SIN SCENES

Going to hell anyway

The heavy oak door clicked shut behind Cashe, leaving me alone in the blinding brilliance of the hallway. The click sounded like a guillotine dropping.

I stood frozen, holding the two crystal flutes of champagne, watching the empty space where my boyfriend had just been. Inside that room was Stan Ford—a man who had just dismantled my composure with nothing but a low voice and ruthless intent. And now, his son was walking in to receive a "life-changing" update. If Cashe looked closely enough, he’d probably smell my perfume lingering in the air, or notice the slight disarray of the papers on his father’s desk.

My heart hammered against my ribs, a chaotic rhythm that made me feel utterly hollow. I took another aggressive gulp from Cashe’s champagne glass, draining half of it.

"Get a grip, Onika," I whispered, the bubbles burning my throat.

I turned back to the gilded rococo mirror. The reflection staring back at me looked alive, at least. The flush in my cheeks wasn't just from the expensive alcohol; it was the raw adrenaline of a woman who had just stepped over a line she could never un-cross. I uncapped my ruby-red lipstick with steadying fingers and carefully traced the outline of my mouth. Bold. Symmetrical. Flawless. The blurred stain was gone, replaced by a perfect crimson armor.

If I was going to play the villain, I needed to look the part.

The muffled sound of voices drifted from beneath the study door. I couldn’t make out the words, but the cadence was unmistakable. Stan’s deep, resonant baritone commanding the room, followed by Cashe’s lighter, eager responses. Cashe worshipped his father. He wanted so badly to be the heir to the Ford empire, completely blind to the fact that Stan didn't want a successor—he wanted a subject. And now, I was the volatile element trapped between them.

The double doors at the far end of the hallway burst open, and the muted roar of the gala spilled inside, accompanied by the sharp clack of heels.

"Onika! There you are, darling."

Evangeline Ford floated down the hallway like a cloud of suffocatingly expensive silk. Stan’s wife—and Cashe’s mother—was a woman carved from ice and old money. Her diamond necklace caught the harsh hallway lights, throwing sharp, jagged glints across the walls.

"Evangeline," I said, putting on my most polished society smile. "I was just waiting for Cashe. He stepped into the study to speak with Stan."

Evangeline paused, her immaculate brows shifting just a fraction of a millimeter. Her eyes darted from my freshly painted lips to the two champagne glasses in my hands, then to the closed study door. For a terrifying second, I wondered if she knew. A woman like Evangeline didn't survive decades married to a predator like Stan by being oblivious.

"Is that so?" Evangeline’s voice was smooth, completely devoid of warmth. "Stan does love his private audiences. Usually, he prefers to conduct them in the dark." She stepped closer, the scent of jasmine and cold iron washing over me. "You've been spending quite a bit of time near his sanctuary tonight, Onika."

"Stan was just asking about my foundation work," I lied smoothly, keeping my voice level. "He’s very... thorough."

"Thorough," Evangeline repeated, a faint, bitter smile touching her lips. "Yes. My husband has a way of inspecting everything he intends to acquire. Just make sure you remember which Ford actually brought you to the table, dear. The family crest looks beautiful on a ring, but it makes a terrible branding iron."

Before I could unpack the venom wrapped in that warning, the study door swung open.

Cashe walked out first. The easy, confident smile he had worn just minutes ago was completely gone. His face was pale, his shoulders tense beneath his tailored suit. He looked like a man who had just been handed a map to a minefield and told to start running.

Right behind him stood Stan.

Stan hadn't fixed a single thing about his appearance. His silver-streaked hair was slightly undone, his tie loosened just enough to look deliberate. His dark eyes bypassed his wife entirely and locked onto me. There was a dangerous, possessive spark in his gaze—a silent acknowledgment of the wreckage he had just caused.

"Mother," Cashe muttered, his voice strained. "Onika. We... we need to leave."

"Already, Cashe?" Evangeline asked, her eyes darting between her husband and her son. "Your father’s news couldn't wait until brunch?"

"The board has approved the restructuring," Stan intervened, his deep voice effortlessly taking control of the hallway. He stepped forward, standing close enough to Cashe that the contrast between them was agonizing. Cashe was a prince; Stan was the king who would eat him alive. "Cashe is being named CEO of the European division. He leaves for London on Monday."

The world seemed to tilt. London. Monday.

I looked at Cashe. His eyes were wide, filled with a agonizing mix of absolute betrayal and forced gratitude. "It's a massive promotion, babe," Cashe said, though his voice sounded completely hollow. "But it means... it means I have to move. Permanently."

