The embers were still crackling when Dorotea's phone broke the silence.
Cassidy didn't see her make the call. She didn't need to. She knew how rats worked: the second you step on their tail, they run to find their master. And Dorotea's master wasn't Emilia. It had never been.
So she stayed seated in the outdoor armchair, legs stretched out and eyes fixed on what was left of Andrea's clothes. A red high heel was putting up a fight: the plastic sole had melted into a black, bubbling mass, but the upper part was still there, twisted, like a claw reaching out of hell.
"Nice metaphor,* Cassidy thought. *That woman is exactly like that shoe. Shiny and red on the outside. Pure cheap plastic on the inside."
The air smelled of burnt chemicals, scorched perfume, and victory.
Cassidy took a deep breath.
Smells good.
They arrived in twenty-eight minutes.
Cassidy counted because she had nothing else to do and because in the Old West she'd learned that time matters. When you hold up a stagecoach, you have between three and five minutes before the next patrol arrives. When you pick a pocket, you have eight seconds before the owner notices. And when you provoke someone with power, you need to know exactly how long it takes for the retaliation to show up.
Twenty-eight minutes. That meant they'd been far away. Probably at the company. At her* company. Working with her* money. Together.
The car came through the gate -- another black horseless carriage, smaller than the driver's -- and screeched to a halt in front of the entrance. The driver's door flew open.
Sebastian got out first.
Cassidy watched him from the garden, through the dying flames. He was wearing the same suit from the hospital but without the tie, his shirt collar open, his formerly perfect hair now disheveled. He walked fast. Jaw clenched. Eyes like a storm.
Andrea got out on the other side. High heels, tight dress, blonde hair loose. She walked behind him with quick little steps, her face flushed, her eyes wet, her mouth twisted in a pout that probably worked wonders on men.
It wasn't going to work one bit on Cassidy.
Sebastian crossed through the house without stopping. Cassidy heard his footsteps on the foyer marble, in the kitchen, down the hallway. The back door slammed open.
And there he was.
Standing in front of the fire pit, staring at the ashes, the scraps of charred fabric, the melted red shoe. His face cycled through three expressions in two seconds: confusion, disbelief, and a cold rage that hardened his eyes like stone.
"What did you do?" he said.
He didn't shout. He said it low, controlled, like someone accustomed to his voice being enough to make the world kneel.
Cassidy didn't get up from the chair.
"I cleaned my house."
"You cleaned your--?" Sebastian looked at the ashes again. Then at her. Then at the ashes. "You burned Andrea's clothes?"
"Down to the panties. Although those burned fast. Cheap fabric."
Andrea appeared behind Sebastian. She saw the fire pit. She saw the remains. She recognized the red shoe.
The scream she let out could have shattered glass.
"MY THINGS!" Andrea clutched her head. "Sebastian, my things! My Valentino dress! My Louboutins! THEY WERE MY LOUBOUTINS!"
"I don't know what the hell a Louboutin is,* Cassidy thought, *but from the way she's screaming, it must have been expensive."
Andrea spun toward her. Her eyes blazed with a fury that warped her pretty face, stripped away the mask of sweetness, and revealed what lay underneath: pure venom.
"You're insane! You're completely insane! That clothing was worth more than you!"
"Maybe," Cassidy said. "But the clothes are ashes now and I'm still here. So you do the math on who's worth more."
Andrea looked around. Next to the fire pit, leaning against a planter, was a long iron poker used to stir the coals. She grabbed it with both hands and marched toward Cassidy, her heels digging into the grass.
"I'm going to smash your face in, you stupid fat bitch! I'm going to--!"
She raised the poker.
Cassidy stood up from the chair.
It was a slow movement -- Emilia's body wasn't built for acrobatics -- but steady. When Andrea swung the poker down, Cassidy caught it midair with her left hand. Her pudgy fingers closed around the iron like a vise. Andrea pulled. It didn't budge.
Cassidy pulled.
The poker came out of Andrea's hands like it was a twig.
And before the blonde could step back, Cassidy cracked her over the head with it. Not with full force -- if she'd used full force she would have split her skull open, and that would have been hard to explain. A measured, precise blow, right on the crown.
