Page 101 of Revenge Is a Dish Best Served… Wearing Heels?
No! I refused to believe that. I knew her. I'd known her as a teenager. And I knew her now. She hadn't really changed all that much, to be honest.
Despite her hiding her identity, what we'd had together was real. I refused to believe otherwise.
We'd clicked from the very first moment we'd met in that ballroom, and even knowing who I was and thinking I'd done the absolute worst, she'd let real glimpses of her true self shine through constantly.
The way she was with my brother, how understanding she'd been about him, the caring nature she couldn't quite disguise... it'd all been there on display for me to see.
Even hating me as she must, she'd still been kind-hearted and sweet, not fake or vengeful or nasty, as most people in her position would have been. Hell, I would have been.
She was by far the best person I'd ever known.
As if on cue, an email alert came through my laptop, drawing my attention. Oh, right. Work. Something that had fallen by the wayside, this last week especially.
I just found myself not giving a shit.
The email was marked urgent, and it was from legal, only a few days late. Not that I cared. I read the subject line, dread filling my stomach.
Southside Flats: Strategic Eviction Acceleration
With a heavy sigh, I clicked it open and read through their plan, all about expediting turnover of residential units via legal pressure, incentivized buyouts, and procedural enforcement.
In other words? Kicking people out faster, breaking their spirit, and making them desperate.
The details on page one were bad enough, but by the time I got to page three, that dread had turned into full-on nausea. There were entire sections devoted to exploiting known violations, pressuring non-compliant tenants, and my personal favorite, pre-litigation intimidation tactics.
Lovely. Fucking lovely.
There was even a heatmap labeled "tenant vulnerability."
Vulnerability.
Jesus Christ.
And now that nausea turned to wanting to heave up the remains of my long-ago lunch.
Fuck.
That couple, the one who'd lived in their house for fifty years, dealing with cancer and now eviction threats. The barbershop, the bookstore.
Archie's questions about my job and livelihood, the ethics of it all.
Damn it. Damn it all to hell.
Running a hand through my hair, I leaned back in my chair, hoping the sick feeling would go away.
I'd told Archie it was complicated, that he'd understand when he was older.
But I wasn't sure I even understood anymore. Or maybe I was just sick and tired of pretending I didn't.
Because I sure as fuck did know what I was doing, what the entire company was doing, what we were all about, what my dad especially was about.
This wasn't progress. It wasn't even what you could call business. It was annihilating people's lives, disguised by fancy buildings and trendy buzz words like revitalization and luxury living.
I slammed my laptop shut, wondering where I'd gone wrong, why on earth I'd thought working for my dad would ever be a good idea, going into business with the devil. My instincts as a teen—to get as far away from him as possible—had been spot-on, even if the way I went about it turned out to be the biggest mistake of my life.
Archie's words kept echoing in my head. "Isn't it kinda messed up?" he'd asked.
Yeah. Yeah, kid. It fucking is. Messed up. Fucked up. Disgusting actually.
