Page 73 of How to Play the Player

We’ve been back at my office for only a few minutes, and already the tension of what we’re about to do fills the room. The plan we meticulously crafted at the Brick is about to go into motion, and my heart is racing. My anxiety is through the roof, but my determination is what’s keeping me going.

“Right,” I agree, projecting my voice at a natural volume. “So we should check the venue’s lighting one more time before finalization?”

Nathan picks up the thread smoothly. “Good idea. And Jonathan mentioned wanting more ambient lighting for the reception.” His hands continue typing on my old laptop, his actual work completely different from our spoken conversation.

On his phone screen, he shows me what he’s really doing: systematically backing up the last of the essential files andpreparing to wipe the spyware-infected system. His efficiency reminds me of the man I used to know—focused, determined, protective.

A year’s worth of anger, hurt, and helplessness bubbles up inside me as I watch him work. The devastation when he first accused me. The photos of him with other women plastered all over social media, meant to hurt me. The clients who suddenly questioned my integrity. The career I’d spent so long building, nearly destroyed overnight.

And now comes the sickening realization that Bethany might have orchestrated all of it. My former business partner—the woman I thought was my friend, who then turned thorn in my side until we went our separate ways—might have deliberately been sabotaging not just my business, but my personal life, too.

“Could you hand me that folder?” I ask, pointing to a stack of papers while actually sliding my phone toward him with the Notes app open.

When should I call her?

He passes me the folder, casually turning my phone to type a response but doing so where the phone isn’t in the webcam’s view.

After you wipe the system, give her about 30 minutes to notice something’s wrong. There might be a chance she calls first.

The end of the hour passes in this careful dance—maintaining our cover conversation about wedding preparations while methodically preparing for what comes next. Nathan installs a small program on my old laptop, explaining in typed notes that it will appear to be running normally from Bethany’s end but will actually be wiping all the spyware connections. That by the time it’s all gone, the notification for her that something’s wrong will have come too late.

“That should do it,” he says after finishing, looking at his watch. “I need to check in with Jonathan about the bachelor party. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

This is part of our plan—his exit giving me space to make the call without his presence potentially making me nervous. Before he leaves, he slides his phone toward me one last time.

To wipe the laptop, all you have to do now is click the red button. Once you do that, wait 30 minutes. Remember to sound desperate.

After he’s gone, I take a deep breath and stare at my laptop screen. The program window waits for my command—a simple button could expose either Bethany’s betrayal, or lead to a dead end. My finger hovers over the mouse, a strange sense of power washing over me. For a year, she’s been creepily watching me, violating my privacy, using my own words against me.

Who the hell does that?

With one click, I can cut that connection and start working on getting my life back.

I press the button.

The program runs silently, a progress bar the only indication that anything is happening. When it completes, a simple message appears:System reset complete.

I imagine across town, Bethany’s monitoring software is showing a connection error, the panic she’s probably going through wondering what happened or how to get the connection back.

And now I wait.

This all feels anticlimactic for such a significant moment but also deeply satisfying. The first step in reclaiming what’s mine.

I spend the next twenty minutes preparing myself mentally for the performance of my life, rehearsing what I’ll say, how I’ll sound. The anger I’ve felt toward her shifts into somethingcolder, more calculating. If she’s behind all this, then she deserves what’s coming.

When thirty minutes pass, I take a deep breath and pick up my phone. My finger hovers over Bethany’s contact when suddenly it vibrates in my hand, her name flashing across the screen.

My pulse jumps. She’s calling me? The tables have turned so quickly, I’m momentarily thrown off balance.

I let it ring twice more to collect myself, then answer with carefully crafted hesitation. “Bethany?”

“Quinn, sweetie!” Her voice drops with saccharine warmth that doesn’t quite mask the steel underneath. “I was just wondering how you were doing. How have things been?”

Of course, she’s asking how I am—she just lost her digital window into my life. But as much as I want to rip her head off, I have to bite my tongue. Thank god she can’t see my face anymore.

“Really?” I manage to sound surprised. “That’s…weird timing. I was about to call you.”

“Oh, my god, that is so crazy.” Her laugh tinkles like glass breaking. “Great minds and all that, right? So what’s going on with you, hon? Everything okay in Quinn-land?”

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