I pushed open the door to Fairhurst’s office without knocking first thing in the morning, striding straight to the chair in front of his desk and taking a seat. I had a cup of steaming coffee in my hand—the other one I left by Len’s room every morning, not that she deserved anything from my ass.

Making myself comfortable, I took out a joint and tucked it into the side of my mouth. Technically, it was illegal in the UK, but I still didn’t give much of a crap. I could take a shit on Harry’s desk and he wouldn’t bat an eyelash. Fairhurst knew I had him by the balls.

He was on the phone. When he noticed me, he apologized to the person on the other end, hung up, and tossed his phone across his desk. Making a point, I crossed my legs and rested my feet on said desk, leaning back and enjoying the view of a pale-ass Fairhurst waiting for the verdict.

I glared at him with a shit-eating smirk.

Finally, he knotted his fingers together, sloping forward and trying to look like the responsible, rational adult he wasn’t.

“How?” His face twisted in disgust.

If nothing else, I appreciated his desire for knowledge. I’d just taken away his leverage, destroyed his false evidence, pissed all over his house—not just metaphorically—and stolen his valuables. And he asked me how. Curiosity was vanity, though. We wanted to know things so we could control them. Destroy them.

“Next question.”

“What makes you think Mr. Maples won’t press charges? I’d be happy to confirm it was you behind that prank in my walk-in closet.”

“And I’d be happy to confirm why I did it. Which, coincidently, is how I know you’ll keep your lover’s mouth shut.”

He snapped his own mouth shut, his jaw clenching. I tipped the ash from the joint onto his floor, looking around. It was a fine-looking office, with one of his paintings hanging in front of his desk.

“No files. No laptop. No camera. No leverage.” I counted with my fingers. “Sucks to be you these days, Harry. A part of you probably wishes you’d executed your plot and fucked my mother over before I could ruin you. You know I never told her about your shitty scheme? Her heart doesn’t deserve to be broken. She actually likes you.”

Goddammit, Mom.

He looked away, probably recalculating his next step. My feet were in his fucking face, and behind them, I knew he could see the golden victory in my expression.

“I guess you came here to lay out your demands. You know I’ll cooperate. I did get you into this program, didn’t I?”

He’d accepted me because I blackmailed him.

I shrugged. “Anything you have to give, I have no interest in.”

“Is that so?” He quirked one eyebrow, standing up. “You’d be surprised. Money, sex, and power speak. I offer plenty of all three.”

“There are no bargains between gods and mortals. You will kneel, and as we’re both well aware, you’re also going to fucking enjoy it.”

It was my turn to stand up. He assessed my face, refraining from making a move. I remained calm, stony, and tranquil. He rounded his desk and stood in front of me, then began lowering himself to the ground, an act of goodwill.

Before his knees touched the floor, I spun on my heel and gave him my back, walking over to the painting hanging on his wall—the one I couldn’t get—and put my joint off right in the eyes of the pretty Italian girl with the perfect tan in 1950s summer in Ischia.

He stared at me from his place on the floor, silent.

“How’s business, Harry?” I asked conversationally, staring at the girl.

She had deep brown hair, a sad face, and now two cigarette burns for eyes. Harry Fairhurst’s technique of painting eyes was what had made him famous. They looked so real, you sometimes looked down to avoid eye contact. I knew that better than anyone, because I was well-versed in escaping the eyes he’d painted that stared at me in my own house.

He also loved to paint sad faces. I always thought there was something sadistic about his art. I was surprised Mom couldn’t see it.

“Fine,” he clipped impatiently, standing and hurrying toward me before I tarnished the rest of his precious baby. His art. His painting. I made a V sign with my fingers, digging them into the girl’s eyes. The canvas was rich and thick, the paint over it dry and resistant, but I managed to pierce the holes deeper, slashing her face with two strokes of my fingers. The painting was officially ruined now.

“Clumsy me.” I turned around, flashing him a smile. “You were saying? Just fine? Sounds a bit lackluster.”

“Actually…” He cleared his throat, lacing his fingers behind his back, trying to salvage some kind of pride as he stood in front of me. “It’s been a very good year. My paintings have just been purchased by a private curator—nearly all of them, across the world. My guess is they’re going to open an exhibition, perhaps even a museum.”

“I wouldn’t count on that,” I said smoothly.

He frowned, but said nothing.

“See, I’m the investor, and I already found a fitting purpose for your paintings,” I said, taking my phone out of my back pocket and sliding my thumb across the screen. “It took a bit of effort. I even had to break into my trust fund, but I got my hands on them. All one hundred ninety-three paintings. Wanna guess what I’m going to do with them?” I looked up, my voice cheerful, my stance confident.

His Adam’s apple dipped with a swallow, and his face drained of color.

“Don’t be shy now, Fairhurst. That’s not who you are.” I shoved my phone in his face, showing him exactly what I’d been up to in the days following my breaking and entering his house. All the paintings had been shipped express to Knight’s address, which had cost me dozens of thousands of dollars. After that, my best friend was all too happy to make a bonfire on a local beach and feed the flames with rich canvas and elaborate paint. They’d all melted spectacularly into the sand, the ocean washing away whatever was left in them.

Fairhurst grabbed my phone and scoffed, watching the video of teenagers running through the fire, laughing and pouring gasoline onto the flames. After a few seconds, he tossed it back to me.

“You’re dead! You are fucking dead. I’m going to kill you!”

I tucked my phone back into my pocket, yawning as he paced the room, back and forth. His entire career, up in flames.

He stopped abruptly in the middle of the room. “You ruined all of them, but not the one you want gone more than anything else—the one hanging in front of your childhood room.” His voice was laced with venom.

I laughed, ignoring the dull pain in my chest. “Working on it.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I wouldn’t?” I rubbed at my chin. “Or shouldn’t? Those are two very different things. I could kill you right now and you wouldn’t even stop me. Because if I spill the shit I know about you out in the open, you’ll be as good as dead, anyway. Jailed, stripped of your money and prestige, living in solitary confinement so your fellow prison mates don’t kill you.”

“I’ll deny everything you say. Every single word. I will start from scratch. I can—I can paint new paintings!” he screamed in my face. “I’ll work twice as hard.”

I frowned. “That’ll be a bit difficult.”