When She Strikes Back

Chapter 3: Partner in Crime

The man’s grip was firm, his fingers digging into the silk at my waist just enough to let me know he wasn't letting go until he was done looking at me.

I looked up, ready to spill more venom, but the words died in my throat.

I knew this face. This wasn’t just a random elite at a bar. This was Percival Lancaster, the golden heir to the Lancaster dynasty.

In my past life, exactly one year from today, the headlines would be a bloodbath. “The Lancaster Empire Crumbles: Secret Life of Heir Exposed.” A leaked video of him with a male lover had sent his father into a fatal stroke and burned Percival’s career to ash.

I looked at him now—so composed, so masculine, so carefully curated. I felt a slow, dark smirk tugging at the corners of my mouth. I hadn't just bumped into a man; I had bumped into a nuclear bomb, and I held the detonator.

"You look like you’ve seen a ghost, little bird," Percival rumbled, his voice a deep, deceptive baritone. "Or are you just stunned by my devastating charm? It happens often. Take a breath."

I didn't pull away. Instead, I leaned in, letting my chest brush against his expensive lapel. I watched his eyes flicker—not with lust, but with the practiced discomfort of a man playing a role he hated.

"Charm?" I whispered, my voice a velvet blade. "No, Mr. Lancaster. I’m just admiring how well you hide your scent."

Before he could react, I slid my hand up his chest and wrapped it around the back of his neck, pulling him down. To anyone watching, it looked like a heated, drunken seduction. I buried my face in the crook of his neck, inhaling deeply. Sandalwood. Expensive leather. And a faint, floral note of a man's cologne that didn't belong to him.

"I know your secret, Percival Lancaster," I breathed into his ear.

I felt his entire body turn to stone. The hand at my waist tightened until it was almost painful.

"I don't know what games you’re playing, lady," he hissed, his voice dropping the charming heir act. It was cold enough to frost the glass in my hand. "But I suggest you stop before you get burned. Who even are you?"

I pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, my smirk widening as I smoothed the lapel of his jacket. "My name is Cassandra Kingsley. And you? You're a man living on a timer. The headlines next year won't be kind, Percival. 'The Secret King of the Glitter Bar' doesn't have quite the same ring as 'Lancaster CEO,' does it? One phone call, one leaked photo... and your father’s heart won't be the only thing that breaks."

Percival’s face went pale, his eyes darting around the dim lounge to see if anyone was listening. He dragged me into a darker corner, his movements no longer smooth but frantic.

"How do you know that?" he snarled, dropping the mask entirely. "What do you want? Money? Jewels? If you think you can blackmail a Lancaster—"

"Oh, shut up, Percival," I rolled my eyes, leaning back against the wall and crossing my arms. "I don't want your money. I’m a Kingsley; I know how to make my own. What I want is a partner. A right hand. Someone who can help me navigate the filth of this society so I can burn my husband's family—the Sterlings—to the ground."

Percival blinked, his confusion momentarily overriding his fear. "The Sterlings? Jonas Sterling's wife? I heard she was... well, a wet napkin."

"The napkin grew teeth, Percival. Deal with it."

"Fine," he sighed, a flamboyant glint returning to his eyes. "If I’m going to be your partner in crime, we need to fix... whatever is happening with your hair. It’s very 'desperate housewife' circa 2005. It’s offensive, really."

I laughed—a real, genuine laugh. "See? I knew we’d get along."

We sat in a secluded booth for the next hour, and for the first time in two lives, I talked. I told him about the Sterlings, about the abuse, and about the sheer, unadulterated stupidity of Jonas.

"Wait, so he actually told you he 'forgot' your anniversary because he was working with your friend?" Percival gagged, dramatically fanning himself with his hand.

"Darling, that’s not just cheating; that’s a lack of imagination. If you’re going to ruin my life, at least be creative about it. Men are such tragedies."

"Tell me about it," I sighed, nursing my drink. “He’s probably in our bedroom right now with an ‘intern’ who still looks like she shops in the junior section.”

"Disgusting," Percival tutted. "We’ll make him weep. We’ll make them all weep. But first..."

He looked at his watch, then back at me, a mischievous, wicked glint in his eyes. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small makeup mirror.

"If you’re going back to that house tonight, you can’t look like you just had a 'nice chat' with a friend. We need to give Jonas a reason to actually lose his mind. A reason to believe that his 'maid' has found a master."

I understood immediately. I tilted my head back, exposing the pale, long line of my throat.

"Make it look like I was thoroughly enjoyed, Percival," I commanded.

Percival’s eyes darted to my neck, then back to my face, a grimace of pure hesitation crossing his features. "Wait, me? You want me to... Cassandra, I’m into men. Rugged, bearded men. Looking at your collarbone makes me want to reorganize your jewelry box, not bite you."

"Do it for the drama, Percival," I teased, leaning closer. "Think of it as an acting exercise. Make it look like a war zone."

He let out a dramatic, suffering sigh. "The things I do for my secrets. Fine. But if I get foundation on my lips, you're buying me that silk scarf from Hermès."

He leaned in, his hands hovering awkwardly over my shoulders before he finally took a deep breath and pressed his lips to the sensitive skin just below my ear. I felt his teeth graze me, and I couldn't help it—I leaned into the sensation, letting out a soft, low moan that vibrated through the quiet booth.

Percival immediately pulled back, looking like he’d just swallowed a lemon. "Was the vocal performance really necessary? I’m trying to be a professional here."

"I have to make it believable, don't I?" I smirked, grabbing his tie and pulling him back down. "Again. Lower this time. Right on the collarbone where it’s impossible to hide."

He groaned, but he complied. This time, he didn't hold back. He sucked the skin hard, his mouth warm and insistent. I arched my back, my fingers digging into his emerald blazer as I let out another long, deliberate moan, my breath hitching in a way that would make any man’s blood boil.

"Mmm, yes... right there," I whispered, my voice thick with fake pleasure.

Percival gagged, literally gagging as he pulled away. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his face a mask of utter revulsion. "Oh, God. The sound. The... the femininity. It’s everywhere. I feel like I need to go watch a rugby match and eat raw steak just to recover my dignity."

I burst into laughter, leaning back against the plush leather. "You were great, Percival. Truly. A five-star performance."

He looked at my neck in the small mirror. A cluster of dark, blooming bruises now marred my pale skin—angry, passionate marks that told a story of a wild, uninhibited night. They were perfect. They were loud. They were exactly what Jonas needed to see to realize he no longer held the leash.

"You look like a mess," Percival noted, his voice returning to its flamboyant, judgmental tone as he adjusted his blazer. "A beautiful, scandalous mess. Now, go home and give that husband of yours a heart attack. I have a date with a very handsome bartender who doesn't make 'pleasure sounds' like a dying cat."

I stood up, adjusting the slit of my dress. "See you tomorrow, partner."

"Tomorrow, darling. We're going shopping. If I have to see you in that 'housewife' beige again, I’ll leak my own secret just to end the misery."

I walked out of the bar, the cool night air hitting the marks on my neck. As I drove back to the Sterling mansion, my heart wasn't racing with fear. It was steady. It was cold.