PRUDENCE POV
The scent of vanilla and chocomusk hung heavy in the penthouse air.
It was a custom blend, something my in-house perfumers at Provida Emporium had crafted exclusively for her. "Sovereign," they'd called it. A scent for a queen who answered to no one. I, prudence Smith stood at the floor-to-ceiling window of her apartment, a crystal tumbler of amber whiskey in my hand, watching the lights of the city twinkle like a bed of fallen stars. The silence was a thick, expensive cloak around her.
It was shattered by the soft, hesitant click of the front door.
I didn't't turn. I simply took a slow sip, letting the smoky liquid burn a path of steadying warmth down my throat. I counted his footsteps on the Italian marble,ten from the foyer to the edge of the living area. He stopped. I could feel his uncertainty, a palpable wave that disrupted the pristine energy of her space.
"Prudence? You're still up?" Damien's voice was a careful, placating baritone. It was the same voice he used to negotiate contracts, to smooth over disagreements. I'd once found it charming. Now, it felt like a tool he was clumsily wielding.
"The board meeting ran late," I said, my voice cool and even, still not turning from the cityscape. It was a lie, of course. I'd been home for two hours. Two hours of waiting, of mentally rehearsing, of feeling the cold, hard certainty crystallize inside me.
"Right, of course. The Q2 projections." I heard him move, the rustle of his suit jacket as he presumably draped it over the back of her Eames chair. A proprietary gesture I now found galling. "I would have been here sooner, but client drinks at The Oak Room dragged on."
I finally turned. I leaned against the cool glass, the city a sprawling, glittering diorama behind her. I was still in my CEO armor: a tailored, ivory-colored blazer, silk camisole, and trousers that cut a severe, clean line.My makeup, as always, was impeccable, a mask of perfection that hid the weary cynicism beneath.
Damien stood there, looking every bit the successful investment banker he was. Handsome, in a polished, generic way. His tie was loosened, his smile easy, but his eyes, a warm brown I'd once thought was sincere, darted away from her direct gaze.
"The Oak Room," I repeated, my tone flat. "Funny. I had a call from Isabella Rossi today."
The name landed in the quiet room like a shard of glass. Damien's easy smile froze, then cracked at the edges. Isabella Rossi was the wife of Damien's biggest client. She was also, as the frantic, tearful call had revealed this afternoon, the woman Damien had been sleeping with for the past three months.
"Isabella?" he echoed, a poor attempt at nonchalance. "What did she want?"
"Oh, the usual," I said casually, pushing off the window and walking slowly towards my drinks trolley. I poured herself another finger of whiskey, the clink of crystal the only sound. "She wanted to know if I was aware that the Patek Philippe watch she gave her husband for their anniversary had a twin. One that her husband, curiously, was not wearing. The other was on your wrist last Tuesday when you told me you were at a 'team-building retreat' in the Hamptons."
Damien's face drained of color. "Prudence, it's not what you think."
"Isn't it?" I took a sip, my eyes never leaving his. They were the color of a stormy sea, and right now, they were utterly calm. A deadly calm. "she was quite detailed, Damien. She described the mole on your lower back. The way you snore after too much champagne. The way you whisper promises you have absolutely no intention of keeping."
He flinched as if I'd struck him but I was only getting started. The facade crumbled, revealing the panicked man beneath. "She's lying! She's a jealous, hysterical woman. Her husband is cutting me out of a major deal, and this is her way of..."
"Stop." The single word was a whip-crack, silencing him. I set my glass down with a definitive click. "Don't insult my intelligence. And don't you dare pathologize a woman's justified pain. I have the hotel receipts, Damien. The credit card statements for the jewelry you bought her. I had my assistant pull them all this afternoon. It's astonishing what you can access when you have the resources I do."
I walked towards him, not with anger, but with a chilling, absolute finality. I stopped a few feet away, close enough to see the sweat beading on his temple.
"You see," I continued, her voice dropping to a conversational, almost intimate tone that was more terrifying than any scream. "I knew you were a dog, Damien. I knew it the moment I met you. People like you make women think Men are dogs. Let it be long. It's just their nature. But I thought you were a well-trained one. One that understood the simple rules of our arrangement."
His mouth opened and closed, no sound coming out.
"Our arrangement," I reiterated, "was that you provided pleasant, undemanding company. In return, you got access to my world. My table at restaurants, my box at the opera, the reflected glow of my success. It was a transaction. A simple one. You were supposed to be discreet. You broke the one rule that mattered."
"Prudence, please," he begged, his voice breaking. "I love you. It was a mistake. A moment of weakness."
A dry, humorless laugh escaped her lips. "Love? Don't use words you don't understand. You don't love me. You love what I represent. And your 'mistake' has now jeopardized a client relationship that funds your entire department. Carlo Rossi isn't a man you cross. I almost feel sorry for you."
I turned and walked to the foyer, picking up the small, pre-packed suitcase that had been sitting by the door since I'd received Isabella's call. She carried it back and held it out to him.
"Get out."
"You're throwing me out? At this hour?"
"I'm evicting you from my life," I corrected. "The hour is irrelevant. Your belongings will be packed and sent to your office by tomorrow. I suggest you find a good lawyer. And a new job. Carlo will have yours by the end of the week."
The reality of his situation finally crashed down on him. The fear in his eyes was suddenly replaced by a flash of ugly anger. "You cold bitch. You never loved me either! This was all just a game to you, wasn't it? Your little experiment. You're incapable of love. Everyone says it. You're just a beautiful, empty ice sculpture."
The words, meant to wound, slid off the impenetrable glacier of my heart. They were too familiar. I'd heard them before, in a different voice, from a different lifetime.
"You think you're so special, Prue? You're just a charity case. A distraction. Did you really think I'd choose you?"
The ghost of the old pain, a phantom limb she'd learned to ignore, throbbed once, deeply. She didn't let it show. Not a flicker.
"Goodbye, Damien," I said, my voice flat and final.
He stared at me, his chest heaving, the suitcase hanging limply from his hand. For a moment, I thought he might say more, might try to shatter my composure. But he saw nothing in my eyes but unyielding frost. Defeated, he turned and walked out the door.
The soft thud of it closing was the most satisfying sound she'd heard all day.
I stood in the sudden silence, the penthouse feeling vast and empty again. I walked back to the window, finishing her whiskey in one long swallow. The burn was a welcome sensation, a feeling to anchor herself to.
Men are dogs.
It wasn't just a bitter quip; it was my foundational truth, a creed written in the scar tissue of her seventeen-year-old heart.
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