"Tell me about Olivia." I leaned forward across the kitchen table, my voice cutting through Hannah's self-pity. "She approached me for an interview at the exhibition."
"It's her job." Hannah's shoulders lifted in a defensive shrug. "She's a journalist."
"She asked pointed questions at the end." My fingers drummed against the marble, each tap sharper than the last. "How much does she actually know?"
Hannah's entire body went rigid. She pressed her lips together, calculating, then exhaled in surrender.
"She knew about Andrew and me before you did." The words tumbled out rapidly. "She saw us together weeks ago, put the pieces together."
"And now? What does she know now?"
Hannah's hands twisted in her lap, knuckles white. "She's worried about me. Started digging around, asking questions. She knows there's... an arrangement. Between the three of us."
"An arrangement." I stood abruptly, my chair scraping against tile. "Is that what you told her?"
"She saw the bruises." Hannah's voice cracked, her hand unconsciously moving to her wrist. "From the... from the bondage. The marks were visible at lunch last week. She cornered me, demanded answers."
"And you gave them to her?"
"I told her we were exclusive. The three of us. That it was consensual." Hannah met my eyes with surprising defiance. "I didn't tell her about the money."
The rage erupted before I could contain it.
"You stupid, ungrateful—" I slammed my palms on the table, making Hannah flinch. "I've been keeping you afloat, paying your debts, saving your worthless life, and this is how you repay me? By dragging Andrew and me down with you?"
Hannah sat silent through my tirade, her face a mask. When I finally stopped, chest heaving, she spoke with deliberate calm.
"Not everything in our arrangement has been torture." Her eyes glittered with something dangerous. "Some of it brought real pleasure. Real connection."
"Don't—"
"Not what happened in your office, though." The words landed like a slap. "That was just you getting off on control."
She was savoring this—watching me lose composure, willing to burn everything including Andrew if it meant hurting me.
"Fine." I grabbed my purse, voice turning to ice. "I'll tell Andrew everything. The money, the debts, your little confession to Olivia. If we're all going down anyway, might as well make it spectacular."
Hannah shot to her feet, panic replacing defiance. "No!"
"Why not?" I moved toward the door. "What's the point of keeping secrets if your friend is about to expose us all?"
"Angie, please—" She grabbed my arm, desperation making her bold. "Don't tell him. Please."
I turned slowly, studying her terrified face. We both knew what this was really about—Andrew's disappointment would destroy her more thoroughly than any punishment I could devise. He'd look at her differently, see the calculation behind her desire, the transaction beneath the passion.
"It'll be fine!" Hannah's voice pitched toward hysteria. "Olivia won't write anything. I'll make sure of it. I promise!"
Something snapped.
My hand shot out, fingers closing around her throat, slamming her against the wall. Her eyes went wide with shock as I pressed closer, my face inches from hers.
"Handle your friend." Each word emerged precise and lethal. "If you don't, I'll handle both of you. And trust me, Hannah, you won't like my methods."
I held her there for three more seconds, feeling her pulse race beneath my palm, watching fear bloom in her eyes. Then I released her suddenly.
Hannah collapsed to the floor, gasping, one hand clutching her throat.
I stepped over her, heading for the door with unhurried precision. At the threshold, I paused.
"We were friends once too." I didn't look back. "And nothing good came of it. In your place, I wouldn't trust her so blindly."
The door closed on the sound of Hannah's ragged breathing.
In the elevator, I examined my reflection in the polished doors. My lipstick remained perfect, not a hair out of place. Only my eyes betrayed the violence—they burned with satisfaction.
The drive home blurred past in streaks of city lights. My phone buzzed with texts from Andrew about dinner plans, from Sarah about tomorrow's meetings, from Miriam asking if I was okay. I ignored them all.
Hannah would handle Olivia or face the consequences. The threat of Andrew's disappointment would motivate her more than any physical violence could. She'd protect him even if she hated me.
But Olivia was a different problem. A journalist with a cause, a friend with concern, a woman who thought she was saving someone. Those were the dangerous ones—the ones who believed their own righteousness.
I pulled into our building's garage, already planning. If Hannah failed, if Olivia moved forward with her story, I'd need leverage. Real leverage. The kind that ended careers and destroyed reputations.
My phone rang. Hannah's name appeared on the screen.
"I'll handle it," she said without preamble, voice hoarse from my grip. "I'll make sure Olivia drops the story."
"Handle it quickly. Do it as soon as possible."
"I need time to—"
"You don't have time." My voice sharpened to a blade's edge. "Every hour you wait is another hour she's crafting her narrative. Another hour she's deciding how to frame this."
"Angie, she's my friend. She'll listen—"
"She's a journalist first." I cut through her naive hope. "And journalists feast on stories like this. Three people in a twisted arrangement? An artist, his wife, and his mistress? She'll make her career on your bones."
Hannah's breathing quickened through the phone. "That's not—Olivia wouldn't—"
"Wouldn't she? Tell me, Hannah, whose name appears in the headline? The established artist? The wealthy executive wife?" I let the silence stretch before delivering the blow. "Or the unknown woman who destroyed a marriage?"
"I didn't destroy—"
"That's not how she'll write it. You're the easiest target. No reputation to protect, no lawyers to threaten lawsuits, no powerful friends to defend you." I pressed harder, knowing each word would land like a stone. "They'll paint you as the predator, the gold-digger, the woman who corrupted a successful couple for money."
"But I'm not—you're the one who—" Her voice fractured with panic.
"The truth doesn't matter. The story does. And you're the perfect villain—desperate, in debt, sleeping with another woman's husband." I laughed, the sound bitter as burnt coffee. "They'll dig up your failed businesses, your financial problems, every mistake you've ever made. While Andrew and I emerge as victims of your manipulation."
"You wouldn't let that happen." But uncertainty colored every syllable.
"Wouldn't I? If Olivia publishes, I'll make sure the narrative favors Andrew and me. We have the resources, the connections, the credibility." I turned from the car window, my reflection in the dark glass looking like a stranger. "You have nothing but debt and a friend who thinks she's saving you."
Silence stretched across the connection, broken only by Hannah's ragged breathing.
"And if she doesn't believe me?"
"You tell her the truth—that pursuing this story will destroy you. That you'll lose everything, including Andrew." I was beginning to doubt whether she could do it, but she had to. "Play the victim if you have to. Cry. Beg. Whatever it takes."
"I am a victim," Hannah whispered.
"No." My voice turned to ice. "Victims don't take fifty thousand dollars. Victims don't fuck other women's husbands. Victims don't threaten to expose everyone when things get difficult."
"Angie—"
I ended the call.
The apartment welcomed me with shadows and silence. The painting dominated the wall—Hannah and I were entwined in Andrew's fantasy. Soon I'd either own that fantasy completely or watch it burn.
Either outcome was acceptable.
What mattered was that I'd be the one holding the match.