Sleeping With The Enemy's Empire

My roommate was a kept woman. The kind who collected designer bags and slathered her face in five-hundred-dollar La Mer creams, playing house on someone else's dime.

I would stare at my own reflection in the mirror, tracing the lines of my face, knowing full well she wasn't even half as beautiful as I was. And so, with cold, calculated precision, I maneuvered my way into Tristan Roths bed.

I played the game perfectly. Right up until the night I stood hidden in the shadows of a velvet-lined corridor at an exclusive Upper East Side social club, listening to Tristan laugh with his friends.

"Camille? Please. She's basically a high-end escort who actually convinced herself shes Manhattan royalty," Tristans voice dripped with aristocratic disdain. "She's even more pathetic than that roommate of hers. Throw her a few scraps and she wags her tail. You should see how she begs when she's naked in my bed. It makes me sick."

The clinking of their scotch glasses echoed off the mahogany walls. "A gold digger like her? Toss her a few million and shell disappear. She isn't even fit to tie my shoes."

I kept my head lowered in the dark. My fingertip traced the string of zeroes on the cashier's check he had left for me, a cold, silent smile curling my lips.

He was right, of course. I was entirely, unapologetically insatiable.

So, it was time to find a more generous bidder.

1.

I stepped out of the shadowy corridor, the thick wool carpet absorbing the sharp click of my stilettos. Pushing through the heavy brass-and-glass doors, the crisp bite of the autumn New York wind hit my face. I hailed a cab and gave the driver the address for a private wealth management branch in Midtown.

In the hushed, mahogany-paneled VIP room, I slid Tristans signed check across the marble counter.

Five million dollars. The bankers manicured fingers danced across the keyboard, printing out the deposit receipt without a blink.

Once the funds cleared, I slipped my new platinum card into my purse, walked out onto Fifth Avenue, and headed straight for Bergdorf Goodman.

When I walked into the Herms boutique, the sales associate gave my tailored but obviously off-the-rack trench coat a single, sweeping glance and remained rooted behind the counter. I didn't say a word. I simply pointed to the latest cashmere coat in the window and a matte black Birkin on the display shelf. I handed her the card.

I left my old clothes in the fitting room.

When I pushed open the door to my shared apartment, Paige was sitting on the thrifted sofa, meticulously painting her nails a violent shade of red. She glanced up, her eyes immediately locking onto the silhouette of the Birkin in my hand.

A cruel smirk twisted her lips. "Tristan finally pay out your severance package?"

I ignored her, walking straight into my bedroom to pull out my largest suitcase.

"You should have known your place," Paige called out, blowing on her wet nails. "A family with the Roths' pedigree was never going to let a broke college kid climb into their family tree."

I opened my closet, pulling out the few silk camisoles worth keeping, and swept the rest of my wardrobe straight into the trash bags.

Paige stood up, leaning against my doorframe. "Just pack up and crawl back to whatever Midwest trailer park you came from. You got dumped."

I zipped the suitcase shut, straightened my spine, and met her eyes with dead, unwavering calm.

"My half of the rent is paid through the end of the month. You're on your own for the utilities."

I grabbed the handle of my luggage and walked past her.

Behind me, I heard the sharp intake of her breath before a glass tumbler smashed against the doorframe, shards glittering as they rained down near my new leather boots. I stepped over the broken glass, pulled the door shut, and left that life behind forever.

An hour later, I was sitting in a high-end real estate brokerage. I signed a lease for a glass-walled penthouse in Tribeca. Fifteen thousand a month. I paid the entire year upfront.

When I finally pushed open the door to my new sanctuary, the sprawling floor-to-ceiling windows framed the bleeding neon and steel of the Manhattan skyline. I sank into the Italian leather sofa, the apartment utterly, beautifully silent. I pulled out my phone and permanently blocked every trace of Tristan Roth.

Then, I opened an encrypted file on my tablet. It contained a meticulously curated list of the city's apex predatorsa dossier I had spent months compiling.

My finger scrolled down the glowing screen until it stopped on a single name: Dominic Roth.

Tristans uncle. The phantom architect of the Roth family empire. The man who actually held the strings.

I tapped into his leaked itinerary. Tonight, at eight o'clock, there was an ultra-exclusive, closed-door gala at The Baccarat Hotel.

I glanced at the brass clock on the wall. Three in the afternoon. Plenty of time to secure a seat at the table.

I made a call to a high-society fixer I knew. Fifty thousand dollars later, a peripheral, no-name invitation was transferred to my phone. With the digital barcode secured, I went to my stylist.

