Amelia didn’t expect the backlash to come so soon.
By the time she returned to her apartment that evening, something had shifted. It was in the air—subtle, but charged. A quiet buzz in her phone notifications, a strange hesitancy in the way her assistant, Cara, answered her call, and most telling of all, a single manila envelope waiting on her doorstep.
No return address. No name.
Only her initials, scrawled in neat, black ink across the front: A.S.
She hesitated a moment before picking it up. Her fingers trembled slightly as she peeled it open and pulled out a single sheet of thick ivory paper.
There were only two sentences written on it.
You should have taken the deal.
You won’t get a second offer.
Amelia froze.
The handwriting was unfamiliar—clean and intentional, like someone