Andrea shrieked and grabbed her head with both hands. She dropped to her knees on the grass, her heels twisting under her weight, blonde hair spilling over her face.
"SHE HIT ME! SEBASTIAN, SHE HIT ME!"
Cassidy lowered the poker and rested it on the ground like a cane.
"That's the last time you set foot in my house."
Andrea looked up. Tears, smeared mascara, snot. Lovely picture.
"You were my best friend," Cassidy said, and the words weren't hers but they burned in her throat as if they were. "I trusted you. I opened the doors of my house, my life, everything to you. And you betrayed me with the man who's supposed to be my husband. If you can even call him that."
Andrea opened her mouth. Nothing came out.
"Get out."
A movement to the right. Sebastian. He was striding toward her, his right hand raised, fingers curled into a fist. His face burned with rage. He was going to hit her. He was going to hit his wife, the woman who'd just come out of a coma from a suicide attempt -- he was going to hit her right there, in front of everyone.
"Of course he was. Because that's what cowards do."
Cassidy didn't back down.
She raised the poker and brought it down on Sebastian's shoulder with a clean strike.
The sound was beautiful. A solid crack, iron against bone, that made Sebastian double over to the right with an animal grunt. He clutched his shoulder with his other hand, eyes bulging, mouth hanging open.
"Are you--?!"
"You've got your share coming," Cassidy said, pointing the poker at him. "I'm not kicking you out yet because we haven't settled our accounts. But your whore leaves my house. Now. This instant."
Sebastian stared at her. The pain in his shoulder twisted his face, but there was something else behind the rage. Something Cassidy recognized because she'd seen it a thousand times at poker tables, in saloons, in the eyes of men who suddenly realized the woman in front of them wasn't what they'd expected.
Confusion.
And something that looked like interest.
"Emilia..."
"Look at them." Cassidy pointed the poker toward the house.
The staff was there. All of them. The cook in the kitchen doorway. The girl with the rag behind him. The skinny assistant. The driver. And Dorotea, her cheek still marked, half-hidden behind a column.
"Get her out of here," Cassidy said. "Or leave with her."
Silence.
Nobody moved.
Cassidy raised the poker.
The driver was the first. He walked over to Andrea, who was still kneeling on the grass crying, and offered his hand.
"Miss, please..."
"DON'T TOUCH ME! SEBASTIAN!"
Andrea looked at Sebastian. Sebastian looked at Cassidy. Cassidy looked at him with the poker resting on her shoulder and one eyebrow raised.
"Andrea," Sebastian said. Slowly. Measuring every word. "Go to your apartment. I'll call you later."
"WHAT?! You can't--!"
"Go. I'll handle it."
"Sebastian, that lunatic hit me! She burned everything! You have to--!"
"I'll give you money to buy everything again. Every piece. You won't go without. But right now I need you to leave."
Andrea stared at him with tearful eyes and a trembling mouth. She searched his face for something -- protection, outrage, the promise that this wouldn't go unanswered. And she found it, because Sebastian held her gaze a second longer than necessary and gave an almost imperceptible nod.
"I see you, you bastard. I see you perfectly."
Andrea stood up. Wiped her face with the back of her hand. Smoothed her dress. And walked toward the house with whatever dignity she had left, which wasn't much considering she had grass on her knees, mascara on her cheeks, and a lump growing on her scalp.
Before going inside, she turned.
"This isn't over, Emilia. I swear it."
"Sweetheart," Cassidy said, "the last person who swore something to me ended up with a bullet between the eyes. But don't you worry."
Andrea went pale. She went inside. Thirty seconds later, the front door slammed shut.
An engine started. A car drove away.
Silence.
Cassidy let go of the poker. Her hand ached. Her back ached. Everything ached. Emilia's body wasn't built for physical confrontations, and every muscle was making her pay.
But she wasn't going to show it.
She sat back down in the outdoor armchair. Looked at Sebastian, who was still standing there, rubbing his shoulder, staring at her as if he were seeing her for the first time in his life.
"Five minutes," Cassidy said. "I'll be waiting in the living room. We need to talk."
