Chapter Twenty-Four – Part One
I woke up to the smell of coffee and fried plantains.
For a few seconds, before memory caught up, I thought I was home. That lazy, floaty place between sleep and waking where you expect to see your own ceiling, your own light fixture, your own routine.
Then the ceiling fan came into focus—different, slower, blades painted a soft teal. Sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains that definitely weren't mine. Instead of my framed prints, there was a wall covered in photos and quotes and a crooked little painting that said Soft girls can still be dangerous.
Right.
Tasha's apartment.
The couch under me was softer than my bed had ever been. Someone had tucked a fluffy throw over my legs in the night. There was a silk bonnet on my head that I definitely hadn't put on myself.
I blinked, my body heavy with the kind of exhaustion that comes after adrenaline burns out. For a moment, everything felt muffled. Like I was underwater.
Then last night snapped back like a rubber band.
The door.
The kicks.
The bathroom.
The footsteps.
The stolen laptop.
The blurry photo in my gallery that said: He's been here before.
I sucked in a breath so fast it hurt.
"You're okay," a voice said gently. "You're safe. We got you."
I rolled onto my back. Janelle sat cross-legged on the floor next to the couch, still in her pajamas, hair wrapped, holding a mug of tea in both hands like it was a ritual.
"How long have you been sitting there?" I croaked.
She smiled a little. "Long enough to make sure you were still breathing through the night. Not long enough to be creepy." She stood, stretching. "You want tea or coffee?"
"Coffee," I said. "And… water. And maybe a new life?"
She laughed softly, that low, soothing sound she had. "Coffee first. New life later."
Voices drifted in from the kitchen—Tasha and Kiera arguing quietly about how much sugar counted as "a sprinkle," Marisol humming under her breath as something sizzled. Kayla cursed at something in Spanish, then declared victory over whatever pan had challenged her.
For the first time since the break-in, my chest unclenched a little. The apartment felt full. Warm. Lived-in. There were shoes by the door that weren't mine, coats thrown over chairs, a half-finished puzzle on the dining table. Real life. Messy and loud and safe.
I sat up slowly, pushing the throw off. My muscles protested; tension had settled into them overnight like concrete. The bonnet slipped sideways. I pulled it off and ran my fingers through my hair. It was still a little knotted, but cleaner than I expected.
"I washed your face while you were half-asleep," Janelle said, heading toward the kitchen. "You muttered something about hating mascara and I took that as consent."
"You're a saint," I said.
She called back, "That's what they tell me."
I swung my feet to the floor. Tasha had set up a makeshift nest around the couch—extra pillows, a small trash can, a bottle of water on the side table, and a fluffy robe draped over the armrest, folded with military precision.
There was a note on top of it.
Put me on. You're not allowed to be cold in my house. — T
I smiled despite myself and shrugged into the robe. It swallowed me in plush pink softness. The absurdity of wearing something so cozy after having my life cracked open made my eyes sting.
I heard a hiss of oil in the kitchen, then:
"The patient lives!" Kiera announced dramatically as I shuffled in. "Look at her. Wrapped like a little trauma burrito."
"Don't say trauma burrito," Kayla said, flipping an empanada. "We're eating, girl."
Tasha stood at the stove, hair secured in a scarf, one hand on a frying pan, the other on her hip. She turned, eyed me, and nodded like I'd passed some inspection.
"Morning," she said. "Bathroom's down the hall. Towels on the rack. Your toothbrush is the blue one in the cup."
"My toothbrush?" I repeated. "When did—"
"DoorDash and CVS are a gift," she said. "Go rinse your face, pee, look in the mirror and tell yourself you survived. Then come eat."
It was bossy and gentle at the same time. Classic Tasha.
I did as told.
The bathroom smelled like coconut and eucalyptus. There were two toothbrushes in a cup by the sink—Tasha's and a new blue one still damp from its first use. A fresh washcloth was folded neatly next to the faucet, like hotel service but with more heart.
I stared at my reflection for a moment. I looked… wrecked. Dark circles under my eyes, skin sallow from stress, a thin red mark on my cheek from where it had pressed into the arm of the couch.
But I also looked alive.
"You're still here," I told the mirror quietly. "They didn't win."
My own eyes met mine, tired but stubborn. I splashed water on my face, brushed my teeth, then went back out.
The living room coffee table had been transformed into a buffet: scrambled eggs, fried plantains, toast, empanadas, sliced fruit. Coffee steamed in a French press. Someone had lit a candle that smelled like vanilla and cinnamon.
"Sit," Tasha ordered. "Eat."
I dropped onto a cushion on the floor. A plate appeared in front of me. So did a mug.
"Drink before you overthink," Marisol advised, settling in beside me.
I took a sip. The coffee hit my system like liquid courage.
For a few minutes, we just… ate. No heavy questions, no probing. Just clinking forks, small talk about Kayla's disaster date last week, Kiera complaining that her boss thought Excel was cutting-edge technology.
