Chapter 1 The First Day of My Downfall
Chapter 1: The First Day of My Downfall
(7:00 AM - Shane's Penthouse Office)
The espresso machine screamed like a dying animal as I forced out another shot. My hands trembled - not from fear, but from the effort of not throwing the scalding liquid in Shane Donovan's smug face.
"Eighty-five degrees exactly," he said, tapping the digital thermometer against the porcelain cup. "Three ice cubes. Not two. Not four. Do you understand basic math, Maxine? Or did they teach you nothing at Vassar except how to spend Daddy's money?"
I kept my expression blank as I placed the coffee on his desk. The steam curled up between us like the ghost of all our old arguments. His custom Tom Ford suit probably cost more than my monthly parole officer fees.
"Would you like cream?" I asked sweetly. "The way you preferred it that morning in the Hamptons? When you said my hands were..."
"Enough." His jaw tightened. That little muscle twitch he got when I hit a nerve. "Just clean the terrace. And don't touch my desk again."
As I turned, I made sure to brush against his computer monitor. The USB drive in my apron pocket clicked softly as it connected.
(10:15 AM - Malcolm's Walk-In Closet)
The scent of roses and male arrogance choked the air as I sorted through Malcolm Townsend's designer underwear. Each pair probably cost more than my dinner.
"You missed a spot," came that familiar voice from the doorway. Malcolm leaned against the frame, shirtless, his Golden Globe nomination medallion dangling between his abs. "The Valentino boxers need special attention."
He tossed a pair at my face. Silk. Black. The same ones he'd worn when we...
"Rose essential oil only," he said, watching my reaction. "The brand I'm endorsing. And hand-iron the creases. The cameras will zoom in during my Vanity Fair shoot."
I held up the underwear between two fingers. "Remember when you said these were lucky? That night after the Critics' Choice Awards when you..."
"Just do your job, Max." His smile didn't reach his eyes anymore. "Unless you'd rather go back to jail?"
The threat hung between us as I marched to the laundry room. Where I promptly photographed the security codes on his dry cleaning receipts.
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(2:37 AM - Freddie's Home Office)
The glow of Freddie Henderson's laptop illuminated the dark circles under his eyes. He hadn't slept in three days. Neither had I.
"Change all citations to APA format," he muttered, pushing his glasses up. "And the footers need my full credentials. Just like..."
"Just like I used to do for your dissertation?" I finished, taking the stack of papers. The ones he'd clearly stolen from some grad student. "Funny how you still can't format your own research."
His head snapped up. For a second, I saw the old Freddie - the one who'd whispered poetry against my neck in the university library. Then it was gone.
"Just get it done," he said coldly. "Or should I remind your parole officer about the..."
"Missing evidence? The planted documents? The way your testimony put my father in prison?" I smiled sweetly. "No need, Professor. I remember everything."
(3:15 AM - The Maid's Room)
The tiny space smelled of bleach and broken dreams. I pulled the hidden burner phone from behind a loose baseboard and reviewed today's harvest:
Shane's offshore account passwords (from the keylogger installed via espresso cup)
Malcolm's incriminating text messages (synced from his iCloud during "laundry time")
Freddie's plagiarized research (conveniently saved to a flash drive)
I was about to shut it down when a notification popped up - Freddie's email to someone named A.B.:
"She's getting suspicious. Should we move to Phase Two?"
My blood ran cold.
A knock at the door.
I barely had time to hide the phone before Freddie slipped inside, a manila envelope clutched in his shaking hands.
"They never wanted to hire you," he whispered. "They want to destroy you completely."
The envelope contained photos of my father's arrest. Bank statements showing transfers from Shane's Cayman account to the DA's office. And on every page - those same damn initials.
A.B.
(6:00 AM - The Revenge Begins)
While Shane slept, I transferred $2.3 million from his "secret" account to three offshore charities.
As Malcolm showered, I leaked his racist group texts to TMZ.
When Freddie left for his morning lecture, I submitted his stolen research to the Ivy League ethics board.
Then I sent one final message from my burner:
"Tell A.B. the babysitter's done playing nice."
(8:15 AM - The Aftermath)
All three phones erupted simultaneously with emergency alerts.
Shane's coffee cup shattered against the wall as he read the market reports - his stocks in freefall.
Malcolm's perfect face twisted in horror as Twitter exploded with his scandal.
Freddie collapsed into a chair when the university's termination notice appeared.
And me?
I stood in the doorway, apron crisp, smile brighter than the morning sun.
"Will there be anything else, gentlemen?"
(That Night - The Surveillance Footage)
The hidden cameras caught everything:
Shane smashing his office.
Malcolm popping Xanax like candy.
Freddie drinking straight from a whiskey bottle.
And then...the front door opening.
A shadowy figure stepping inside.
The glint of cufflinks as he checked his watch.
Initials gleaming in the moonlight:
A.B.