"Five minutes? You're giving me five minutes?"
"Four and a half. You're running out of time."
Sebastian opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"Who are you?"
The question hung in the air between them, mixed with the smell of ashes.
Cassidy smiled.
"I'm your wife. Don't you recognize me?"
She got up and went inside. Slowly. Calmly. Without looking back.
The living room was absurdly large. Two white sofas, a glass table, another black screen on the wall -- these people put screens everywhere like they were paintings -- bookshelves filled with books nobody had read, and vases that cost more than an entire ranch.
Cassidy sat on the larger sofa. In the center. Taking up space.
Sebastian came in after three minutes. He'd loosened his collar and run a hand through his hair. He sat on the opposite sofa. Far away. Legs spread and elbows on his knees, the posture of a man trying to look relaxed while his knuckles were white.
They looked at each other.
"Talk," he said.
"Starting tomorrow, I'm going back to the company," Cassidy said. "And I'm taking my position as director."
Sebastian let out a short laugh. Dry. Humorless.
"Emilia, you haven't set foot in the office in two years. You don't even know how the new system works. I handle everything. I've always handled everything."
"You've already proved you can't be trusted."
The laugh cut short.
"Two years," Cassidy continued, and her voice came out deeper than she'd expected, loaded with Emilia's memories burning in her chest. "Two years of humiliation. Two years being treated like garbage. Two years sleeping in a servant's room while you rolled around in bed with my best friend. Just because I carry a few extra pounds, you despised me? That's all it took?"
Sebastian didn't answer. His jaw tightened.
"Well, now you're going to get a taste of your own medicine. Tonight you're sleeping in the room downstairs. The one with the little bed, the gray bedspread, and the one-meter closet. The one that was mine for over a year. And if it's not good enough, go sleep at your mistress's."
"Have you lost your mind?"
"Yes." Cassidy looked him dead in the eye. "I lost it the same moment I wanted to end my own life. So yes, I lost my mind. And now that I've lost it, I have nothing left to lose. So that's how it is."
The silence weighed like lead.
Sebastian studied her. His gray eyes moved from her face to her hands, from her hands to her posture, from her posture to her eyes. Searching for the Emilia he knew. The one who bowed her head. The one who apologized. The one who cried in silence.
He didn't find her.
The woman sitting across from him sat as if the sofa were a throne. She looked at him without blinking. She spoke without trembling. She had the same body, the same face, the same dark hair and the same brown eyes.
But she wasn't her.
"Did they switch her?* Sebastian thought. *Did the poison damage her brain? Did the coma rewire something? What the hell happened to this woman?"
He didn't know. And that, for the first time in two years, unsettled him.
"I need my cards," Cassidy said.
"What cards?"
"Mine. The ones your whore has been using to buy herself designer clothes. That's over. I need to buy decent clothes for this body. I'm not putting on those old rags from the closet ever again."
"Emilia..."
"And don't you dare give her money from my accounts. Because I'll find out. No more gifts from my fortune to her. If you want to keep her, use your own money. If you even have any left."
Sebastian clenched his fists on his knees.
"From now on, I manage my own money," Cassidy continued. "I decide what gets spent, how much gets spent, and who spends it. And if you don't like my rules... sign the divorce papers. You're not much use to me anyway."
"We can't get divorced," Sebastian said, and for the first time his voice sounded strained, almost urgent. "You know there's a clause that prevents it."
"There are always ways around things."
Silence.
"By the way," Cassidy said, leaning back on the sofa, "I want to read those clauses. The ones in the prenuptial agreement. The ones my father drafted before he died. I never read them before, but now I want to know everything. Absolutely everything."
Something crossed Sebastian's face. Fast. Nearly invisible. But Cassidy caught it because she'd spent a lifetime reading faces at poker tables and stagecoach robberies: it was fear.
A flash of pure fear.
"There you are, you bastard. There's your weak spot."
"You can't," Sebastian said. "The documents are with your father's lawyer, and he only answers to--"
"To whom? To you?" Cassidy tilted her head. "Because I'm pretty sure my father's lawyer answers to his daughter. And his daughter is me."
Sebastian opened his mouth.
Cassidy stood up.
