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𝐅𝐈𝐅𝐓𝐘-𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑

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"Cora! Congratulations!"

Cora froze. Her hand wavered behind her back. With the wine glass tilted at an angle, it took all of five seconds before her hand began to ache. Two options presented themselves. Retract and hope it didn't seem apparent that she's been dumping the contents into a pot plant or 'accidentally' drop the glass into the soil and dart away before anyone noticed.

None of them had considered discretion when it had come to the plan, cooked up at the crack of dawn. Cora had awoken to an alarm she hadn't set, stumbled onto the upper level, having followed the sound of voices and insistent hissing, to find that Olivia had somehow magicked a giant whiteboard overnight. On the countertop, Mac and a tray of four coffees (one decaf, as Olivia insisted on assuring). Being goaded into a corner by Olenska, Greg.

She could have strangled Olivia, in fact she probably would have, if she hadn't needed to immediately puke into the sink. If there had been any question of whether he knew, Cora had gone ahead and confirmed it anyway. Still, she eyed him begrudgingly as Olivia drew her a seat before turning to dramatically spin the whiteboard over.

"Welcome to Operation Fuck Matsson!"

Mac snorted. "Isn't that what landed her in this mess?"

"Yes but you came up with it."

Being sober, Cora would have preferred to not entertain Olivia's rather creative way of tackling the problem, but things were different. This, she knew, was an 'all chips in' bet. The house always won, especially if it was a Scandanavian billionaire. But despite the risk, she didn't want to cash in a 'Get Out of Jail Free' card, not from her step-father, not from a Roy. This was her mess. A mess she planned on keeping contained by lighting a wildfire. No one would be allowed to hold her life ransom any longer.

It turned out that Greg was an unfortunate necessity if they were to pull off the impossible. It stood to reason that any direct attempt for Cora to extricate herself from Matsson would, at the least, arouse suspicion, and at the worst, outright attack. If she had any chance of getting ahead of him, she would need to buy time.

The solution? They would force his hand. Matsson had to break up with her, and what's more, he'd have to be convinced that it was his decision entirely. It was weaponised self-destruction; every bad thing, one last time.

"Is this why you kept asking me about all the ways I'd pissed him off?" Cora said, nursing her lukewarm latte.

Olivia nodded enthusiastically and swung to outline her first bullet point. She'd repurposed an old curtain rod, metal end thwacking sharp against the laminate. "And since infidelity it apparently off the table, we gotta go unconventional. Step one, control the narrative."

The crowd parted like the Red Sea as Connor swept towards her, landing an awkward kiss between the corner of her mouth and the side of her nose. Willa appeared beside his shoulder as he pulled back, tightlipped but nodding along, muttering something about what this meant for the funding of the play, before leaning in for a hug.

"Saw it near the classified, smack bang next to the interview they did with me. More of a puff piece. An ad, if you will." Willa tugged his sleeve. "So! For when are we saving the date?"

"Still ironing out those details." Cora said with a pinched smile. "And the campaign is ..."

"Swimmingly. It's going. It's really going." The swig of champagne hit the back of his throat wrong and he began to splutter.

They went back and forth briefly, brushing past the elephant, neither of the couple blinking an eye when Cora retracted her ringless hand to swirl without sipping, the glass of wine. Only when Connor asked if she'd seen Shiv around did Cora's heart rate pick up. She'd been avoiding her, and Tom for that matter. Arriving fashionably late had done the heavy lifting, but for the better half of an hour, while feigning trips to the bar, she'd strained her neck keeping it aloft to spot any glint of copper in the crowd. On the other hand, Tom had done her job for her. The one instance of maintained eye contact having ended when he'd sloshed wine over his lapel.

She wondered if he knew, if Shiv knew, hoped that Matsson did. She'd heard nothing from the latter, and even considering the factory seal on her phone, this surprised her. Matsson could have had a SWAT team descended if he'd wanted to, and the radio silence was making her antsy. At least it made for one certainty. He was not pleased with her.

Connor and Willa excused themselves, and she breathed the deepest sigh of relief she could muster, muted by the restraint of her dress. If she couldn't have her last hurrah chemically, she would do it in spirit. 

