Stalked By The Mad Dog Nephew

The partition between the driver and the passenger cabin was up. The rear of the limousine was a hermetically sealed box of silence, cut off from the rainy chaos of New York streets.

Brandon sprawled on the leather seat opposite her, his long legs taking up most of the floor space. He wasn't looking at the window; he was watching her. His gaze was heavy, physical, tracing the line of her jaw, the pulse fluttering in her neck.

Avery rubbed her wrist. A faint bruise was already forming, a purple fingerprint against her pale skin.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," Brandon said. His voice was devoid of the slurring drunkenness he had displayed in the club. "It was... a test. I was testing your reflexes."

"You're drunk, Brandon," Avery said, keeping her eyes fixed on the passing streetlights.

"Am I?" He chuckled darkly. "Maybe. Or maybe I'm just the only one honest enough to tell you that Augustus is probably at the St. Regis right now. Room 402. He likes the view of the park."

Avery felt a muscle in her jaw tick, but she didn't turn. "Stop."

"He doesn't deserve you," Brandon continued, his voice dropping an octave. He reached out across the gap between them. His fingers brushed a loose strand of hair away from her face. His touch was scorching hot against her cold skin. His thumb brushed the collar of her coat, a fleeting, almost imperceptible pressure against the fabric, gone as quickly as it came.

Avery flinched violently. "Stop the car."

"We're on the FDR Drive, Auntie. Can't stop here."

"I said stop!" She reached for the door handle, her fingers curling around the latch. She unlocked it with a loud click. The wind roared outside, threatening to tear the door open if she pushed.

Brandon laughed. He pulled his hand back, raising his palms in surrender. "Alright. Alright. You win. No touching the merchandise."

The car slowed as it approached the iron gates of the Garrison Estate. The massive stone structure loomed in the rain, dark and foreboding.

The car stopped. Brandon opened the door, stumbling slightly as he stepped out onto the wet pavement. He caught himself on the frame, leaning back in to look at her one last time.

"Sweet dreams, Auntie," he whispered, his eyes glittering with a mix of mockery and something far more dangerous. He slammed the door.

Avery waited until he had disappeared through the front entrance of the main house. Then, she pressed the intercom button.

"Charles," she said. Her voice had changed. The tremble was gone. The softness had evaporated, replaced by a tone as cold and sharp as a scalpel. "Take me to the penthouse. I'm not staying here tonight."

Charles's eyes met hers in the rearview mirror as the partition lowered slightly. He looked concerned, his brow furrowed. "Mrs. Garrison... Avery. Why do you let him treat you like that? Why do you endure any of this?"

Avery sat back, her posture shifting. The slump vanished. She crossed her legs, her spine straightening into a line of steel. She pulled her phone from her purse, the screen illuminating her face with a harsh blue light.

"Jiles calls me an asset, Charles," she said, her thumb scrolling through a stock alert for Garrison Biotech. "Do you know the first rule of asset management?"

Charles stayed silent, merging the car back onto the highway toward Manhattan.

"An asset must depreciate before it can be written off," she said, her eyes scanning the numbers. "I need to be worthless to them. I need to be broken, pitied, and weak. Only then will they let me go without a fight."

"And Augustus?" Charles asked quietly.

"I feel nothing for Augustus," she said. The truth of it was liberating. "Is the file ready for tomorrow?"

"Yes, ma'am. Everything is in order."

Avery nodded. She reached into her purse and pulled out a small pill bottle. She shook out a single vitamin, swallowing it dry, though she would tell anyone who asked that it was a sedative for her nerves. She pulled down the vanity mirror, staring at her reflection.

She practiced the expression-eyes slightly widened, mouth turned down at the corners. The face of a sad, neglected wife.

"Good," she murmured to her reflection.

The limousine descended into the underground garage of the penthouse building on 5th Avenue. As the car turned the corner toward the private elevator bank, Avery's eyes darted to the parking spot reserved for 4A.

Augustus's sleek black sports car was there.

And on the passenger seat, clearly visible through the windshield, was a bright silk scarf. It was Hermes. Garish. Not something Avery would ever wear.

Avery didn't cry. She didn't gasp.

She smiled. It was a faint, terrifying curve of her lips.

"Perfect," she whispered.