The Perfect Victim: Playing The Billionaire's Game

Isadore stared at her. The air in the room grew heavy, charged with static.

"You have nothing," he repeated, but there was less conviction in his voice.

Ashton set the glass down. She reached out and straightened his tie. "I can give you a perfect, silent wife. Someone who understands that marriage is a business transaction. I won't ask for love. I won't ask for your time."

"Prove your value," Isadore said. He didn't step back.

Ashton stood on her tiptoes. She leaned toward his ear. "Charity's father is leveraging the Gentry holdings to cover gambling debts in Macau. I know because my grandfather's old accountant still sends me birthday cards... and warnings. He told me Gentry is one bad marker away from collapse. The audit starts next week. If you merge now, you inherit his debt."

Isadore froze. His eyes narrowed. That was insider information. Dangerous information.

Ding-dong.

The doorbell rang. Urgent, rapid knocking followed.

"Isadore? Are you in there?" It was Charity.

Ashton's eyes widened.

Isadore grabbed Ashton's arm. He shoved her toward the walk-in closet. "Get in."

"What?"

"If she sees you here, the deal blows up before I can verify your intel. Get in."

Ashton slipped into the closet. Isadore kicked the door shut, leaving it cracked an inch.

He opened the suite door. Charity pushed past him, her eyes wild.

"I heard voices," she accused. "Who is here?"

"I was on a call," Isadore said calmly.

Charity saw the glass on the table. The one with the lipstick stain.

She started walking toward it.

Isadore moved. He crossed the room in two strides, snatched the glass, and dumped the contents into the ice bucket. He walked to the wet bar and rinsed the glass in the sink, scrubbing the rim with his thumb.

"I ordered a drink," he said, drying the glass. "It was warm."

Charity stopped. She looked at the empty glass, then at the closet door. She sensed something. But she had no proof.

"When are we announcing the date?" she asked, her voice shrill.

"Not tonight," Isadore said. "I have a headache. Leave."

Charity glared at him, then turned on her heel and marched out.

Ashton watched from the darkness of the closet. Her heart was racing. He had covered for her. He had washed the glass.

He was an accomplice now.