[Serena’s POV]
I text Maya three words that communicate everything: Coffee. Emergency. Name the place.
Her response arrives in under thirty seconds with an address in Brooklyn—far enough from Midtown that we won't run into anyone from work, close enough that I can make it during my lunch break.
I leave Aria with Caspian's housekeeper, a compromise that still makes something twitch beneath my ribs every time I hand over my daughter to someone on Rothwell payroll. The woman is perfectly kind, perfectly competent, and perfectly employed by a family I'm still learning to trust.
But desperate times. Desperate measures. Desperate women who need to vent to someone who isn't sleeping with them.
The café Maya chose smells like fresh bread and expensive beans—the kind of Brooklyn establishment where everyone looks like they're writing a screenplay.
She's already waiting when I arrive, two lattes sweating on the table between us and an expression on her face that says she's cleared her entire afternoon. She's wearing her crisis-management outfit—comfortable shoes, minimal jewelry, the kind of earrings that won't get in the way if she needs to lean in for emphasis.
"Okay." She pushes a latte toward me. "Spill."
So I spill. Edward's ambush visit. The Victoria suggestion delivered like a grenade wrapped in silk. The revelation that Caspian's college girlfriend was the same Victoria Chase who made my life a living hell for four straight years. The fight that followed. The fragile compromise that feels more like a ceasefire than a solution.
Maya's eyes go wide at the Victoria connection, her latte frozen halfway to her lips. "Wait. The Victoria Chase? 'Scholarship Cinderella' Victoria? The one who called your shoes church-lady chic?"
"The very same."
"And Caspian dated her." Maya sets down her cup with deliberate precision. "For how long?"
"Two years. Maybe three." I stir my latte, watching the foam spiral into oblivion. "I tried not to keep track."
A lie. I'd kept meticulous track, cataloguing every society page photo like evidence in a case I was building against my own heart. Every image of them together had been a knife twist I'd pretended didn't hurt. Victoria's perfect hair. Victoria's designer clothes. Victoria's hand on his arm like she owned him.
Maya processes this with the gravity it deserves, her forehead creasing in that particular way she has when she's holding back profanity for professional reasons. "So your boyfriend's father wants him to publicly reconnect with the woman who tortured you in college. As a PR strategy. To make you look like the scandal."
"That's the gist."
"And Caspian's response is to... go along with it? Strategically?"
"He wants to use her to expose Edward. Turn the trap back on his father." I watch my own reflection in the window behind Maya. "He asked me to be his co-strategist. Not his audience."
"That's..." Maya tilts her head, considering. "Actually growth. For him."
"I know." I take a sip that burns my tongue. "I hate it."
Maya laughs—the good kind, the kind that means she understands exactly how complicated this is. Her shoulders shake with it, and something in my chest loosens slightly. "You hate it because it would be easier if he was just being an asshole. Then you could be righteous. But he's trying, and that means you have to try too."
"Trying means watching Victoria Chase touch his arm for cameras. Trying means smiling while the woman who made me feel worthless gets rehabilitated as his 'old friend.'" My voice comes out sharper than intended, and I force myself to breathe. The coffee shop noise feels suddenly too loud.
"Trying means trusting him. Which is the actual hard part."
We sit with that truth for a moment, the café noise washing around us like white noise. Maya flags down the waiter for pastries—emotional support croissants, she calls them, and I can't argue with the logic. Carbohydrates have never betrayed me.
"The worst part is he genuinely didn't know," I admit, shredding a napkin into confetti. "About what she did to me. He was so oblivious he never even saw it happening."
"Rich boy floated through Columbia on privilege while people like you fought for scraps in his blind spot." Maya's tone is matter-of-fact, not unkind, and I remember where I got this specific phrase from. "Shocking absolutely no one except maybe him."
"He looked sick when I told him. Like he wanted to go back in time and notice. Like every memory he had of those years was suddenly rewriting itself in his head."
"That's something, at least. Most men would get defensive. Most men would make it about themselves."
"He did get defensive. Initially." I trail off, remembering the way his face had crumbled when he realized what he'd missed. The horror in his eyes. The shame. "But then he listened. Actually listened. And then he asked how we handle this together."
"Growth." Maya points her croissant at me for emphasis. "Terrifying, uncomfortable growth. The worst kind."
My phone buzzes before I can respond. Unknown number. I almost ignore it—probably another tabloid fishing for quotes—but I ordered Aria new shoes, maybe they’re calling me for confirmation?
The voice on the other end is female, urgent, barely above a whisper: "Is this Serena Vale?"
"Who's asking?"
"If you're smart, you'll take whatever Edward Rothwell offers and run." The woman's voice cracks on his name, fear bleeding through every syllable. "You have no idea what he's capable of. He destroys people who don't cooperate. Buries them so deep they never—"
"Who is this?"
A sharp intake of breath. "Someone who made the mistake of thinking I could fight him. Don't be me."
The line goes dead. When I try to call back: disconnected. Just empty silence where answers should be.
Maya watches my face change, her croissant frozen mid-bite. "What? What happened?"
I stare at my phone, heart hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape. "Someone just warned me about Edward. Anonymous. Said he destroys people who don't cooperate."
"That's..." Maya sets down her pastry slowly, her expression shifting from casual concern to something much more serious. "Ominous."
"It's specific." My mind races through possibilities, scenarios, threats. Who would have this number? Who would risk warning a complete stranger? "She sounded scared, Maya. Genuinely scared. Not angry or vengeful. Terrified."
"She?"
"Definitely a woman. Older, maybe? Professional voice. Like someone used to boardrooms, not threatening phone calls." I'm replaying the conversation, mining it for any detail I might have missed. "She said 'don't be me.' Like she'd tried to fight him and lost everything in the process."
We stare at each other across the table, croissants forgotten. The café continues its cheerful bustle around us—couples laughing, baristas calling orders, a toddler shrieking about cake—completely unaware that my entire worldview just shifted on its axis.
"What are you going to do?" Maya asks.
I don't know yet. The phone sits in my palm like a grenade with the pin pulled, evidence of something I can't quite name. Edward Rothwell has enemies. Real ones. People he's broken badly enough that they'd risk warning a stranger.
The woman's voice echoes in my memory: Don't be me. How many people has Edward destroyed? How many lives has he buried to protect his empire, his image, his control over his sons?
But one thing's certain: whatever game Edward Rothwell is playing, it's bigger than Victoria Chase and staged photo ops. Bigger than tabloid narratives and convenient reunions. Someone out there knows his secrets.
And apparently, they want me to know them too.