Across the room, Olivia nodded to her and Cora nodded back. She walked to the bar and ordered a whiskey, served to her in a low glass with a large cube of ice. While she swirled it in her hand, she walked the rim of the party. This is what she'd originally been doing when Connor and Willa had happened upon her, and though she'd been convinced she'd look crazy, walking around making brief conversation, laughing too hard, drinking too little, it dawned on her that this was what a party was meant to look like, flushing in retrospect at the glance Mac and Olivia had exchanged.

But if this had put her at ease, Matsson's prolonged absence did not. "Greg isn't replying." She said, having taken refuge near the coat room.

Olivia chewed her lip. "I bet he's making sure he isn't, you know, breaking character?"

"I don't think he needs much help in that regard. It's the role of a lifetime for him." Cora sighed, looking down into the amber swill of her glass. "I'm going to the ladies. If he isn't out by the time I'm back, we're calling him."

"Ok, well, if he shows up or Matsson shows up or they both show up, then I'll yell the code word."

"What's the codeword?"

"Favorite girl scout cookie!"

Cora wouldn't have put it past Greg to immediately spill the beans, and Olivia's earlier assurance that she'd convinced him there was a date on the line ("with an implied sleepover" she assured) wasn't proving to be the iron clad contract that it'd be described as. But she'd be lying to herself if that was the only thing on her mind.

Maybe Roman was off Twitter. Did he even read the news? Hopefully she'd be able to rely on the manic depressive or depressive depressive episode he was having to distract him. It was at that moment that Cora remembered that Logan had died and the dull blade of shame raked against her insides. Or maybe he'd simply be too busy with the funeral.

Regardless, she needed to pee. Something that she still needed to do five minutes after entering the bathroom, which was approximately the amount of time it took her to pull the zipper of her dress halfway down. Her fingers had slipped yet again off the end of the zip, cursing the decision to wear a jumpsuit of all things, when she heard a sharp knock on the door.

"Occupied!" She said, now frantically pulling down the zipper, which she managed to tug down to her tail bone. Hurriedly she stepped out of the jumpsuit as best she could and threw herself down on the toilet. The handle began to jiggle and she cursed to herself. Surely she hadn't been that long?

Or maybe it had been. Cora watched in horror as she saw the end of an American Express force its way through the crack in the door and carve down like a samurai sword before the door swung open. Gawking, she hurried to grab the top of her jumpsuit and pull it up into a makeshift curtain. 

Half expecting to look up and find Roman, she was rendered briefly speechless with shock as she realised who had walked through the door.

"What the fuck, Gerri?" She said, almost dropping the jumpsuit. Gerri closed the door, turned and walked over to the mirror. She swung her long chained handbag onto the countertop, rifled through it, and picked out a powder compact.

Pressing the pink sponge beneath her eyes, she faced Cora in the mirror.

"Finish up. We don't have all evening."

"I'm ... Indecent!"

"I've seen live births, Cordelia," said Gerri. "This is hardly confronting. Although I don't know what you were thinking with a jumpsuit."

Since the only thing she could think of in reply was 'neither do I', Cora said nothing, and instead grabbed a wad of toilet paper. 

As she rose and began to redress, Gerri stalked over slowly, her heels echoing off the white tile of the bathroom. Wordlessly, she gestured for Cora to turn and began to pull up the zipper. Because of the violent way she had unzipped it the first time around, the motions Gerri made were jerky and involved several pauses.

"So. I heard."

"Oh. You heard?" She tried to avoid the queasy feeling that swept her. She watched Gerri carefully. "What ... Exactly did you hear?"

There were far too many versions of this scenario that Gerri could lead her down. Gerri was silent as she finally pulled the zipper into place. Both women faced each other.

"That you're willing to testify. If it comes down to that." Time seemed to protract for Cora as her heartbeat wiped all other noise, as she considered all the possible courtroom scenarios that Gerri could possibly be referencing. "For Roman. Has he not approached you already?"

"Who's suing Roman?"

"I am."

