Cynthia Sharpe stood in the center of her living room, a corkboard propped up on her designer coffee table. It was covered in photos of the wedding venue, security rotations, and timelines. She was circling potential weak points with a red marker.
“If I leak the seating chart to the tabloids tomorrow,” Cynthia muttered, “it creates chaos at the gate. William hates chaos.”
“Is that really all you have left?”
Cynthia spun around. Jaxson Vane stood by the door, his suitcase already in his hand. He looked at the corkboard with disgust.
“I thought we were past this,” Jaxson said, his voice devoid of the usual playfulness. “You promised you were done. But you’re not. You’re addicted to him, Cynthia. You’re addicted to the hate.”
“I’m doing this for us,” Cynthia pleaded, dropping the marker. “Once he’s ruined, we can–“
“There is no ‘us’ while you’re stalking him,” Jaxson cut her off. “I offered you a real life. Real money. Real affection. But you’d rather play villain in William Croft’s story than be the hero in your own.”
He opened the door. “I’m done, Cynthia. Good luck with the ghosts.”
The door slammed shut, leaving her alone with her red marker and the echoing silence of a final chance wasted.