I didn't choose the pure, innocent white dress Tristan always liked me to wear. I chose a custom crimson gown. Plunging back, second-skin fit. I was wearing my ambition like armor.

2.

At exactly seven-thirty, I stepped into the opulent lobby of The Baccarat.

The bouncer scanned my digital pass, and a waiter guided me into the grand ballroom. The Baccarat crystal chandeliers threw fractured, blinding light across a sea of tailored tuxedos and diamond-draped necks. I took a flute of champagne from a passing tray and retreated to the shadow of a marble pillar, letting my eyes sweep the room.

The double doors opened. Tristan walked in, Paige clinging to his arm.

She was wearing a white lace dressthe exact style he used to buy for meand a diamond tennis necklace that practically screamed new money. They gravitated toward the center table, holding court with the usual trust-fund crowd.

One of the heirs turned, catching a glimpse of my red dress through the crowd. He elbowed Tristan.

Tristan turned. His eyes locked onto mine.

His face darkened instantly. Tearing himself away from his sycophants, he marched toward me, pulling Paige along in his wake.

"How the hell did you get in here?" Tristan hissed, his voice a lethal whisper.

I took a slow, deliberate sip of my champagne. "Through the front door. Like everyone else."

Paige leaned against his arm, covering a giggling sneer with her hand. "Camille, you don't belong here. Did you seriously use the breakup money Tristan gave you to come hunt for a new sugar daddy?"

Tristans eyes raked over my crimson gown with utter disgust. "Was five million not enough to buy your dignity? You just had to come here and embarrass yourself?" He snapped his fingers, signaling a waiter. "Get security. Have this trespasser thrown out."

The waiter hesitated as security guards began to approach.

I reached into my clutch, pulled out the heavy, gold-embossed invitation I had just bought, and slapped it flat onto the nearest cocktail table.

"Registered guest. Under my own name," I said, my voice carrying just enough to turn heads.

Tristan stared at the name printed on the card, a muscle in his jaw ticking furiously. "You are such a parasite, Camille. There is no gutter too low for you to crawl through for a dollar, is there?"

I stepped into his personal space, the cloying scent of his Tom Ford cologne hitting my nose. "Tristan, in this room, everyone only answers to the dollar. Don't pretend you're sitting on some moral high ground."

Suddenly, the ambient hum of the ballroom died. The silence rippled outward from the entrance like a shockwave.

The crowd parted instinctively, leaving a wide, empty aisle.

I followed their gaze. Dominic Roth had arrived.

He walked in wearing a bespoke, midnight-black suit, his features carved from cold granite. He was exceptionally tall, radiating a chilling, absolute authority, flanked by four security details in earpieces.

The temperature in the room plummeted.

Tristan, who had been sneering at me seconds ago, immediately straightened his spine. He dropped Paiges hand and practically jogged forward to grovel. "Uncle Dominic. You made it."

Dominic didn't even grant him a glance. He walked right past his nephew and took his seat at the head of the main table. The power brokers of the city immediately swarmed him, offering eager toasts.

I stayed exactly where I was, my champagne glass steady in my hand.

The distance was too great to bridge right now. I was waiting for the breathing room. The quiet moment.

Halfway through the evening, the sycophants began to bore him. Dominic waved off a CEO mid-sentence, rolling an unlit cigar between his fingers. His security detail seamlessly formed a wall, blocking anyone else from approaching.

This was it.

I placed my champagne glass on a passing tray, slipped a folded manila envelope from my purse, and walked directly toward the head table.

A bodyguard immediately stepped into my path, a massive hand raised. "Back away, ma'am."

I didn't stop. I simply held the envelope out to the guard. "Tell him it's the fatal flaw in the environmental impact report for the Southport Harbor Redevelopment."

I raised my voice just enough to cut through the jazz playing in the background. "I didn't stumble upon this. I spent months piecing together Tristans drunken rants and the shredded documents from his home office. The soil toxicity samples for the East Sector were falsified. The real data is in this envelope."

The movement of the cigar in Dominics fingers stopped.

He lifted his gaze. Cold, predatory eyes bypassed his security wall and locked onto my face.

I held his stare. I didn't blink.

"Let her through," Dominic commanded.

The bodyguard stepped aside. I walked up to the table, pulled out the chair directly beside him, and sat down.

A collective, audible gasp echoed from the surrounding tables.

A few yards away, Tristan was staring at me, his face practically vibrating with rage. He took a step forward, ready to intervene, but one of Dominics guards simply placed a heavy hand on Tristans shoulder, pinning him in place.

