Page 19 of Broken Doll

Game on, motherfuckers. Game fucking on.

Morning comes like a sledgehammer to the skull—a sharp knock on my door that sends my heart hammering against my ribs before I remember where I am. Not home. Not the club. But this black ops prison I’ve been calling home for weeks.

If I was a better person, I’d spend at least a heartbeat worrying about my clueless husband but honestly, how can one person be so damn gullible? A part of me enjoys the idea of Isaac suffering an unknown sense of dread because he has no fucking clue where his wife is.

I suppose it’s probably a good thing Isaac has all of the mental sharpness of a dull spoon because otherwise, he’d be pushing up daises in an unmarked field for asking too many questions.

I drag myself up, body is sore — muscles screaming in places I didn't know could hurt but at least I’m not bruised anymore. Killion toned down the ass-kicking in prep for this assignment. Can’t bruise the fruit, you know what I mean.

I step into the shower, the water scalding. I stand under the spray until my skin turns angry red, like I'm trying to wash off more than just sweat. The burn hurts so good. There’s definitely something wrong with me but, no surprise there. Who in their right mind would be willing to sign on the dotted line for this gig if they didn’t have a screw loose?

And, all my screws are loose, baby.

When I step out, there's a file waiting on my bed. Wasn't there before. Which means someone slipped in while I was naked, vulnerable, water drowning out any sound of intrusion. A little power play to remind me: I'm never alone, never safe.

Message received, you creepy fucks.

The file's thick—manila folder stuffed with papers, photos, a flash drive taped to a thin, sleek laptop. No note, no explanation, but I don't need one. This is my first assignment. My first mark.

I flip it open and there he is: Victor Reese. Mid-50s, salt-and-pepper hair styled just so, the kind of face that screams "I have fuck-you money and everyone knows it." Three-piece suits worth more than most cars, a Rolex that probably costs as much as Isaac's annual salary. Corporate raider, venture capitalist, collector of companies and, apparently, young women with daddy issues and fake tits.

"Hello, Victor," I murmur, tracing his jawline with my fingertip. "Aren't you just a walking midlife crisis with a platinum card."

The intel is staggering—everything from his preferred whiskey (Macallan 25, because of fucking course) to how he likes his steak (rare, bloody enough to still moo) to which escort services he frequents (high-end, discreet, specializing in Eastern European blondes with gymnast bodies).

They know his morning routine (up at 5 AM, workout with a trainer who looks like a Nazi propaganda poster come to life),his bank accounts (seven, three offshore), even his medical history (Viagra prescription renewed monthly, minor heart condition he keeps private).

As I read, something clicks in my brain—dropping into place like a dislocated joint snapping back. I've always had a good memory—freakishly good, according to Derek, who once watched me recite an entire conversation from three months prior, word for fucking word, when some asshole tried to deny propositioning me at a club opening.

But this is different. This is methodical. I'm not just remembering—I'm cataloging, cross-referencing, building a mental database of Victor Reese that I can access at will. His weaknesses, his pressure points, the soft underbelly beneath all that expensive armor.

Each detail is a weapon I'm loading into my arsenal. The name of his first wife (Elizabeth, who left after he fucked her best friend). The boarding school his son attends (Choate, where Victor rarely visits despite promises). The guilt he masks with donations to children's charities (three million last year, all very public, all very tax-deductible).

I flip through surveillance photos—Victor stepping out of black town cars, Victor at charity galas with models half his age, Victor at his office overlooking Central Park, barking into a phone while his assistant (female, pretty, clearly fucking him) hovers nearby.

It's intimate, invasive, knowing so much about someone who doesn't know you exist. Electricity hums under my skin as I absorb his life, his secrets, his vulnerabilities. This is better than sex—this knowledge, this power. I've spent years using my body to manipulate men, but this? This is next-level mindfucking.

"Huh," I whisper to the empty room, a smile creeping across my lips. "I might actually be good at this."

The flash drive contains more—financial statements, emails, recordings of phone calls. One video clip shows him berating a waiter for bringing the wrong vintage of some obscure wine, his face contorted with entitlement and rage. What a fucking prince.

Hours pass as I consume Victor Reese, piece by piece, until he feels like someone I've known for years. I could walk up to him in a crowded room and tell him his childhood dog's name was Rusty, that he still has a scar on his left knee from a boating accident at 17, that he secretly fears his son resents him (he does, and with good reason).

I'm so deep in Victor's life that when my door opens again, I nearly jump out of my skin. It's Sienna—black-clad, severe, her face a perfect blank canvas that gives away nothing.

"You've reviewed the file," she says. Not a question.

I nod, stretching my stiff neck. "Mr. Reese seems like a real charmer. Let me guess—he kicks puppies for fun and fires people on Christmas Eve?"

Sienna doesn't smile. Doesn't even blink. "Your extraction objective is clear?"

I flip back to page one, where a single paragraph is highlighted in yellow:

TARGET: Access code to Reese's private server containing offshore account information and client list for Nexus Holdings.

"Get the code. Simple enough," I say, closing the file. "So what am I supposed to be doing? Seduction? Blackmail? Good old-fashioned breaking and entering?"

"Seduction is the cleanest approach," Sienna says, voice flat as day-old champagne. "Reese keeps the code on his person—changes it weekly, memorizes it, never writes it down. The only time he uses it is after he's been drinking and needs to check his accounts."

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