The Billionaire’s Contract: Revenge On My Ex

Hester woke to the smell of coffee-rich, dark, expensive coffee.

She sat up. Sunlight was streaming into the room. Isham was already dressed, sitting at a small breakfast table near the window, reading a tablet. Silas stood next to him, looking pale.

"Good morning," Isham said, not looking up. "Drink this." He pushed a cup of espresso toward her.

Hester took a sip. It was bitter and strong. "What's wrong?" she asked, sensing the tension in Silas's posture.

Silas handed her a tablet. "Headlines are ugly, Mrs. Rhodes."

Hester looked at the screen. The Daily Mail homepage filled her vision.

SUPERMODEL MELTDOWN: Hester Irwin Hijacks Runway in Drug-Fueled Craze?

Below it was a grainy photo of her backstage, looking intense, with a caption analyzing her "manic eyes."

Hester felt the blood drain from her face. Her hands started to shake, rattling the cup against the saucer. "They're going with the 'Crazy Ex' narrative. They're saying I'm unstable."

"Predictable," Isham said, turning a page on his screen. "It's the standard playbook for discrediting a woman with leverage."

Her phone rang. It was Haywood.

Hester looked at Isham. He nodded. "Speaker."

She pressed the button.

"Hester, honey," Haywood's voice filled the room, dripping with fake concern. "I saw the news. My god. The board is furious. They want to sue you for breach of contract and damages to the brand."

Hester gripped the edge of the table. "You leaked this, Haywood."

"Me? Never! But listen, I can fix this. You need to apologize. We've set up a press conference for this afternoon. You just need to admit it was a publicity stunt gone wrong. Say you were under stress. We'll announce you're going to... take a break. Rehab. We'll pay for it."

Rehab meant silence. It meant disappearing.

Hester looked at Isham, panic rising in her throat. She wanted to scream at Haywood. She wanted to tell him to go to hell.

Isham took a pen and wrote on a napkin. He slid it toward her.

Agree. Trap them.

Hester stared at the ink. The letters were sharp, angular.

She swallowed the scream. She forced her voice to be small, defeated. "Okay, Haywood. Set up the conference."

"Good girl," Haywood said, the relief audible. "2 PM at the Plaza. Don't be late. Wear something... humble."

The line went dead.

Hester dropped the phone. "Why did you make me agree? I'm not going to rehab."

"If you fight the rumor now, it spreads," Isham said, standing up. "If you deny it, you look defensive. But if you agree to the stage, you get the microphone. And once you have the microphone, you can say whatever you want."

"He thinks I'm broken," Hester said.

"Let him think that. A confident enemy is a careless enemy." Isham buttoned his jacket. "Get dressed. Wear the black suit. The one that looks like armor."

Hester nodded. She picked up her phone and dialed Josie.

"Phase 3," Hester said. "The Nuclear Option."

"I have the HD photos of the affair," Josie whispered on the other end. "And the medical records from the clinic trash. When do I drop them?"

"Right after I visit Brandy in the hospital'," Hester said. "I want the world to be watching when the truth comes out."

At the Mckee Agency, Haywood hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair, a smug grin on his face.

"She caved," he announced.

Brandy clapped her hands. "She's so weak. Once she admits she's crazy on camera, her career is dead. And we get all the sympathy."

They started drafting the script for Hester. It was humiliating. I apologize for my erratic behavior... I am seeking help...

They were so busy laughing at their own cleverness that they didn't notice Josie in the corner, her phone plugged into the server, downloading the last of the encrypted files.