Part 2: He dragged his wife by her hair to beg his mistress for mercy at a elite Manhattan gala, until New York's most feared billionaire stepped in and claimed her as his own.

Panic is an ugly perfume, and by Friday night, Naomi Cross smelled entirely of it.

Audrey was reviewing SEC filing documents in Daniel's private study when her personal phone chimed with an unknown number. Attached was a photo: Audrey sitting in a confidential therapy session two years ago, crying, looking emaciated and fragile.

The text that followed was venomous:

*Meet me at the lounge of the Mercer Hotel in thirty minutes, Audrey. Or these photos, along with your psychiatric evaluation from your stay at Silver Hill, hit the press. Let’s see how much Daniel Sinclair wants a crazy, broken wife.*

Audrey stared at the screen, her heart beating a fast, heavy rhythm. Silver Hill. When the abuse had gotten so bad that Audrey had stopped eating, Lucas had locked her in an upscale private clinic, paying the corrupt director to diagnose her with borderline personality disorder to ensure she could never testify against him in court.

Daniel noticed the shift in her expression from across his mahogany desk. "What is it?"

Audrey turned the screen toward him.

Daniel’s eyes turned to black ice. "I will have her arrested."

"No," Audrey said firmly, surprising even herself. She stood up, smoothing the fabric of her silk blouse. "She thinks I’m still the terrified girl who hid in the master bedroom while she spent my husband's money. She thinks she holds the cards. Let me go, Daniel. But send your security to monitor the perimeter."

Daniel studied her face for a long moment, seeing the determination burning behind her amber eyes. A slow, dark smile touched his lips. "Take the black Maybach. Marcus will be in the car with the file on Naomi's shell companies."

Thirty minutes later, Audrey walked into the dimly lit, velvet-trimmed lounge of the Mercer. Naomi sat at a secluded corner booth, sipping a dirty martini. She wore an ostentatious emerald necklace—a piece Audrey recognized immediately as belonging to her own late grandmother’s collection.

"You actually showed up," Naomi purred, leaning back with a smug, cat-like grin. "I guess you do care about your reputation after all."

Audrey didn't sit. She stood over the booth, looking down at Naomi with cool detachment. "Take off the necklace."

Naomi scoffed, touching the emeralds fondly. "Lucas gave this to me for our six-month anniversary. It’s mine."

"It belonged to Margaret Miller," Audrey said, her tone level and lethal. "It was stolen from my family vault in Greenwich last September. And if it isn't unclasped and on this table in five seconds, the grand larceny charges against you will include interstate transport of stolen heirloom property."

Naomi’s smile vanished. "You think you can scare me? I have your mental health records, Audrey! The world will know you’re a manic depressive who tried to ruin Lucas out of jealousy!"

Audrey leaned forward, placing both hands on the table, invading Naomi's personal space until the mistress leaned back in alarm.

"Those records were signed by Dr. Robert Sterling," Audrey said in a chilling whisper. "Dr. Sterling had his medical license revoked at five p.m. today after the FBI raided his clinic for insurance fraud and accepting illegal kickbacks from Lucas Vance. He has already signed an affidavit admitting that your 'bruises' from the country club were administered via cosmetic saline injections, and that my psychiatric diagnosis was completely fabricated under Lucas’s payroll."

Naomi went chalk white. Her hand trembled against her martini glass, the olive bobbing frantically.

"Furthermore," Audrey continued, pulling a thin document from her designer clutch and tossing it onto the table, "your 'PR firm' just received a summons from the IRS for criminal tax evasion. Every dime Lucas gave you came from stolen trust funds. You aren't a mistress, Naomi. You’re an unindicted co-conspirator. Take off the necklace."

Naomi’s fingers shook violently as she reached behind her neck, fumbling with the clasp. The emeralds slipped from her fingers, clattering onto the marble tabletop.