My President Boyfriend Gave My Bonus to His Mistress

I drove to Zhuri's apartment that night. The rain had turned to sleet. My wipers squeaked across the glass, back and forth, back and forth. My arm throbbed under the bandage every time I turned the wheel.

Zhuri opened the door before I knocked. She wore a hoodie and fuzzy socks. A can of energy drink sat sweating in her hand.

She looked at my face. Then at my arm. "Who did that?"

"Let me in first."

Her living room glowed blue from three monitors. A mechanical keyboard sat in the middle of the desk like a throne. I put my laptop next to it. I opened the files one by one. The photos of the loose bolts. The ledgers. The offshore transfers.

Then the couch footage.

Zhuri didn't say a word. She watched Ivey point at the TV. She watched me on the screen, holding the bear. She heard Ivey say, *She actually thinks he loves her.* She heard Beckett laugh.

The clip ended. The room went silent except for the hum of her computers.

Then Zhuri rolled her eyes. Slowly. All the way up, all the way around, like she was watching a volcano decide to erupt. She set down the can. She laced her fingers together, neon pink nails flashing, and cracked her knuckles.

"Let me turn this clown's digital footprint into confetti."

"Zhuri."

"Don't." She pulled her chair in. "Don't tell me to be careful. Don't tell me he's stressed at work."

"I wasn't going to."

She looked at me sideways. "You defended him for five years, Kenna. I said he was a leech at our junior year formal. You told me I didn't know him."

My throat tightened. I touched the hollow of my collarbone. "You were right. Is that what you want to hear?"

"No." Her fingers hit the keys. "I want to hear you stop apologizing for being smarter than him."

I didn't answer. I sat on the arm of her couch and watched the code roll down her screens like rain.

---

She worked through the night. I made coffee. Cold, black. She drank hers without looking up.

At two a.m., she whistled low.

"Your little princess has a problem."

I leaned over her shoulder. A hotel receipt filled the screen. The St. Regis. A suite. Marco Mendoza's card.

"That doesn't prove anything," I said. "Fathers book rooms for daughters."

"Sure." She clicked again. A string of messages appeared. "Do fathers call their daughters *my naughty kitten*?"

My stomach turned. I made myself read every line. Wire transfers. A monthly allowance. Photos I would never be able to unsee. Ivey's birthday wasn't even close to the date she used at the office.

"She's his mistress," I said quietly.

"Oh, it gets better." Zhuri's eyes were bright. Mean bright. "Marco doesn't own anything. Not the house. Not the cars. Not the board seat. It's all his wife. Kendra Rodriguez."

I knew that name. Everyone in Manhattan knew that name. Kendra once threw a glass of wine at a senator's wife at a charity auction. Over seating.

"So Marco's allowance comes from Kendra," I said.

"Bingo. Ivey's living on a lie that's sitting on top of another lie." Zhuri leaned back and laced her hands behind her head. "One push and the whole tower falls."

I looked at the screen. At Ivey's selfie in the hotel mirror, the champagne glass held high. The watch on the nightstand behind her. *My* watch. The one I gave Beckett.

I straightened my cuff over the bandage.

"Make it clean," I said. "Court clean. Nothing we can't defend."

Zhuri grinned. "Babe. I don't do messy."

By dawn, she had built a dossier. Every file dated. Every source traced. She sent it to me. Then she sent it to the encrypted address I gave her.

Kenneth Greene.

---

He called at six fifteen. The sky outside was gray and wet.

"Miss Collins. I have reviewed Ms. Harris's materials." His voice was calm, like always. "Your father has authorized full activation. Legal and forensic accounting are already on it."

"How long until you can file?"

"The district attorney's office can move within days. I spoke with them an hour ago."

"Then file."

A pause. Paper rustled on his end. "With respect, I would advise against immediate action."

My grip tightened on the phone. "He's stealing from my father, Kenneth. Every day."

"And every day he steals, the case grows stronger." His tone didn't change at all. "If we arrest him quietly, his lawyers will call it a misunderstanding. He'll be out by Friday, telling the press he was framed."

"So what do you suggest?"

"The annual gala. The Plaza. Every investor in one room. Every camera." He let that sink in. "Charges filed that evening. Termination announced from the stage."

I closed my eyes. I saw the ballroom. The chandeliers. Beckett at the podium, adjusting my watch, smiling his boardroom smile.

"He'll try to keep me out," I said.

"I expect he will."

"And Ivey?"

"Ms. Harris's file reached another inbox this morning, I imagine." For the first time, something dry crept into his voice. "Mrs. Rodriguez has a very good security team."

I looked at Zhuri. She was pretending to type. She wasn't typing.

"Fine," I said. "The gala."

"I'll have the case file prosecution-ready within the week. The DA will hold until my signal."

"Kenneth."

"Yes, Miss Collins?"

"Does my father want to talk to me?"

The silence lasted one second too long.

"He asked me to tell you," Kenneth said carefully, "that he never doubted you would call."

The line went dead.

I set the phone down. My hand wasn't shaking. That surprised me.

Outside, the sleet had stopped. The street was gray and slick and still. Somewhere across the city, Beckett was waking up beside someone who wasn't me. Checking his reflection. Thinking he'd won.

Let him think it a little longer.