Hannah entered my office like she was walking to her own execution—stunning in a black dress that maybe cost more than her monthly rent, but her face betraying the hopelessness of someone who'd run out of moves.
"Hannah." I remained seated, fingers steepled over my desk. "What brings you here?"
She stood before me, designer bag clutched like a shield, knuckles white against the leather. "Don't pretend you don't know."
"I really don't." The lie rolled off my tongue smooth as aged whiskey. "Enlighten me."
"This thing with Andrew—it's going off the rails." Her voice cracked on the last word, the carefully constructed facade beginning to crumble. "I didn't sign up for an open arrangement. I didn't sign up to share him with you."
Laughter erupted from my throat, sharp and sudden. The sound made her flinch.
"Share? Hannah, you were the secret. The mistress hidden in shadows while I remained his wife. You were never the love of his life. Never the one whose name is on the lease, the bank accounts, the gallery contracts."
"I'm his muse now." She lifted her chin, grasping for power she didn't have, fingers trembling against her bag.
"Are you?" I leaned back in my chair, the leather creaking with deliberate slowness. "There are two of us in that painting. Two women in his fantasy. You're not replacing me—you're joining me in his collection."
The words hung between us like a blade. Hannah's mouth opened, then closed.
She'd come here to provoke me, to force some kind of dramatic confrontation that would give her leverage. Her eyes darted around my office—the floor-to-ceiling windows, the original artwork, the obvious displays of wealth and power.
She'd failed before she'd even walked through the door.
The silence stretched, heavy as velvet. I watched her shift her weight from one expensive heel to the other, watched the pulse flutter in her throat like a trapped bird.
"Is that all?" I asked, picking up my Mont Blanc pen, turning it between my fingers. "Because I have a meeting in twenty minutes."
"No, that's not—"
She stopped, swallowed hard. The mask finally cracked completely.
"I have debts."
"I know."
Her eyes widened. "How could you possibly—"
"Forty-seven thousand dollars." I set the pen down with a precise click. "Credit cards, failed business ventures, that lifestyle you can't actually afford. The collectors have already started visiting, haven't they?"
She gripped the back of the chair in front of my desk, needing something solid to hold. "But I need to maintain my lifestyle. The apartment, the clothes—I can't go backward."
"And?" I prompted, though I knew exactly where this was heading.
"I thought maybe you'd lend me money." Her voice dropped to barely a whisper, each word dragged out like pulling teeth. "For old times' sake."
This time I didn't laugh. The desperation in her voice was too raw, too real. It filled the office like smoke. "Why not ask Andrew?"
"Are you serious?" Hannah's composure shattered completely, her voice rising to something near hysteria. "I can't let him see me like this—desperate, drowning. He thinks I'm sophisticated, successful. If he knew the truth—"
She stopped, pressing her hand to her mouth.
"He'd leave you." I finished for her.
"And we both know who really has the money here." Her hand dropped, defeat is coloring every word. "It's not him. It's you. It's always been you."
She stood there, trembling in her expensive dress, tears threatening to destroy her carefully applied makeup.
The sun streaming through my windows cast her in harsh relief—every line of desperation etched clear. Small. Lost. While I sat behind my mahogany desk like a queen on her throne.
"Everything in this world has a price, Hannah." I rose slowly, each movement deliberate, measured. My heels clicked against the marble floor as I moved. "Every choice. Every betrayal. Every second chance."
"I never—"
"You took my husband." I cut her off, my voice sharp enough to draw blood. "My peace. Years of friendship thrown away for what—his attention? His mediocre passion?"
I moved around the desk, closing the distance between us step by calculated step.
"You've taken so much from me and repaid nothing."
"I never borrowed from you—"
"Shhh." The sound cut through her protest like a knife through silk.
I stood directly in front of her now, close enough to see the mascara beginning to run, close enough to smell fear beneath her expensive perfume. Her breath came in short gasps, chest rising and falling rapidly beneath the black dress.
"Do you remember college?" I asked, my voice deceptively soft. "How you used to watch me when you thought I wasn't looking?"
Her face flushed scarlet. "That's not—"
"How you'd find excuses to be wherever I was? The parties, the study groups, even that terrible poetry reading I had to attend for credits?"
"Stop—"
"You never wanted my friendship, Hannah. You wanted something else entirely." I leaned closer, my breath ghosting across her ear. "And when you couldn't have it, you took the next best thing."
"That's not true!"
"Isn't it?" I pulled back to study her face. "Look me in the eyes and tell me you don't think about me when he touches you."
The silence that followed was deafening. Hannah's mouth worked soundlessly, tears were finally spilling over.
"On your knees."
Hannah's eyes widened, pupils dilating with shock. "What?"
"On your knees—" My voice dropped to something dangerous, something that belonged in darker rooms with different rules. "If you want me to keep thinking about your problems."
"Angie, you can't be serious—"
"I'm always serious about business." I stepped back slightly, giving her room to choose. "And this is business, Hannah. A transaction. You want something from me. I want something from you."
The moment stretched taut between us. She could leave. Walk out that door with her dignity barely intact and her debts still crushing her. Or she could stay and pay a different price.
Pride warred with desperation across her face. I watched the battle play out—the way her hands clenched and unclenched, the way she bit her lower lip hard enough to smear her lipstick.
But I already knew which would win. Desperation always did.
"If I do this—" she started.
"No negotiations. No conditions." I crossed my arms, waiting. "Yes or no, Hannah. Submit or leave."
Slowly, gathering what remained of her dignity like armor that no longer fit, Hannah sank to her knees on my office floor. The expensive dress pooled around her like spilled ink, her designer heels awkward and painful in this position.
I stepped to her side, reached down, and took her chin between my fingers, forcing her to meet my eyes. Tears had carved rivers through her foundation, but something else flickered there too—the same hunger I'd seen in the studio.
"You've been a very bad girl." My thumb traced her jawline with deliberate slowness. "Time to make it right."