Ariel reclined on the edge of her designer couch with a bored expression, her freshly manicured nails scrolling idly through her phone.
Then she heard a buzz.
Not from her phone. Not from the security system. From the front desk downstairs.
"Ms. Sawyer, you have a delivery. No return address. The man who brought it insisted it was urgent."
She raised a brow. "What kind of delivery?"
"A sealed envelope, ma'am. Black. Hand-delivered."
Ariel pursed her lips. She had enemies. She also had obsessed fans. She wasn't in the habit of accepting random packages—but curiosity had claws, and they were already digging into her.
"Fine. Send it up."
Three minutes later, there was a knock at the door. Her personal assistant, Trina, opened it. One of her messengers handed out the envelope, bowed his head slightly, and turned without a word.
Trina closed the door and gave the envelope to Ariel.
It was smooth. No name. No message.
She broke the seal.
Inside, she saw a dozen photographs:
>>Arnold in a hotel room.
>>Arnold and Freya in the same hotel room.
>>Two of them in the backseat of a car. His usual guarded face was softer.
>>Freya talking to him in an alleyway. He held a coffee and seemed lost in her eyes.
>>Freya at the hospital, bandaged. His face beside hers, bent with concern.
>>Freya sitting up in a hospital bed, hair a mess but smiling at Arnold, who was seated close beside her, watching her like she was the only person alive.
>>A blurry image of the two walking side by side in the hospital corridor, his hand subtly guiding her elbow.
Ariel's heart slammed against her ribs like it wanted to tear out.
Her heels clacked loudly as she paced the floor, the images now fanned across her table like tarot cards spelling doom.
She didn't know who sent them, but she knew exactly what they were meant to do.
Make her feel it.
And she did.
"Who the hell do you think you are?" she hissed to the air, speaking to the woman in the photos. She grabbed one picture, glaring at Freya's face like she could burn a hole through it.
"She thinks she's won. Some cheap, coffee-fetching nobody thinks she can walk in and take what's mine?"
Her eyes burned with hot, possessive fury. She had played the game patiently, enduring Arnold's coldness and vague promises because she knew what he represented—status, legacy, power.
And now this woman, this nobody, this peasant journalist had him wrapped around her bruised little finger?
Not on her watch.
Trina frowned. "You want me to find out where they came from?"
"Yes. And something else. Find out everything about this girl. Where she eats. Where she shops. Who she talks to. I want to know what brand of tampons she uses."
"That's... detailed." Trina blinked.
"So is betrayal."
Ariel turned and stalked to her closet. She unlocked a drawer.
Inside: a phone she didn't normally use. Not for friends. Not for press. This was a different kind of line.
She turned it on.
One contact.
She dialed.
The line picked up on the second ring.
"Ms. Sawyer."
"I have a situation."
"The usual kind?" A smoky voice asked on the other end.
"A woman. Freya Davis. She thinks she's cute. Arnold thinks she's harmless. I think she's temporary."
There was a pause. "You want her gone?"
She stared out her window. Night glittered like a promise.
"No. Not yet. I want her rattled. Scared. I want her to feel watched. I want her to crack."
"Understood. We'll start tomorrow."
"And make it subtle," she added. "No blood. Just enough pressure to make her squirm. And enough for Arnold to see what kind of distraction she is."
She hung up and stood still for a moment.
Behind her, Trina asked quietly, "Is this war?"
Ariel smirked.
"No," she said softly. "This is just the beginning."