"Good night, Sebastian. Your room is at the end of the hallway, past the laundry room. The bedspread itches a little, but you get used to it."
She didn't wait for a response. She walked to the stairs.
The goddamn stairs.
She climbed. Again. Step by step, gripping the banister, legs burning and heart racing. But it was the third time that day she'd climbed them and, even though it still cost her dearly, it cost her a little less than the first time. A little. Enough to notice.
"Come on, chubby. You can do it. One more step. Another. Another."
She made it to the top. Sweating. Gasping. But at the top.
She walked straight to Sebastian's study.
The door was open. She went in. Closed it. Turned the lock.
The study was neat, immaculate, smelling of leather and expensive cologne. Mahogany desk, swivel chair, shelves full of binders and file folders. A portable computer -- Emilia's memories told her it was called a laptop -- closed on the desk. And on the wall, a built-in safe.
Cassidy sat in the swivel chair. Spun once, because she couldn't resist. Then again, because it was fun.
Focus, Boone.
She opened the first drawer. Papers. Contracts. Numbers she didn't understand. She set them aside.
Second drawer. More papers. A half-empty bottle of whiskey. Cassidy looked at it fondly, uncapped it, and sniffed. Good. Better than anything she'd had in Arizona. She took a long swig.
"God. Now that's whiskey."
Third drawer. Locked. Cassidy pulled. It didn't open. She pulled harder. Nothing.
"In my day, this would have been solved with a knife and thirty seconds."
She looked around. On the desk was a metal letter opener. Thin, pointed. She smiled.
Hello, old friend.
Emilia's hands were clumsy, fat, lacking the muscle memory of years spent picking locks. But Cassidy knew how a simple mechanism worked, and a desk drawer wasn't a safe. She slid the letter opener into the keyhole, turned it patiently, felt the pins, pushed...
Click.
The drawer opened.
Inside was a thick leather folder with the initials A.M. embossed in the corner.
Aurelio Montero.
Cassidy opened it.
Documents. Lots of them. With stamps, signatures, letterhead from a law firm. Legal language she didn't fully understand, but Emilia's memories helped her decipher the basics. And among the papers, a business card:
Fernando Castillo Herrera, Esq. -- Notary Public No. 47 -- Attorney & Notary -- Castillo & Associates
A phone number. An address.
"Your father's lawyer, Emilia. The notary. The one who drafted all of this."
Cassidy pulled out the card and pinched it between her fingers.
Outside, Sebastian's footsteps came up the stairs. They stopped in front of the study door. The doorknob rattled. Once. Twice.
"Emilia, open the door."
Cassidy didn't answer.
"Emilia. Open. The. Door."
Silence.
A bang. Another. The doorknob shaking.
"EMILIA!"
Cassidy took another swig of whiskey. She slipped the card into the pocket of the hospital gown she was still wearing -- she desperately needed clothes tomorrow -- closed the folder and left it where it was. She wasn't going to take it. Not yet. She didn't want Sebastian to know she'd found it.
But she already had what she needed.
A name. A number. A thread to pull.
She leaned back in the swivel chair, whiskey in one hand and the other resting on her round, soft stomach. Outside, Sebastian kept pounding on the door and shouting her name.
Cassidy closed her eyes.
"Did she know how to run a company? No. Did she know about law, contracts, finances? Also no. Could she use the little glowing screens everyone stared at like idiots? Not even close."
"But she knew how to steal. She knew how to read people. She knew when someone was hiding an ace up their sleeve. And she knew, with the certainty of someone who'd survived twenty-five years in the wildest place on earth, that the fear in Sebastian's eyes when she mentioned the clauses was worth more than any document."
"She had money to learn. She had time to adapt. And she had something Emilia never had: the absolute, unshakeable, immovable certainty that no one""not a cowardly husband, not a treacherous friend, not an entire world that looked at her with contempt""was ever going to walk all over her again."
Never again.
The pounding on the door stopped.
Sebastian's footsteps retreated down the stairs.
Cassidy smiled, took one last swig of whiskey, and fell asleep in the swivel chair, the lawyer's card in her pocket and the smell of ashes still clinging to her skin.
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