “You asked me not to do anything yet. I didn’t. I observed. This,” I said, gesturing to the booth, the bottle, her, “nullifies several of our preliminary agreements. The board will have questions. My family will have demands.”
Celeste laughed, but it was thin, strained. “You’re bluffing. You need this merger. Your hotels are drowning.”
Minho took a step forward, but I held up a hand. I finally looked directly at her.
“I have a 27% market share in this city. My debt-to-equity ratio would give you an aneurysm. My family’s legacy isn’t a chain of buildings; it’s a reputation for impeccable service and discretion.” My gaze flicked to Ethan, then back to her. “You are a stain. And I am in the stain-removal business.”
I reached into my clutch again, not for the phone, but for a single, folded check. I’d had it drawn up after Minho’s intel. I tossed it onto the sticky table. It landed next to the whiskey bottle.
“What’s that?” Celeste sneered.
“A one-time relocation incentive. The figure matches the outstanding balance for your mother’s specialist care in Geneva, plus a twenty percent cushion. It’s payable to the clinic directly. All you have to do is be on a plane, and stay there.”
She stared at the check, her face blanching. The music, the smoke, the crowd—it all seemed to recede, leaving just the four of us in a bubble of brutal calculus.
“You can’t buy me off,” she whispered, but the venom was gone. There was only a hollow shock.
“I’m not buying you. I’m acquiring a problem and solving it. Accept it, and the photos of tonight remain archived. A private insurance policy. Decline it…” I shrugged, letting the sentence hang. I looked at Ethan. “And I walk. The merger collapses. Your father’s liquidity crisis becomes a front-page story. And you,” I said, turning my eyes back to the trembling woman in the booth, “are left with a worthless, drunk commodity and a mountain of medical debt.”
The saxophone player hit a long, aching note that seemed to vibrate in the silence between us.
Ethan was staring at the check, then at Celeste’s ashen face. A sliver of understanding was piercing his drunken haze. Understanding, and horror.
I didn’t wait for an answer. I had it. The dissolution in her eyes was all the confirmation I needed.
“Minho, the documents are void. We’ll need to redraft. Ethan,” I said, my tone now utterly, professionally final, “sober up. My lawyers will call yours in the morning. The terms will be different.”
I turned and walked toward the door, the heavy beat of the bassline syncing with my pulse. Not fleeing. Advancing to the next position.
Minho caught up with me at the elevator. “Jesus, Tracey. The photos? The check?”
The elevator doors closed, sealing us in quiet. I leaned against the mirrored wall, the cold glass a shock through my silk blouse. The adrenaline began to recede, leaving a bitter, metallic taste in my mouth.
“He’s weak,” I said, more to myself than to him. “She’s desperate. That’s a volatile combination. Now, they both know I have a measure of control over their desperation.” I met his gaze in the reflection. “The game isn’t about keeping her away anymore. It’s about who holds the leash. And after tonight, she knows it’s not him.”
The elevator rose toward the clean, quiet lobby, leaving the smoke and the sound and the ruin of the booth below. I had the assets. The leverage. But as the doors opened to the serene, marbled expanse of my hotel, a single, unbidden thought echoed.
I had just bought off my fiancé’s mistress with a check and blackmail. This was the foundation my path was built on. And for the first time, the cold stone in my chest felt less like strength, and more like a buried, lonely thing.