Normal.
Or a really good impersonation of it.
My phone lay face down on the table. I could feel it like a heartbeat, pulsing with all the things I hadn't checked yet.
Eventually, Tasha nodded at it. "You're going to have to look sooner or later."
I sighed. "Yeah, I know."
My fingers hovered over the screen for a second before flipping it.
Missed calls. Some unknown numbers. A couple from my mom that made my stomach twist. Texts from neighbors: Are you okay?? Police were at your door last night.
And, of course, push notifications.
XMZ:New update in the Archer Affair: Chaos, Cops, and the Mistress Who Won't Fade Away.
I almost didn't tap it.
Almost.
The article loaded in that smug, fast way my phone always seemed to load bad news.
A photo at the top: a grainy long-distance shot of my building, blue and red police lights flashing, a small cluster of people on the sidewalk watching.
The headline made my jaw clench.
"COPS CALLED TO ARROW STREET APARTMENT OF ALLEGED 'ARCHER MISTRESS' — DRAMA OR DISTRESS?"
I skimmed, jaw tightening with every line.
Sources say police were called to the home of suspended Archer Partners employee, Amira R., late last night. Neighbors report loud noises, a damaged door, and "a lot of fuss for a girl who loves attention."
"Loves attention," I read out loud, voice flat. "Wow. Okay."
They quoted an "anonymous resident" with too much detail to be anyone but my nosy neighbor two doors down.
"She's had men coming and going at odd hours," the source claims. "First the rich older boss, now the cops. I don't know what she's trying to pull but I'm over it."
"Lies," Kayla hissed. "You barely have men coming and going at normal hours, let alone odd ones."
I kept reading.
While details are unconfirmed, some speculate that the alleged mistress might be escalating her behavior as the scandal swirls. A former coworker said, "She always liked to stir things up. I wouldn't put it past her to call the cops just to make herself look like a victim."
My stomach dropped. "Former coworker." That could be anybody. Elaine. Margaret. The whole Greek chorus of bitter admins.
At the bottom, in smaller text, a line that made my vision blur around the edges.
Authorities have not confirmed whether any crime occurred, leaving some to wonder: is this a real emergency, or the latest act in a calculated performance?
Silence fell around the table.
I realized my hands were clenched around the phone so tightly my knuckles ached.
"They're saying you staged it," Janelle whispered, horror in her voice. "Like you would… like you'd fake being attacked."
Heat surged up my spine, hot and wild. Fear turned sharp, crystallizing into fury.
"I was hiding in my bathroom while some stranger kicked my door in," I said quietly. "And now they're wondering if it was 'performance.'"
Tasha's jaw flexed. "They're controlling the narrative," she said. "Painting you as unstable. Attention-seeking. Unreliable."
"Making it easier to dismiss anything I say about Cassandra," I finished.
Kiera slammed her cup down so hard coffee sloshed over the edge. "Say the word and I will go to XMZ myself and—"
"And get sued?" Marisol cut in. "No. We don't play their game. We play smarter."
I stared down at the article again, at my own life reduced to a sensational headline and some neighbor's petty commentary.
They had my name. My building. My humiliation.
And I had… what?
A drive. A few reconstructed documents. Eli. My girls.
And a whole lot of anger that finally had nowhere left to go but forward.
"That's it," I said, voice low.
They all looked at me.
"I'm done letting them tell my story for me," I said. "Cassandra. XMZ. The bitter brigade at the firm. All of them."
I put the phone down carefully, like I was placing evidence on a table.
"They're controlling the story," I whispered. "I need to take it back."
Part Two
Tasha didn't let me leave alone.
Of course she didn't.
She walked me down to the street like she was escorting royalty—or a prisoner on furlough. Honestly, I couldn't tell which one she thought I was today. She didn't even bother putting on real shoes, just slipped into fuzzy slides like she was daring someone to comment.
"You call me the second you get inside Eli's place," she said as she opened the car door for me. "No playing hero. Got it?"
"I'm not playing hero," I said.
She lifted a brow. "You're absolutely playing hero. Just make sure you don't get shot in the process."
Kiera leaned out the window from the back seat. "Text us every fifteen minutes or I'm pulling up. I fight hackers too. With fists."
"You fight everything with fists," Marisol reminded her.
Kayla snapped her fingers. "And don't forget to eat. Trauma burns calories."
"Y'all are doing the most," I said, but warmth prickled at the back of my throat.
They let me go eventually. But only after Tasha gave me her taser "just in case," and Janelle put a tiny saint charm in my hand "to protect your spirit," and Kayla shoved an empanada into my jacket pocket.
I drove across the city with too many things in my lap—anger, fear, determination, carbs.
Eli lived in a narrow brownstone that looked like a bachelor tech wizard had inherited it from a grandmother who collected lace and doilies. The outside was charming. The inside was a war zone of cables, monitors, takeout containers, and enough blinking lights to qualify as a minor airport.