"Oh, I don—"

The sound of a commotion outside cut Cora off, before the door burst open. Olivia had Roman around the waist, but he'd unfortunately succeeded in pulling her down the hallway, leveraging her like a dogsled. Upon spotting the shocked faces of the two women, she loosened her grip, falling onto her tail bone and shrieking, "Toast-Yays!".

Roman dusted himself off before leaning himself against the doorway. "Ladies." He turned to sweep Cora up and down. "Damn, Shiv was not wrong about the bedazzled basketball net. With pants too I see."

"I'm not testifying for anyone," Cora said.

From the corner of the doorway, Olivia squeaked: "Toast-Yays!"

"And that is exactly what I told you Gerri. I said, this one's loyal. This one knows the value of honesty."

"It's not a question of loyalty. It's not a question at all."

"I ..." Roman paused, waving his finger in uncertainty. "You're wrong, Ger. Don't ask me how, but you're wrong."

"When I'm addressing you, you'll know it." She said, adjusting her attention back to Cora. Here, the woman who had clawed her way through the ranks at Waystar appeared, sluicing Gerri of her warmth. She challenged Cora's retreating step. "You know that the second this whole shit heap disintegrates, you'll have nothing. At least keep a little integrity intact. That much you must care about."

Cora forced herself to remain still, resisting the urge to press against the vanity. "Integrity is the least of my concern."

"Toast—"

"Olivia, I'm gonna need you to shut up so I can concentrate on remembering this forever."

"I suppose it runs in the blood." Gerri said sharply. "I had hoped so much better for you. Now I see that you're as rotten as your mother."

Cora relaxed. It was like a bubble had popped and her ears rung with pitch. The world had not imploded. She had not imploded. The worst had happened, and she was perfectly fine.

After a moment, she nodded. "I think she'd probably say I was worse. But thank you, Gerri. You two have fun in court." 

"Toa—" Olivia stopped short as Cora pushed past the doorway, grabbed her by the sleeve and swam through the crowd. "Wh-what was that all about?"

"I don't know. I mean, I do know, I know about three-quarters of what was happening there, but I refuse to let myself comprehend it." She brought her to a stop in front of the bar, swiping a flute from a passing waiter. "So where is he?"

"He's ... Well, he was up here when I went in to get you." She craned her neck around. "Greg was with him too. I'll just call him."

Both were momentarily distracted by a nearby Tom, champagne waterfalling over the fist enclosing the bottle's neck. Somehow, in popping the cork with a knife, he'd managed to angle the bottle at just the right angle to bounce off the crown molding above, rebounding to hit a waitstaff in the eye.

"Sh— No! No, she can't leave! You all signed waivers! Oh, don't just stand there gawking. Get her an ice pack! Get her an eyepatch!" He paused, realising his audience. He gave Cora a small wave, but his eyes drew to Shiv like a magnet. "Just handling something, I'll be with you both in a moment."

Nudging Olivia away from the action, she muttered under her breath: "I want so little to do with all that right now." 

A roar of laughter pierced the easy jazz and chatter. Grasping her flute tight, Cora scuttled cautiously to the metal banister and peered below.

They were all ringed in a group of couches, with Matsson seated at the peak of the seating chevron, beside lounging beside Oskar. As she watched them, a cloud of vape smoke wafted up, bright watermelon scented, and Cora had to pull back as she waved her hand, spluttering as she coughed vigorously.

"So, like, how are we gonna do this?"

Cora wiped a tear from her eye. "Wasn't that up to you?"

"Yes? No? Kinda? You said he'd be pissed off if you went ahead and did all that stuff. But we didn't really talk about, um, having an actual conversation."

Mostly because Cora had hoped the problem would disappear. She sighed, taking a beat, before dribbling some of the alcohol down her front. Olivia gawked at her, and almost didn't register when she'd been handed the half-emptied flute. Mussing her hair and pulling her pinkies to smear against the underside of her eyeliner, Cora's posture grew lazy, her lids heavy, and her mouth slack with a giggle.

With that, she headed down downstairs.

