Rain pelted the quiet streets of lower Chelsea. The warm droplets dappled across my face as I slipped out of the cab, leaving a twenty to cover a nine dollar fare. Given my mood, I thought I could share a bit of the joy around. Satchel slung over my shoulder, I replayed the plan in my thoughts as I approached a sweet little brownstone, the high red brick against black wrought iron so quintessentially New York. 

Bastard didn't deserve such a charming little home.

But then I quickly checked my temper. Martha, Jim's wife of almost fifteen years was a darling woman, though what she'd ever come to see in the likes of her husband--I couldn't fathom. With the quiet, brooding blue of pre-dawn clinging to the air, rain slanted with the soft kick of wind funnelling down the street. At the steps, I pressed the door bell and waited.

Lights flickered on, locks clicked and within a few short moments I was face to face with my rival nemeses. Stripped of his suits and ties, Jim was entirely without presence or substance. Just a man in his nightly dress, hair bed messed and mouth hung open. Confused eyes blinked back at me from behind reading glasses.

"Hello Jim." Brushing back my hair, the summer rain falling around me, I smiled into his stunned face. Even though I hadn't had a lick of sleep all night, I felt oddly refreshed and primed with energy. "Hope it's not too early, but I wanted to speak with you."

"What...are you doing here?" Words tangled on his tongue, clashing with the half-dozen expletives I imagined were firing through his brain. Leaning in to me, narrowing the door, he set his teeth on edge. "If you're looking to make a scene--"

"Come, come, Jim. I would never dare to kick a man in the balls in front of his wife. But make no mistake; I won't budge until I've said my piece. Inside."

His gaze raked over me a second time, tongue sliding into the pocket of his cheek. "My office," he said, opening the door wide and stepped back so I could step inside. Shrugging off my coat, he took it from me-a gracious host-and set it on a hook by the entryway.

"Martha's still sleeping, and I will not have her disturbed. This way," he gestured with a flick of his wrist and set off, slippered feet whispering over polished hardwood. Following close behind, I didn't waste any time exploring or taking anything in. I'd been here once or twice for a dinner party or two--at Martha's behest, of course.

No one had been more genuinely moved at her terrifying diagnosis of breast cancer two years ago, and no one had championed her recovery more as she'd battled through chemo and come out the other end a battle-scarred victor.

I admired her completely. Adored her, too. Which was going to make my pending triumph over her husband bittersweet.

Jim's office was every bit as stuffy and sterile as I would have expected from someone like him. All wood and wainscoting, leather chairs and aubusson rug, a picture of old Oxford England, the sort of room men would retire to after dinner for cigars and brandy.

A small delicate cup sat on a saucer, espresso steaming inside and the morning paper scattered across the desk. So this was where he did his morning reading, I mused. Not in the kitchen, standing over the sink with a bowl of cereal, or even comfortably at the table. But here.

At the smell of fresh, expensive coffee, my insides grumbled longingly. But I would sooner gnaw off my own hand than dare ask for a cup. Knowing Jim, he'd probably lace it with arsenic.

Closing the door, entombing us within the ostentatious mausoleum, Jim wound around me, arms crossed and tail of his robe flapping. Judging the colour rising up his neck and staining his cheeks, my coming here unannounced-seeing him thusly so-was mark against his pride. Good. I wanted him off balance. Unsteady.

We were boxers primed in the ring, ready to go bare-knuckle at the toll of the bell. Speaking of bells...

"What time is it?" I wondered aloud, checking my watch. The small hand pushing close to the half-way point. Two minutes to go. So far I was right on schedule, and hoped the rest would play out as smoothly.

"If you're here to make a last ditch plea," Jim warned. "I thought I made my position quite clear in your office. I won't be bought, or swayed. Nine am is fast approaching, I suggest you--"

Here, behind the closed doors of his personal office, I could drop the charade and let the pleasant smile evaporate from my face. "Shut the f-ck up and sit down, Jim."

The bright colour bled from his face, leaving his angular cheeks ashen, his eyes blazing in contrast, but soon a smile chiselled through the temper and he lowered into a chair. All tufted leather and brass nail detailing.

"Fine," he said, crossing an ankle over his knee. His hands slid down the armrest, held there. A king in his throne. "You're a woman set to hang at dawn; the least I can do is hear your last words."

"Oh, there's not going to be an execution," I said, rooting through my satchel for the file, I slapped it atop the side table between us. "At least, not mine."

He sat there for a moment, in contemplative silence, sizing me up. But my face was a cool mask, void of anything that might hint to my intentions where inside I was bursting with too many things to contain, and soon enough I'd set them all free. First, however, I wanted him to sweat.

To wonder. To doubt.