I looked back at Stan. The apex predator smiled, a slow, cruel curve of his lips. He had engineered this perfectly. He was sending his son across an ocean, clearing the chessboard, and leaving me entirely unprotected.

"It's a life-changing opportunity for the boy," Stan said softly, his dark eyes burning into mine with terrifying promise. "Don't you agree, Onika?"

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

The ride home in the back of the Maybach was so quiet you could hear the microscopic disintegration of my relationship.

Cashe sat staring out the window at the blurred, rainy streetlights of Long Island, his jaw clamped shut so tightly I half-expected his expensive veneers to shatter. He looked like an orphaned Victorian child who had just been told he was being shipped off to a workhouse, except his workhouse came with a seven-figure salary and a penthouse in Mayfair.

I took a slow sip from the emergency flask of gin I’d smuggled out in my clutch. The villain arc is going beautifully, I thought, staring at the manicured leather seats. I’ve successfully ruined a man’s life before dessert. If I keep this pace up, I’ll have a corporate empire and a completely blackened soul by Thanksgiving.

"London," Cashe finally choked out, his voice cracking. "Permanently. He didn't even ask me, Onika. He just handed me a signed contract and a one-way ticket. He said it was an 'unrepeatable synergy of market timing.' My dad speaks in corporate jargon when he's executing people."

"It's a very prestigious execution," I offered, trying for comfort but landing squarely in bleak irony. "Most people have to get fired over Zoom. You got a whole press release."

Cashe turned his head slowly, his beautiful, bewildered eyes locking onto mine. "Are you making jokes right now?"

"It’s either laugh or calculate the baggage fees for shipping my sanity across the Atlantic, Cashe," I said, leaning over to rest my hand on his knee. The guilt inside me was doing a lovely tap-dance on my esophagus. "He’s doing this to control you. To control the narrative."

And to clear the room so he can eat me alive, the voice in the back of my head added helpfully.

"I told him I wouldn't go without you," Cashe whispered, grabbing my hand like a lifeline. "I told him we’re a team. And do you know what he did? He laughed. He smiled that terrifying, serial-killer smile of his and said, 'Onika is a creature of New York, son. Exile doesn't suit her. Let her stay here where the lighting is better.'"

A cold shudder rippled down my spine. Stan was practically writing the horror movie script himself at this point. The worst part? He wasn't wrong. I loved New York. And more importantly, I loved not being trapped on an island where it rains three hundred days a year while my boyfriend works eighty-hour weeks trying to prove himself to a father who was currently plotting to steal his girl.

"He's a monster," I murmured, genuinely meaning it.

"He's my father," Cashe groaned, burying his face in his hands. "Which means it’s genetically impossible for me to escape his orbit. I’m going to end up just like him, aren't I? Bald at forty-five and obsessed with hostile takeovers."

"You have much better bone structure, babe. And your hair is resilient," I said, running a finger through his tight curls. "Plus, you still have a conscience. It’s an administrative burden, sure, but it keeps you handsome."

The car glided to a halt in front of my apartment building. The doorman, looking entirely too cheerful for 1:00 AM, stepped forward with an umbrella.

Cashe looked at me, his eyes pleading. "Come up with me. Or let me come down to your place. I can't be alone right now. I feel like if I fall asleep, my dad will log into my banking app and delete my childhood memories."

"I need to think, Cashe," I said gently, pressing a kiss to his cheek. It tasted like expensive champagne and impending long-distance dread. "You need to pack, or drink, or punch a wall. Let's talk in the morning. When the ironies of life aren't quite so loud."

He sighed, deflating into the leather. "Okay. I love you, little bird."

"Love you too."

I stepped out into the crisp, damp air, the door clicking shut behind me. I didn't go straight to my apartment. Instead, I waited until the Maybach purred away into the dark, and then I pulled out my phone.

There was already a text waiting for me. From an unknown number.

The penthouse at the St. Regis. Room 912. The door is unlocked, Onika. Don't make me wait. I get bored, and when I get bored, I buy companies just to fire the board.

I stared at the screen, a breathless, hysterical laugh escaping my lips. The man was a cartoon villain with a black card and an ungodly amount of testosterone.

I looked down at my custom-blended ruby-red lipstick, safely tucked in my clutch. Then I turned toward the street, raising my hand to hail a yellow cab. If I was going to hell anyway, I might as well take the express lane.