I pushed the envelope across the linen tablecloth. Dominic opened it, his eyes scanning the first two pages.

"How did you get these numbers?" he asked, his voice a low, gravelly baritone.

"That doesn't matter," I replied, holding his gaze. "What matters is that this document just saved you three billion dollars in federal penalty fees."

Dominic slowly closed the folder. "What do you want?"

"Money. A lot of it. And the exclusive procurement rights for the entire Southport Harbor supply chain."

3.

I laid my absolute bottom line on the table.

He let out a low, dark chuckle. "Tristan wasn't lying. You really are insatiable."

Hearing that, I knew Tristan had already painted a picture of me to his uncle behind closed doors. I didn't bother defending myself.

"As long as you can afford my price, Mr. Roth, Ill prove I'm worth every penny."

Dominic picked up a heavy silver lighter. With a sharp click, a blue flame erupted. He lit his cigar, taking a slow, measured drag, the smoke curling around his sharp jawline.

"Tonight. Nine o'clock. My suite."

He gave me the room number, stood up, and walked out of the ballroom.

The entire room turned to look at me. The air was thick with venomous jealousy, disgust, and morbid curiosity.

I smoothed the silk of my red skirt and prepared to leave.

Tristan lunged into my path, his face flushed purple. "Are you out of your psychotic mind? That is my uncle." He leaned in, spitting the words. "You think he's some benevolent sugar daddy? He plays with people for sport. He will crush you like an insect."

I brushed his trembling hand away. "Don't worry about me, Tristan. At least Dominic pays what I'm worth. Unlike you."

Tristan raised his hand, fully intending to strike me across the face. I didn't flinch. His hand froze in mid-air. He knew better than to cause a physical scene at The Baccarat with half of Wall Street watching.

I walked around him, stepped into the elevator, and pressed the button for the penthouse.

At exactly nine o'clock, I knocked on the mahogany door of the presidential suite.

It was unlocked, left slightly ajar. I pushed it open and stepped into the dim interior.

Only a single floor lamp was lit. Dominic was sitting on the velvet sofa, a crystal tumbler of amber scotch in one hand. On the coffee table in front of him rested a thick, legally bound contract.

"Sit." He nodded to the armchair opposite him.

I sat. He pushed the contract toward me.

"You manage the material supply for the Southport project. You take twenty percent of the net profit."

It was a far more astronomical figure than I had calculated. I skimmed through the dense legal jargon and liability waivers, my blood rushing at the sheer scale of the cut he was offering.

I picked up the Montblanc pen, ready to sign.

His large, heavy hand clamped down over the pages. I stopped and looked up at him.

"Before we finalize this, I need a demonstration of your... unique skill set," he said softly.

"Tristan is currently heading the M&A deal for Rothstone Pharma. He's been quietly running a shadow ledger to siphon company funds. I want the real ledger."

I frowned slightly. Rothstone Pharma was the crown jewel of the Roth family. Tristan kept those books under lock and key.

"You want me to commit corporate espionage."

"Are you afraid?" He withdrew his hand, leaning back into the shadows.

I didn't hesitate. I pressed the pen to the paper and signed my name. "As long as the wire transfers clear, theres nothing Im afraid of."

Dominic stood up, stepped into my space, and gripped my chin. His thumb traced my jaw, the skin of his hand rough with calluses. He forced me to tilt my head up, exposing the vulnerability of my throat.

"I don't tolerate failure," he murmured, his eyes searching mine. "If you don't bring me that ledger, everything you just signed is ashes."

I reached up and firmly removed his hand from my face. "You'll have the ledger on your desk within seven days."

I picked up my copy of the contract, turned on my heel, and walked out.

Back in my quiet Tribeca apartment, I took a scalding shower, letting the adrenaline wash down the drain. Then I sat at my desk in the dark.

Tristan was paranoid right now. Approaching him directly was suicide. I needed a wedge.

I picked up my phone and scrolled through Paiges social media.

Her latest post was a gloating selfie behind the wheel of a limited-edition PorscheTristans latest bribetagged at an exclusive private club in the Meatpacking District.

I tossed my phone onto the desk. I had my wedge.

4.

The next afternoon, I parked my rented car across the street from The Onyx Club. This was Tristans playground, and Paige had been practically living there lately, playing the devoted girlfriend.

I sat in a coffee shop across the street for three hours. Finally, Paige emerged from the brass doors alone. She looked frantic, her eyes darting nervously down the street before she hailed a yellow cab, completely ignoring the Porsche parked at the valet.

