Chapter 5
1216 Words
The Laurent penthouse was different in the morning light. Less fortress, more museum—sharp edges softened by sunlight that filtered through floor-to-ceiling windows. Maybelline stood at the glass wall, arms folded, watching the city below. Her reflection stared back at her, solemn and unreadable.
Behind her, the quiet hum of movement signaled Timothée's arrival. He didn’t say anything at first. Just handed her a steaming cup of coffee.
She took it, eyes still on the skyline. “You always act like you’re in control. Like nothing surprises you.”
Timothée sipped his own coffee. “Surprises aren’t the enemy. Unpreparedness is.”
She turned to him slowly. “What happens if Cassandra wins? What if she turns everyone against my father?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Then we move faster.”
It wasn’t the answer she wanted. It was the answer she expected.
---
Cassandra was already playing her next move.
Across the city, in a sleek office with views of the river, she met with Warren Reiss. The senator was older now, his charisma dulled by years of scandal, but his influence remained sharp.
“She’s going to fight back,” Cassandra warned him. “Maybelline’s smarter than my father ever gave her credit for.”
Reiss leaned back, fingers tapping against a folder. “Then we expose more. Keep the pressure on. Prescott has enemies in every corner of this city, and you have the bloodline. The voters will want someone young, fresh…
“Clean,” Cassandra said bitterly.
Reiss smiled. “Or just cleaner than him.”
Cassandra hated that she needed him. Hated that his approval still mattered. But politics was a game of masks, and she wore hers better than anyone.
---
Meanwhile, Malik was working.
His new base of operations was a rented loft filled with mismatched monitors, open server cases, and wires like veins across the floor. The hum of machines was a lullaby of old power. Ghost networks. Forgotten passwords. Leaked credentials.
He didn’t sleep much. Couldn’t. His mind was too full—Prescott’s secrets, Cassandra’s rise, and Maybelline.
She’d surprised him. Not just with her resolve, but with how quickly she adapted. The Maybelline he remembered was stubborn and proud, but she hadn’t been dangerous.
Now she was both.
And it made him nervous.
A soft beep signaled a completed transfer. Malik leaned forward.
There it was—an encrypted folder buried deep within Prescott’s campaign archives. He decrypted it layer by layer, until the final contents emerged: contracts, donor lists, surveillance requests… and a name.
Timothée Laurent.
Years before the engagement. A meeting. A promise. Prescott and Laurent had struck a deal long ago.
And Maybelline was never part of the original plan.
He read the logs three times to be sure. Timothée had been involved in a private equity transfer that helped clean some of Prescott’s darker campaign funds—illicit foreign donations re-routed through dummy LLCs. Malik recognized the patterns. He’d exposed similar ones before.
But what disturbed him most wasn’t the crime.
It was the possibility that Timothée still believed in the deal.
---
Timothée studied the document silently.
“It was always about power,” he said finally, laying the printouts on the table. “Not just between your father and me. But between your father and himself. He wanted more control than the office allowed. And he thought I’d help him get it.”
Maybelline scanned the files. “He planned to use your company to install surveillance tech under a public health guise?”
Timothée nodded. “We’d provide the infrastructure. Your father would push the policy. No one would suspect.”
“But then why involve me?” she asked, her voice tight.
Timothée’s expression darkened. “Because I pulled out. I didn’t like the terms. He needed leverage.”
Maybelline felt cold. “So he offered me?”
“Not explicitly. But he hinted. And when I saw how public you were becoming—interviews, appearances—I knew it was only a matter of time before he made the offer real.”
She stepped back. “You should’ve told me.”
“I’m telling you now.”
She didn’t know if she wanted to scream or collapse.
---
The next night, Maybelline hosted a fundraiser under the guise of rebranding the Prescott campaign. A soft reset. She wore crimson—bold, defiant—and stood beside her father as if nothing had changed.
But behind her smile, war brewed.
Cassandra arrived late, flanked by Reiss and two other donors. She looked radiant, calculated. Cameras flashed.
When she approached the podium, she leaned close to Maybelline.
“You always were better at playing the victim,” she whispered.
Maybelline didn’t flinch. “And you were always too obvious with your ambition.”
The cameras clicked. Sisters smiling. Enemies disguised as family.
Maybelline gave a practiced speech about vision, unity, and transparency, every word burning in her throat. Every applause felt like a countdown.
Later, as she exited the ballroom, Malik was waiting in the hallway.
“You looked like a queen in there,” he said quietly. “But queens get targeted too.”
She arched a brow. “You brought something?”
He handed her a flash drive. “Evidence that Prescott didn’t just take donations. He took orders.”
“From who?”
“A foreign data syndicate. Russian-linked. Tied to a man called Vostrikov.”
Maybelline blinked. “I’ve heard that name.”
“You should have,” Malik said. “He owns half of Manhattan’s construction contracts under fake names. Your father gave him zoning rights.”
Maybelline stared at the drive. “This could bury him.”
“Or you,” Malik said. “If you’re not careful.”
---
Back at the penthouse, Maybelline replayed the night’s events in her mind like a broken film reel.
She found Timothée by the fireplace again, reading. Not campaign files. A book.
“‘The Art of War’?” she asked, eyeing the title.
Timothée looked up. “Sun Tzu makes more sense than half the pundits I’ve paid.”
She sat beside him, exhausted. “We have to move. If Cassandra exposes the Reiss connection before we expose my father’s deals, she’ll come out cleaner.”
Timothée nodded. “I’ve spoken to three independent media outlets. They’re ready to run an exposé.”
“You trust them?”
“No. But I trust that they want a headline bigger than Reiss.”
She met his gaze. “What happens to us? After all this?”
He didn’t flinch. “That depends on what you want.”
She looked at the fire, eyes glazed. “I want to be free of him. Of all of them.”
“Then let’s burn it down.”
---
Across the city, Cassandra received an anonymous envelope. Inside was a single photograph.
Her and Reiss.
Taken from a rooftop across the street. Dated. Time-stamped. Marked with the Prescott campaign seal.
On the back, a note written in looping cursive:
“The shadows are watching. Be careful where you step.”
She crumpled the paper, but her hand trembled.
The war wasn’t just coming.
It had already begun.
And the battlefield was far bigger than she’d planned for.
- Writer
