With cold precision, I locked down his mobile device. I cloned his phone’s SIM card onto a virtual partition on my monitor, instantly giving me access to every text, email, and hidden photo he had ever sent to Chanel. I downloaded the entire archive, routing a copy straight to his firm’s HR department and another copy to Chanel’s wealthy, highly conservative father, who believed his daughter was attending intensive pre-law seminars in the city.
I looked at the clock.
00:58. One minute left.
Minute Three: The Execution
For the final phase of my three-minute window, I targeted his prized possession: his matte-black Aston Martin Vantage. The car was leased through a corporate account that my company managed.
I remoted into the vehicle’s GPS and onboard diagnostic system. I didn’t disable it. Instead, I scheduled a remote repossession order to execute exactly forty-five minutes from now, overriding the GPS to lock the doors and drive the vehicle autonomously back to the dealership lot if left unattended.
Finally, I pulled up the security camera feed of the living room.
Caleb was currently pouring himself a glass of my vintage Macallan whiskey, boasting to Chanel about how he was going to force me to sign a post-nuptial agreement to protect “his” assets. Chanel was giggling, running her manicured fingers along the edge of my expensive Italian leather sofa.
“She’s so pathetic, Caleb,” Chanel said, her voice dripping with disdain through the audio feed. “How do you even look at her? She looks like she’s about to break in half.”
“She’s a ghost, babe,” Caleb sneered, taking a deep sip of the whiskey. “A ghost I keep around to keep the house clean. Don’t worry about her. By next month, she’ll be living in a studio apartment on the edge of town, and this place will be yours.”
I smiled. It wasn’t a sad smile; it was the sharp, dangerous grin of a casino owner watching a gambler bet his life savings on a rigged wheel.
I closed the false wall, adjusted my sweater, and rubbed my temples to feign the exhaustion of a brewing migraine. I took a deep, steadying breath, letting the meek, submissive persona slide back over me like a second skin.
Exactly three minutes after I had walked out, I opened the office door and stepped back into the hallway.
The Master’s Return
When I walked back into the living room, Caleb didn’t even look up at first. He was leaning over Chanel, whisper-laughing into her ear.
“Ah, the dog returns,” Caleb said, throwing a careless wave in my direction. “Did you clear your head, or are you still feeling ‘fragile’? Go fix us some drinks. Chanel likes gin and tonics. Use the good gin, not the cheap stuff you usually buy.”
“Of course, Caleb,” I said quietly, keeping my eyes cast downward. I walked toward the kitchen, but stopped just at the edge of the kitchen island, turning to face them. “I just wanted to make sure everything was in order before dinner.”
“Everything is fine, just do what you’re told,” he snapped, his irritation flaring because I wasn’t moving fast enough.
Right on cue, Caleb’s phone vibrated violently on the coffee table. Then Chanel’s phone buzzed. Then the central smart-hub on the kitchen wall chimed with a harsh, red alert notification.