I immediately tailed her.

The cab pulled up to a discreet, high-end private women's clinic on the Upper East Side. Paige hurried inside.

I waited in my car for thirty minutes. When she finally walked out, she was clutching a small paper pharmacy bag. Her face was the color of chalk.

Once her cab disappeared around the corner, I walked into the clinic and slid a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills across the pristine reception desk.

"What kind of tests did the girl who just left order?" I asked.

The receptionist discretely palmed the cash, tapped her keyboard, and lowered her voice. "Pregnancy blood panel. Positive."

I walked out of the clinic, the cold air filling my lungs.

It was the ultimate leverage.

There was absolutely no way Tristan would allow a liability like Paige to bear his firstborn right now. He was currently in the final stages of orchestrating a blue-blood marriage with Madeline Sinclair, a billionaire heiress. A bastard child would nuke the merger.

I pulled out a burner phone and sent an anonymous text to Paige. Attached was a photo of her back as she walked into the clinic.

3:00 PM. The Plaza food court. Come alone.

I dropped the burner back into my purse and started the engine.

At exactly three, Paige walked into the caf, hidden behind oversized Celine sunglasses and a silk scarf. She looked around like a hunted animal before sliding into the booth in the darkest corner.

I walked over with a black coffee and sat across from her.

She pulled down her sunglasses, her eyes widening in horror. "Camille. It's you."

I casually stirred my coffee, sliding a photocopied stack of her lab results across the table. "Congratulations. Nothing solidifies a trust fund quite like an heir."

Paige snatched the papers, her hands trembling so violently the pages rattled.

"What do you want?" she hissed, her voice cracking. "How much?"

I reached across, plucked the papers from her shaking hands, folded them neatly, and tucked them back into my bag.

"I want the red leather-bound ledger hidden in the safe in Tristans home office."

Paige shot to her feet, her knee hitting the table and knocking over her water glass. The water soaked the front of her designer blouse, but she didn't even flinch. She leaned over the table, her voice a terrified whisper.

"Are you insane? Hell kill me."

I calmly handed her a napkin. "If you don't get it for me tonight, these lab results will be sitting on Madeline Sinclairs vanity by tomorrow morning. How accommodating do you think the Sinclair family will be to your little miracle?"

Paige collapsed back into the leather booth. Her knuckles were white as she gripped her Birkin.

"I don't know the combination to the safe," she choked out, tears finally spilling over. "He never lets me near it."

I leaned in, holding her panicked gaze with absolute stillness. "The code is Madeline Sinclairs birthday. Try it."

Her eyes widened. "How could you possibly know that?"

I didn't answer. I had paid Tristans recently fired executive assistant a small fortune for that piece of psychological insight.

"Tristan has a private dinner at eight tonight," I instructed, my voice flat and clinical. "You get the ledger, and you bring it to the alley behind his townhouse. Hand it to me, and I swear to you, this secret dies with me."

Paige bit her lower lip so hard a bead of blood welled up. She gave one frantic nod, grabbed her bag, and practically ran out of the caf.

At eight o'clock, I idled my car in the dark, narrow alleyway behind Tristans West Village townhouse.

The autumn wind carried a bitter chill. I pulled a slim cigarette from my purse and lit it, not smoking it, just watching the glowing orange cherry pulse in the pitch black.

At eight-thirty, the heavy iron security door cracked open.

Paige slipped out, hugging a thick manila envelope to her chest like a shield.

I stepped out of the car. She practically shoved the envelope into my hands.

"Take it. Delete the photos. Wipe everything," she hyperventilated.

I opened the clasp, sliding the red ledger out just far enough to catch the dim amber light of the streetlamp. I flipped to the center pages, verifying the catastrophic offshore transfers.

It was exactly what Dominic wanted. The arterial bleed of Rothstone Pharma.

I closed the book, pulled out my phone, and formatted the encrypted drive right in front of her face. "A pleasure doing business."

Paige stumbled backward, her face pale with terror, and slammed the heavy iron door shut.

I turned back to my car.

Suddenly, a blinding beam of light hit me, washing out the alley. A black Maybach glided silently into the narrow corridor, its massive grill completely blocking my exit.

The doors opened. Tristan stepped out of the blinding halogen glare.

Behind him, four massive security contractors stepped onto the pavement.

"You really thought I was that stupid, Camille?" Tristans voice echoed in the brick canyon. He walked toward me, his eyes locked hungrily on the envelope in my hands.

"Grab her. Break both her wrists."