I barely knocked before he opened the door.
He looked like he hadn't slept either—hoodie, messy curls, dark circles under his eyes—but his brain was clearly still running at full speed.
"Get in," he said, dragging me inside. "I've got something."
I stepped over a stack of hard drives and followed him into the living room. Three monitors glowed with code and diagrams. My external drive sat in the center like a sacrificial offering.
"I've analyzed more metadata fragments," he said, typing without looking at me. "And I need you to prepare yourself."
"Eli," I said. "Just tell me."
He hit a key. One of the monitors shifted to a split screen: timestamps, server logs, partial text strings.
"This," he said, pointing at a highlighted line, "is a recovery from your wiped cloud mirror. A draft Cassandra kept in her own system. It wasn't meant to be seen. But she's sloppy when she's angry."
The recovered text pulled into clarity on the screen.
PROJECT: OP–HALE–ARCHER
SECTION 3: Reputational Contingencies
'If/when Archer is discovered engaging in an extramarital relationship, initiate Phase 3: Containment.'
My stomach flipped.
She had a program for this. A flowchart. A contingency plan like I was a predicted weather event.
"Scroll," I whispered.
He did.
Another fragment loaded, this one uglier.
Phase 3 Actions:
Leak preliminary allegations through unofficial channels.
Target mistress credibility.
Secure leverage via firm records, personal history, financial background.
Establish mistress as volatile, reckless, threat to firm stability.
Prepare "Regretful Statement" for J. Archer.
The next line was a half-reconstructed email header.
From: Cassandra Hale Archer
Subject: Narrative Framework
'The mistress must not appear sympathetic.'
I covered my mouth.
"Oh my God," I breathed. "She planned this. Not just the scandal. The destruction."
Eli nodded grimly. "This wasn't reactive. She built this long before she even met you."
My eyes darted to him. "Before she met me?"
He opened another window. A calendar.
One entry sat alone in the middle of last fall.
'Settlements Leverage Prep — HA Merge Protocol'
Scheduled for a time period when Julian and Cassandra weren't even having visible trouble yet.
"She assumed he'd cheat," I whispered.
"She prepared for it," Eli corrected. "And for whoever he cheated with."
The room swayed for a moment.
"That's not all." He clicked again.
The blurry photo—the one taken inside my apartment—appeared on the center monitor.
"I traced the device ID," he said quietly. "It wasn't taken with your phone."
"Okay," I said slowly. "So whose was it?"
He breathed out. "A device synced to Cassandra's cloud account."
Everything in me went still.
"She was in my apartment," I said. "Before the break-in."
"Either her or someone carrying her device," Eli said. "Either way, the photo metadata confirms the device was authenticated under her credentials."
My pulse roared in my ears.
"She sent someone to scout," I whispered. "Test the locks. Map the layout." My throat closed. "And then sent someone else to finish the job."
"You're not crazy," Eli said. "You didn't imagine the footsteps. The tampering. The timing. Cassandra has been two moves ahead, but she didn't expect you to have a tech guy."
I swallowed the wave of nausea rising in my chest.
"She really is trying to erase me."
"No," Eli said firmly. "She's trying to erase your ability to fight back."
I sank into a chair, the robe from Tasha still wrapped around me, feeling suddenly very small in this room full of machinery.
"This is Phase 3," I whispered, staring at the flowchart text. "Containment. Smear. Discredit."
"Phase 4," Eli said, leaning back, "is usually elimination."
I stared at him.
He lifted a hand. "Not physically. Legally. Publicly. Reputation, job prospects, social standing. Cassandra Hale doesn't kill people. She kills futures."
I rubbed at my eyes, breathing hard.
"She almost succeeded."
He watched me carefully. "But she didn't."
I looked up.
"She thinks you're down," he said. "She thinks you're scared. She thinks she broke you."
My jaw tightened.
"But you're here," he finished. "And you're not done."
I stood slowly, the robe falling open around me like the beginning of armor.
"Send me everything," I said. "Every fragment. Every timestamp. Every attachment."
"You planning something?"
"Yes," I said. "I'm planning not to let this bitch win."
Eli grinned, exhausted but impressed. "Okay, Rivera. War it is."
As he gathered files, my phone buzzed on the desk behind me.
A new XMZ notification popped on the lockscreen:
Anonymous tip: 'Archer Mistress' might face arrest soon, sources say.
It was trending already.
My vision went red.
"Phase 3," I whispered. "She's accelerating it."
Eli looked over his shoulder. "We need to hit back tonight."
I nodded.
But inside me, something bigger was shifting. Something sharper than fear and deeper than anger.
Not vengeance.
Not even survival.
Control.
"If Cassandra wants to take everything from me," I whispered, "I want to see what she does when I stop running."
Eli's expression changed—like he'd just realized I wasn't the woman who hid in the bathroom last night.
He was right.
I wasn't.
I was someone new.
And Cassandra Hale Archer had no idea who she was about to deal with.