Then, before he had the nerve to call my bluff, as planned, the emailed message chimed on our phones-timed as I had instructed Paul, to be delivered at promptly 5:30am. Breaking eye contact, Jim reached for his phone in his robe pocket and scrolled through to the most recent email.

I almost smiled at the stunned jerk of his brows, smothering it just in time for his attention to snap back to me.

"There's been a board meeting scheduled for today at 6:00am," he said, weighing his phone in his hand. Eyes flickering, wariness creeping in to tighten the lines around his mouth. "How you managed to arrange this without alerting me until now is...impressive. But that doesn't change the inevitable."

"No, you're right. Are you a fan of Judge Judy?" I asked, changing tracks. "I am. The woman's a real ball-buster, isn't she?"

"Laura," he groaned as I sat on the edge of his desk. "I'm not going to sit here and discuss the merits of daytime TV."

"She has a particular expression I love," I continued, slicing him off. "Come to court with clean hands." I raised mine, waved them both. Wiggled fingers. "Clean hands meaning a court will not acquit you or extricate you from circumstances of your own making. And you, my dear Jim, are covered in sh!t, as far as I can see."

"Is that all? I've got more to do than to listen to you hurling insults."

"Shields," I said, relishing the sickly pallor to flash across his skin. "Jordan Shields." I nodded back to the file folder and this time, without further prompting, he snatched it up. Opening it, his breath seeped out of him in a punctured gasp.

"Sweet mother of God." The shake of his hands, the ring of panic in those four desolate words-a thrill only second to one other experience in my life...At the memory of Tristan's lips, and that beautiful, wrenching night were I'd been so certain, so sure, my heart ached and I nudged the pain aside. There was no place for that here. Not now.

Dropping the file to his lap, the pictures spilled out. Bright and glossy and damning.

Weak, his head connected with the high-back of his chair, the wings folding around him like a tomb. So small, so frail, I thought, his skinny length almost evaporating before my eyes.

Eyes closed, he swallowed hard. The lump in his throat bobbing trepidatiously. Finally, after a sobering minute, he opened them, and looked at me. Really looked at me, I realized, probably for the first time in his pitiful life.

"How?" he croaked. "How?"

Crossing my arms, I angled my head. "Naturally after you had the gall to corner me, I started kicking in doors of my own. I think you failed to take into account how well-connected the daughter of one of New York's most beloved senators would be. You fight dirty, Jim. Too dirty. And you forced me to have to get down to your level." I nodded back to the evidence he held there, limp with shock.

To the bright, expertly rendered photos of him lip-locked with his Harvard roommate. A man he allegedly shared a passion for yachting and fly fishing. A man whom he'd secretly shared a bed with for almost twenty years, according to Sandra's paid source.

The photos were old-at least six months, and rendered from security footage captured upstate where the two of them met one every three months at a more obscure hotel. How Sandra's source had managed to dig and locate these in such expeditious fashion, I couldn't begin to understand or process. But he had-among other things.

Five thousand dollars apparently well spent. I gave the man a further three, merely out of gratitude, but the next bullet in my chamber, was going to put Jim in his coffin and keep him there.

"You've made your point," Jim said, gathering the photos, he tucked them away in the folder, sealing it shut. And held a fist there. "This...I don't need to explain myself to you, so I won't. But this doesn't need to get ugly. I never get anything to the Times, and the reporter doesn't know my name or association. I'll back off and that'll be the end of it. I'll destroy whatever I have. I'll sign a CA if that would also make you comfortable."

"Oh, that's not a concern anymore," I said, waving a hand dismissively. "I've already seen to that."

Temper sparked beneath the shock, and a flicker of the old Jim leapt back to life. "Meaning?"

"Meaning your accounts have been scrubbed. And any files or emails you might have copied, stored or stashed, that pertained to my little matter, are gone. As are any records on Iconic's servers and databases. Far as I can say, they never existed to begin with."

That fist tightened, tapped decidedly against the folder. "And how did you manage that? Tom assured--" He clamped down on the rest. But had said enough to solidify my suppositions.

"Yes, your little mole in IT failed you," I said. "But don't worry, he didn't double-cross you either. Thankfully, I have close ties to the administration circuit in Paul. Your mistake," I rose, winding slowly around the room, "is that you made the same mistakes I did. Overlooking administration like they're merely part of the walls, the furniture. But they're people, Jim. People. And deserve a bit of respect. Consideration. Respect."

He scoffed at that, so I promptly swatted him over the back of the head.

"Now we're getting to the crux of the matter." Circling around, I stopped in front of him while he rubbed his head, scowling at me.

"Clocks ticking down to that Board call, so we don't have much time. Here's my offer, and it's the only one you're going to get. You're resigning Jim. Effective immediately."

His eyes popped for an instant, then he tossed back his head and laughed.

