Five years had passed since everything fell apart. Since the fall, since the lies, since she walked away.
The private jet's door hissed open. She stood at the top of the stairs, her brunette hair catching in the crisp autumn wind. Sunglasses shielded her eyes from the sun as she descended slowly, the sharp click of her heels echoing down the metal steps.
Gone was the soft, naive girl who didn't belong. The woman who stepped off that plane now was sharp, polished, and unbothered.
The black car waited right on schedule. The driver stepped out and opened the door.
"This way, ma'am," he said.
She gave a slight nod and slid into the backseat with ease. The door shut behind her, the world outside blurred as they pulled away. Skyscrapers, people, all passing like scenery in a movie she didn't have time to watch.
They stopped in front of a sleek glass building—one of those high-end spas only the rich and powerful could get into without an appointment. She stepped out, adjusted her sunglasses, and walked through the automatic doors like she owned the place.
The concierge greeted her with a warm, practiced smile. "Good afternoon, ma'am. Welcome back." He handed her a small keycard.
She took it silently and continued down the hall. Past the scented candles and clean marble floors, through the corridors. She wasn't here for a facial, she had other things in mind.
Inside the salon, her stylist greeted her with a grin.
"Just a trim, ya?" Lydia asked, already positioning her in the chair.
She gave a quick nod. Her hair didn't need fixing, she wasn't here for that.
"Lydia, turn on the TV."
Lydia switched on the television, the low hum of conversations from the television. A news report was already underway. She sat nearby, sipping water. Glanced at the screen, her face calm, until the anchor mentioned the cyberattack.
"Perfect," she whispered.
"Breaking news just in—a cyberattack is threatening to expose sensitive financial data," the reporter announced. "Reports suggest VestorCorp has been laundering money for a notorious crime organization for years, funneling dirty funds through their legitimate businesses. Sources say someone has uncovered the operation and is threatening to go public, with more information to come.
She tilted her head slightly, watching the screen. A small, knowing smile played on her lips.
A group of women seated nearby had clearly been listening in.
"VestorCorp… isn't that Caius Thorne's company?" one of them whispered.
"He's done for," another chimed in.
"What a scandal," one said, shaking her head. "But you could always tell, right? That guy's been full of himself from day one."
"I feel bad for his kid," a woman said quietly.
"And his girlfriend," another added, lowering her voice.
"Poor Lauren. She's probably just stuck in the mess. No way she knew about the money stuff, right?"
"Yeah. Poor thing. She must be devastated."
The words hung in the room. Their sympathy was exactly what she paid for. The narrative she wanted to plant.
Her smile widened slightly as she lifted her glass of water. The reporter at the far corner of the room, famous and respected—pretended not to be listening. But she was, that was the point.
Their pitying words struck a chord, and her smile grew just a little wider. She picked up the glass of water beside her, taking a sip. Everything was working splendidly until the screen shifted again.
"Award-winning actress Miss H," the anchor said, "has announced her appearance at a charity fundraising performance for earthquake relief."
She choked.
The water went down the wrong pipe and she coughed hard, catching the attention of almost everyone in the salon.
"You okay?" someone asked.
She waved them off, dabbing at her lips with a napkin. "Mm-hmm."
Their eyes drifted back to the TV.
"Oh my God, Miss H?"
"She's such a good person," one of them gushed.
"No one's even seen her face. Or knows who she really is."
"It's insane. She acts, she produces… she's basically built an empire in secret."
"She's an inspiration."
"Miss Lauren?" Lydia's voice cut through her trance.
She blinked. "Yes?"
"Where'd you go just now? I've been calling your name."
"Oh… just thinking."
"All done," Lydia said, spinning the chair to face the mirror.
She glanced at her reflection. Everything was still in place, controlled, and composed.
"Here's my card," she said, sliding a platinum card onto the counter.
Salons are usually filled with noise—curling irons, small talk, the occasional laugh—but not one detail here was unplanned. The gossiping women, the timing, the sympathetic glances—they were all pieces of the story she was selling. She paid those women to say good things about her, to make sure the reporter's ears picked up the right words. And leave her out Caius's scandal. She wasn't going to let Caius ruin her, not after years of putting herself together since her first... She bit back the thought.
All that mattered was that it was working, just as she wanted. She stood to leave, sunglasses back on.