One glance and she knew that he knew, though if she'd been in any doubt, the silence that followed her arrival was the definitive cherry on top. Matsson raised a hand and ushered her forward, though he did not allow her room on the chair, patting his knee. She flopped onto the chair's arm. He drew his arm around her waist.

"Hello you," he said. His voice was light.

"Hi," she slurred.

He met her eye, hand resting against her leg, cutting itself against the twinkling crystals stitched against the dark. She leaned closer to him, as if by shrouding his vision, she would obscure her intent. Matsson caught her by the mouth and kissed her deeply. His tongue searched her. Against the backdrop of his eyelids, she stared in horror.

Pulling away, he reached into his pocket. He took her hand.

"Taking initiative." He said, sliding the ring in place. "I hope you won't mind if I do the same."

She had fucked up. Oh, she had definitely fucked up.

Her smile was nauseatingly saccharine as she nodded, giving him a kiss on the cheek. "Wow. This is really a ring." She paused, wincing at the sudden scratchiness of her throat. "I better go show this to Olivia." She made to rise but he held her firm.

"Oh no you don't. We haven't even seen each other since the announcement. I'm not about to let you go that easily."

His only mercy was that he proceeded to completely ignore her. She managed to edge her way to the empty seat beside him when Greg appeared over her shoulder, puffing bright watermelon vapor that stickied the skin of her neck. She coughed, waving it away, as he greeted the group, then stooped, surreptitiously, dangling his arms against the backing of the couch.

They were silent until a conversation had gathered steam. Greg pulled out his phone. Her eyes narrrowed.

"Were you really googling 'Cordelia Vernon net worth'?"

"Shoot, uh, I dunno. Came up last night and I saw you and got reminded." He hastily shoved it away. "I guess I should've just asked huh. So what's ..."

"It's this much, asshole." She said, reaching up to flick him on the ear. 

Through a few furtive exchanges, she found out why. He had tried to play things up, he said, relaying everything since the hot dog stand, assuring her that he'd made her look as bad as possible. Unfortunately, Matsson had taken it all as a personal slight, and after a steely silence, had in turn, forced Greg on the bar crawl to end all bar crawls. Then he'd been forced to fire everyone. With a hangover.

"All those little faces." He grimaced.

Cora's lips pulled into a thin line. "I'm not sure how that's relevant to this situation."

"It was like breaking up with a hundred people at once, y'know. They started talking about a payout and how they were gonna, fucking, sue me or someth—"

A commotion drew him to a sharp stop. She gathered quickly that the conflict was between Ebba and Matsson. Cora remained tight lipped. There was a sick sense of satisfaction at seeing the usually collected Ebba on the backfoot, ruffled like velvet pushed the wrong way, Cora found herself chewing her lip and watching, enraptured, as the two traded terse words until Greg, a dog caught between two people tossing the ball, decided to interject. 

Schadenfreude only went so far, and she found, in the absence of anywhere else to look, herself fixated on the sparkle of the ring. It wasn't quite like any she had seen before; a diamond set in a bulb, a round corolla, and with each centimeter of silver encrusted by smaller buds of gemstone. Cora didn't like it. It seemed undoubtedly bought by a secretary, tasked with finding the ring, as described by a man. It shimmered from all angles as she rotated the flat of her hand.

She was just about to excuse herself when the light bulb appeared.

When he had slumped back down, now officially on the couch, and all but patting himself on the back, she angled her toe inward and jabbed him in the ankle with her heel. 

"I need you to break up with me." She said through the side of her mouth, once she knew she had caught his attention.

"Shit, did I sleep text you to be my girlfriend?" Greg muttered in reply. "Because, uh, thats a medical condition I have and it's real, I had to do a sleep test and they overbilled my insurance and—"

"I need you to break up with me. Like how you fired Ebba."

Before he could reply, Cora stood. The chatter, which had reignited, albeit more raucously, dulled again as addressed Matsson directly. In a stilted voice, she said: "I'm going ... To go now." Then quickly clarifying: "I am leaving the party."

"What do you mean?" Matsson clapped his hands, rubbing the expanse of his palms together. "Party's just begun."

