The Perfect Victim: Playing The Billionaire's Game

"Do I look like a victim yet?" Ashton Harmon asked, leaning into the harsh, vanity lighting of the restroom mirror.

Sloan Vance didn't answer immediately. She was busy uncapping a small bottle of saline solution. "Tilt your head back. You look too angry. Victims aren't angry, Ash. They're broken."

Ashton tilted her head. The cold liquid hit her eyes, stinging just enough to force a natural redness into the sclera. She blinked rapidly, watching her reflection transform. The sharp, calculating glint in her hazel eyes dissolved into a watery, pathetic shimmer. She looked exhausted. She looked defeated. She looked perfect.

"He's at VIP table four," Sloan said, checking her phone. "The lighting is dim, but the acoustics are good. Three gossip bloggers are at the bar, phones out. They're waiting for a celebrity sighting, but they'll settle for a Harmon family implosion."

Ashton took a breath. It felt shallow, restricted by the corset of her dress-a dress she couldn't really afford anymore, not since the trust fund froze. "Let's give them a show."

She pushed through the restroom door. The bass of the club music hit her chest like a physical blow, vibrating through her sternum. The air smelled of expensive cologne, sweat, and spilled vodka. Ashton moved through the crowd, not with the confident stride of the socialite she used to be, but with a frantic, uneven gait.

She spotted the waiter near the edge of the VIP section. He was balancing a tray of empty flutes.

Ashton timed it. One step. Two.

She clipped the waiter's shoulder.

The tray tipped. The sound of shattering glass cut through the thumping bass like a scream.

Heads turned. In the VIP booth, Carter Sterling stood up.

He looked exactly as he had the last time she saw him-arrogant, flushed with alcohol, his jaw set in that familiar, tightening line that used to make Ashton's stomach turn over. He saw her. His lip curled, not in concern, but in a possessive sneer. He moved toward her, his hand reaching out to grab her arm, a reflex honed by years of ownership.

"Ashton," he barked, his voice audible over the lull in the music. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Ashton didn't flinch away. She stepped into his space. "Why did you stop the payments?" she shouted, her voice cracking perfectly. "The money for my brother's care, Carter! You promised you'd release my portion of the trust!"

It was a calculated lie. Her brother's long-term facility was funded by a separate, untouchable annuity. But Carter had frozen her personal access to the main trust, and the details were far too private for a gossip blog to verify in the moment.

Carter frowned, confusion warring with his anger. "What are you talking about? Shut up."

He reached for her face, likely to cover her mouth.

Ashton waited for his fingertips to brush her skin. The moment they made contact, she threw her weight backward.

She collided with the table behind her. A tower of champagne bottles toppled. The crash was catastrophic.

Ashton hit the floor, ignoring the sharp bite of glass shards against her bare legs. She scrambled backward, crab-walking away from him, her chest heaving.

"I signed the papers!" she screamed, pointing a trembling finger at him. "I gave up the inheritance! Why won't you let me go?"

The music cut out. The DJ had killed the sound.

Silence rushed into the room, heavy and judging. Every eye was on Carter. Phones were raised, camera lenses catching the light like predatory eyes.

Carter froze. He looked at his hand, then at Ashton cowering in the glass. His face drained of color as he realized the optics. "Ashton, get up. You're making a scene."

"Stay away from me!" She curled into a ball, covering her head.

Sloan burst through the crowd, throwing herself between Ashton and Carter. "Security!" she shrieked. "He's been harassing her for weeks! Get him away from her!"

There was no legal filing, no paper trail. But in the court of public opinion, a woman's terror was its own verdict.

Two bouncers, massive and impatient, grabbed Carter by the arms.

"Get your hands off me!" Carter roared, struggling. "Do you know who I am? I'll buy this dump and fire you all!"

It was the final nail in his coffin. The crowd murmured, disgusted. The bloggers at the bar were typing furiously.

Sloan helped Ashton up. Ashton kept her head down, letting her hair curtain her face, offering the cameras only a profile of pure, trembling devastation. They hurried toward the exit, the crowd parting for them like the Red Sea.

They burst into the cool night air of the Meatpacking District. An Uber was waiting, engine idling.

They dove into the backseat. The door slammed shut, sealing out the noise.

Ashton sat up. She pulled a tissue from her purse and wiped her eyes. The trembling stopped instantly. Her posture straightened, the broken victim vanishing, replaced by a cold, hard statue.

"Hand sanitizer," she said.

Sloan dug into her bag and handed over a small bottle. "That was... Oscar-worthy. Twitter is already melting down. Hashtag CarterSterlingIsTrash is trending."

Ashton scrubbed her hands, removing the invisible feeling of Carter's proximity. She looked at the phone Sloan held up. The video of Carter screaming at the bouncers had ten thousand views and climbing.

"He'll be busy with PR crisis management for weeks," Ashton said, her voice flat. "He won't have time to block my access to the board meetings."

"You're terrifying," Sloan said, grinning. "What now?"

Ashton pulled her iPad from her tote bag. She unlocked it and brought up a new image. A man with steel-grey eyes and a mouth that looked like it had never smiled.

Isadore Grimes.

"Are you sure about this?" Sloan asked, her grin fading. "Carter is a bully. Isadore is... he's a shark. He eats people like Carter for breakfast."

Ashton zoomed in on Isadore's eyes. "Carter is a dog. He bites when he's angry. Isadore is a machine. Machines have manuals. They can be operated."

She swiped to his calendar. "Tomorrow afternoon. He has a two-hour block open."

"You can't just walk into the Grimes estate," Sloan argued. "They have security that rivals the Pentagon."

Ashton reached into her bag and pulled out a tattered, leather-bound book. It smelled of dust and old paper. "I'm not going as a socialite. I'm going as a scholar. He's an honorary trustee for the Ivy League. He's obsessed with economic history."

"You're going to bribe him with a book?"

"I'm going to offer him the missing piece of his collection," Ashton said. "Charity stole my money. I'm going to steal her fiancé."

She looked out the window as the car sped toward her cramped apartment in Queens. The city lights blurred into streaks of gold and red.

"Drive," she told the driver.