"Jesus, you're f-cking insane. While I may wish to spare Martha any pain and humiliation my little association may cause her, don't think for a second I value her feelings over my own personal ambitions. This isn't the fifties. Having certain...predilections isn't going to be enough for the board to push me out the door. If anything, by playing that card any attempts to roust me from the company could create a legal shitstorm of epic proportions." His eyes glimmered, warmed by challenge.
"A sh!tstorm too big, too damaging to be worth pushing me out."

"No, you're right," I agreed, calm as I was in control. Yesterday, he'd buried a knife in my back. Today, I was wrenching it out and stabbing him square in the chest. Looking him straight in the eye as I did it.

"Your little staged scenario--the one that you were going to swoop in and make all better--yeah, that's no longer happening. I know all about it, Jim. The forged documents, the fabricated numbers; hacking into another company's servers to manipulate their records is illegal as it is unacceptable. You put our clients in jeopardy. You put us--Iconic-into jeopardy, all because you're petty, small-minded and wanted to rip me down. And, for the record, your plan to fix everything wouldn't have solved a damn thing because when all's said and done, there's a reason why I'm standing where I'm standing and you're sitting where you're sitting. You don't understand the first thing about crisis management, and all you would have done was put a band aid over a gunshot wound. Thankfully for you, I unravelled that mess and put it all to bed, so there will be no ensuing chaos."

"There's no way," he sneered, shooting to his feet, "no way you could have pulled all of this off on your own. Not in one night. No f-cking way."

"You're right," I agreed, folding my arms. "That's why as soon as I discovered your duplicity, I made a call. To Nishi."

A strangled sound wrenched from his throat, something akin to the sound a man made when he was kicked in the balls. "To--you-you f-cking called--?"

"Damn straight I did. Then I spoke with George Wyatt," I said, listing the names off on my fingers, "as well as every member who sits on the board, save you. Our meeting at six is merely a formality so you can tender your resignation and for the board to administer terms for you to leave quickly and quietly. I'm sure you'll find the severance firm but fair, and non-negotiable, since we have enough evidence to see that you're both charged and fined heavily. The costs would strip you, both professionally and financially. At least this way you can still save face, but you will never, and I repeat, never work in New York again. You're finished here, Jim. And that's a fact."

Cocking my wrist, I smiled triumphantly. "You have ten minutes left to collect yourself. Sort out some speaking points. I'd suggest opening with an apology to Nishi--who will be participating in the call."

Adjusting the lapels of his robe, I smoothed my hands over his shoulders. He wavered there, eyes blank.

"This courtesy," I said, "and make no mistake, because not sending you to prison is a courtesy I didn't have to extend, is merely out of respect for your wife. I'd hate to think the stress and strain of this humiliation would send her to an early grave. For reason I can't fathom, she loves you. And has enough on her plate to worry about with the cancer, don't you think?"

Silence reigned, and I decided now was as good a time as any to leave. The call would happen without me, I saw no need to witness the inevitable, not when I'd enjoyed a front row view of it on my own. The rest would just be overkill, and there was one more person I needed to address before I could consider the matter put to bed.

Turning to leave, I moved to gather my satchel, when I caught the edge of a curse, and his hands snagged in my hair--around my throat. I'd made the mistake of turning my back on a coward, a coward who'd been back into a corner and gutted. I should have known he'd be stupid enough to attack me. The blow caught me off guard as he pushed me down, cracking the side of my head against his desk, fist still tangled up in my hair.

"B!tch," he snapped, forcing me around and onto my back, leveraging all his weight he straddled me, fingers tightening until my eyes watered. Pinned, I struggled, I kicked, but fear, rage and adrenaline gave him reserves of strength he otherwise wouldn't have had. But I wasn't without my own capabilities.

I was tired of men thinking they had the right to lash out, to put their hands on me merely because their manhood's had been impugned. I was tired of having to constantly defend myself against an ego driven patriarchal society.

Forcing my hands between the v of elbows, I took hold of his head, dragged it forward, smashing his nose against the curved dome of my head—hard. Driving in a second time until I heard the wet crunch of bone and cartilage. Blood sprayed and I followed through with a thrust of my knee into his groin so hard his balls tickled his tonsils.

Those hands released me with a shocking scream. Jerking an elbow to his throat, his cries transformed into a strangled gurgle. Bucking him off me, desperate, greedy, I sucked in air. 

My throat burned and every breath was like I swallowed razor blades. Bastard had a strong grip and I knew there would be bruises. Swiping a hand across my face, I mopped his blood from my eyes and blinked into the pale, white face of Martha.

In the chaos the side table had been struck aside, the phone toppled over, and at her feet, sprayed across the antique rug now spotted with blood as Jim rolled and whined, were the photos.