"No. I mean. Just. After that display, well—"

"You need me to fire her too?"

Oskar threw back his head in laughter, spittle and beer flicking from the tendrils of his beard, others following suit, but Matsson was muted by comparison. He turned to Greg, his hands forming a triangle. Had he always looked like such a villain?

"Oh yeah? And how would you do that?"

He had the tone of someone trying to usher out a guest who was blind to their overstay. Surprisingly, Greg held character. He shrugged his shoulders and took a hit of his vape, head swaying side to side before leaning back against the couch. His eyes landed on her legs. They stayed there for a pronounced period of time. Just when Cora was on the edge of telling him to reel it in, he pounced upwards and began to circle her.

"Um, well, obviously not fire, since as we're all well aware, Cora doesn't do work."

A snicker rippled amongst the group. Oskar raised his glass. 

"Break up."

"Break up?"

"Break up! Why would he ever want to break up with me?" Cora said, modulating her voice unnaturally. She was having to dig around, back to all those terrible fights with Arthur, thankful at least that no one was throwing a shoebox at her head, but the stakes were nonetheless high. He was watching her, like a hawk, his eyes running down the end of his nose, she saw his skepticism, his suspicion, remembered the cameras, a wave of paranoia sweeping through her. Greg could be in on it. This could be theatre. He wouldn't have let this happen under his nose, he'd been letting her play into his hand.

Greg read the panic in her eyes. As Matsson open his mouth to speak, raising a paternal hand, he jumped in front, obscuring him from her vision, bending down to level with her. The whites of his eyes were tinted yellow from nicotine and unrest, and she could see that he'd slept in his clothes, the wrinkles, the lint that collected after a few days worn from the dry cleaner. Oh Greg. Once upon a time, he'd been her favourite, at least relatively speaking. Sentimentality fluttered her chest. Maybe he'd come through. Maybe he wasn't so bad.

"Uh, well ... You're a slut who can't drive. You crashed a car. In Italy. Kinda ... Lame," he said. "For some reason, you wear heels, even though you're like 5'8 and it can be really emasculating for men who obviously are not me. From what I've heard, you're not good at anything. Including being an alcoholic. Uh, apparently Kendall Roy ruined your life, which, when you think about it, is pretty sad. For you. I've known you for three years and I don't know if I've ever seen you buy anything that wasn't a new outfit, and like, you kind of freeload more than me, in my opinion, kinda why we googled you last night and ..."

He continued on further, rambling until even Oskar's booming laugh had whittled down, only stopping when Matsson rose and put a hand on his shoulder. "So, uh, yeah, you're dumped. Guess you're single now."

"Yeah you can stop now."

Cora was silent as Matsson pushed him aside.

The entire time, Cora had made sure not to blink, and when he pulled away, she was glassy eyed, helped by the sting of Cointreau on his breath. She took one look at Matsson, huffed dramatically and said: "Well, if that's how it is." Before racing towards the staircase, ignoring as he ushered her back amidst his own artificial chuckling.

Roman had watched the entire thing play out from the balcony above. He said nothing as she stormed up the stairs, her knees aching from the theatrics, not looking her in the eye until she had grabbed him by the shoulder of his shirt and started dragging him towards the exit. Roman began to protest, but his feet followed willingly.

"Hey, hey, not in public."

She stopped abruptly. "Do you want to keep your inheritance?" Roman nodded. "Then get me out of here."

He no longer protested, which was a relief, because from a not so far distance, she could hear Matsson calling, trying to coax her back. She almost took out a bewildered journalist with a dark asymmetrical bob, and only just looked back when she caught Olivia's parting words before the elevator doors closed: "Already onto step two!"

They didn't exchange a word as they lowered into the foyer, but she could see his smirk from the corner of her eye. She hadn't yet let go of him, her hand had begun to feel numb, as though it were no longer a part of her, and hotly she remembered why. The ring. He was staring at it.

"There's a car out the front." He said finally, when the elevator dinged. The doors were sliding open when she heard the sound coming from the fire escape.

She quickened her steps, short of a hasty jog, down the front, across the footpath. Matsson almost closed the gap. Cora threw herself into the back seat, while Roman walked casually around the back, as though he had all the time in the world. He was at the opposite door when Matsson slapped his hand against the window.

Cora had slipped down into the space at the foot of the seats. Matsson's muffled greeting found her. Suddenly the horror dawned on her. What if he sold her out?

"Fancy seeing you here. They were saying you wouldn't show."

"You sound hopeful," Matsson said. "I'm just looking for my fiancé."

"If I had a nickel for every time I've said that," Roman said.

There was an awkward beat where neither spoke. Cora found herself staring at the front of his shirt. There was a coffee stain on the left cuff. Maybe it was a way of disassociating, but she began to imagine soaking it in warm soapy water, the process of letting it rinse away before throwing it in the wash. She hadn't done laundry much in her life. The image was jarring.

"Alrighty, goodnighty."

He slipped into the seat and slammed the door. Matsson began to knock against the window, while Roman, as though he couldn't hear it, and as though she did not exist, crouched there at his feet, began to put his seatbelt on as methodically as possible. Inspecting the buckle, pulling hand over hand.

"Roman, for the love of God, tell the driver to leave."

He took as long as he could before waving to the driver. They pulled from the curb. A faint thump from the boot sounded, but they were away, Cora daring to crane her neck over the rim of the window, catching a glimpse of Matsson before they had turned a corner. Roman rolled down the window and waved.

"Proud of yourself?" He said, glancing down at her. "Positively grief stricken."

"Not now."

"Pretty please."

"Not unless you unpack the Gerri settlement."

"Eh, you're right. Never mind."

She laughed. Cora was still half slumped on the car floor with her legs folded sideways. Her elbow dug into the leather of the seat, and in the commotion, her forearm had come to rest against his thigh. He looked at her hand. The ring sparkled, accusatory, in time with the passing street lights.

Roman took her hand and ran his finger against the stone. He stabbed his thumb against the crown of prongs and made a whooshing sound, like a plane crash landing. Cora shifted, pulling away, but he caught he by the wrist. Still staring at the ring, he ran his hand against the soft skin of her palm.

"You know, I don't think I can be this guy," he said.

Cora remained silent. For a reason she could not name, her cheeks had grown heavily flushed. He looked to her. She took in a deep breath before speaking.

"What guy?"

"The guy. The guy you were thinking about when you and Shiv did those stupid quizzes or the guy you wanted instead of the six foot fuck me pretty boy who was stuck in an 80s afterschool special or, fuck I don't know, my brother? I'm not Kendall. I don't do coke and fuck strippers and be out of control and drive you crazy."

"You've always driven me crazy," she said.

He continued: "I think I'm that guy when I'm here." And he leaned toward her and tapped the side of her head. Cora didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "Where you get to pretend I'm not an emotional eunuch. You can't win with me."

"I'm not trying to win anything," she said. "Why does everything come back to this?"

"Everyone's trying to win something."

"Not me."

"Yes, you."

She felt such a violent surge of anger then that she shot up from the floor, but at the moment, the car took a sharp turn, causing her to fall away from the seats. Roman held her steady with her hand, jerked from the motion, and he remained transfixed on it as she recovered, making to pull away from him.

"Hit me," he said suddenly.

"I won't."

"Then do something worse."

He let her hand drop back to his thigh. Instantly she understood the request, but she insisted on stammering, to demand with her eyes, a clarification, to which he raked his bottom lip through his teeth and adjusted the position of his hips. He couldn't be implying ... But he has, and she made herself queasy, at the thought that she wanted to reach across his lap and do as he wanted.

Hesitating still, she began to edge the ring upwards with the nail of her thumb. "Keep it on," he said.

Cora nodded.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

AUTHOR'S NOTES

i. it's me, hi x

ii. grammar and proofing is gonna be funny on this one but i'm on a mission (will scrub it up in the future) — watch this space. i wrote 'the end' last night, and i'm planning on finally shipping this over the next couple of days. it's been a long time coming but i've got a fire under me atm <33 

three more chapters + epilogue, let the count down begin