Chapter 2 — Precision Planning
Third Person
The morning light seeped through the heavy velvet curtains of the Hensley Estate’s sitting room, casting long streaks of gold across the pristine oak floor. Margot sat at the center of the chaos she had meticulously created, her Precision Planner spread open on the mahogany coffee table like a general’s war map. A flurry of color-coded tabs bristled from its edges, each one marking a step in her newly minted vengeance campaign. The faint scent of lavender polish lingered in the air, mingling with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee from Sophie’s mug, which sat precariously close to the edge of the table.
Margot tapped her sleek, silver fountain pen against her lips, the pen’s weight grounding her in the moment. Each letter in her planner slanted at a precise forty-five-degree angle, the result of years spent perfecting her handwriting under her father’s watchful eye. The planner itself, a custom-made gift from him, was both a tool and a reminder of the Hensley family’s expectations—control, poise, and unflinching perfection. She traced the embossed initials on the leather cover with her thumb, a fleeting moment of hesitation flickering across her face before she pushed it aside. Yet, despite her efforts to impose order on her thoughts, her mind churned like a storm, flashes of Ryan’s betrayal clawing at her composure.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Sophie’s voice broke the silence, soft but weighted with concern. She sat cross-legged on the overstuffed armchair opposite Margot, cradling her steaming mug as though it were a lifeline. Her curly hair was pulled into a loose bun, a few rebellious strands escaping to frame her face. She traced the rim of her mug absentmindedly, her usual effervescence tempered by the tension in the room.
Margot didn’t look up. “Sophie, I don’t just want to do this. I need to do this.”
“Need?” Sophie echoed skeptically, tilting her head. “You need to breathe, eat, and sleep. Revenge? That’s optional.”
Margot’s pen stilled mid-tap. For a moment, her piercing blue eyes flicked upward, locking onto Sophie’s. “This isn’t just about revenge,” she said, her voice as sharp and deliberate as the strokes of her pen. “It’s about reclaiming my dignity. Ryan humiliated me in front of everyone I know. Do you have any idea how many people have texted me ‘thinking of you’ since the wedding? It’s unbearable.”
Sophie raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching into a wry smile. “You know, most people would just block those numbers and binge-watch a trashy rom-com. Not plot a corporate takedown.”
Margot’s lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile, a flicker of humor breaking through her polished exterior. “That’s why I’m not ‘most people.’”
“Clearly,” Sophie said with a small sigh, sinking further into the armchair. “Fine. So, what’s the plan, Madame Machiavelli?”
Margot straightened in her seat, her shoulders snapping back into their usual regal posture. The faintest glimmer of satisfaction warmed her otherwise icy demeanor as she flipped a tab in her planner, revealing a page covered in neatly drawn diagrams and annotations. Each item was underlined, color-coded, and cross-referenced with a precision that could rival a military operation. “Step one: information gathering. We can’t strike until we know exactly where to hit him. I’ve already started compiling a list of his business contacts, upcoming meetings, and social commitments. Step two: strategic disruption. Small, targeted actions that destabilize his professional life without implicating me directly.”
Sophie squinted at the page, her brow furrowing. “You’ve got ‘leak embarrassing photos’ underlined three times. What, are you planning to dig up his college yearbook?”
Margot smirked, a predator circling its prey. “Not exactly. But I do have a few… connections who can help me find something suitably incriminating. Ryan’s built his career on an image of perfection—polished, charming, untouchable. If I can crack that facade, it’ll all come tumbling down.”
“And what happens when he figures out it’s you?” Sophie asked, her tone sharpening slightly. She set her mug on the side table with a deliberate clink and leaned forward, clasping her hands together. “Because, let’s be real, Margot, you’re not exactly the subtle type.”
Margot’s expression hardened, her chin lifting. “He won’t. I’ve ensured that every step of this plan is untraceable.”
“Uh-huh,” Sophie muttered, unconvinced. She leaned back but kept her eyes trained on Margot, her fingers drumming against the chair’s armrest. “Look, I get it. He hurt you. He deserves some karmic payback. But I’m worried about you, Margot. This whole revenge thing—it’s like you’re trying to patch up a bullet wound with duct tape. It’s not going to fix the hurt he caused.”
Margot’s jaw tightened, the words striking a nerve. She closed her planner with a decisive snap and stood, smoothing the front of her tailored silk blouse. The fabric shimmered as it caught the sunlight, a glimmer of armor around her.
“I appreciate your concern, Sophie,” she said, her tone clipped but not unkind. “But this isn’t just about what he did to me. It’s about ensuring that no one—Ryan, his smug business partners, the vultures who thrive on gossip—ever doubts my strength again.”
Sophie studied her for a long moment, her expression softening. “You know you don’t have to prove anything to anyone, right? Least of all to some guy who doesn’t have the spine to show up to his own wedding.”
Margot’s gaze faltered, just for a second. The planner felt heavier in her hand, its edges pressing into her palm. “Maybe not,” she admitted quietly. “But I have to prove it to myself.”
Before Sophie could respond, the sharp trill of Margot’s phone broke the tension. She crossed the room to retrieve it from the marble-topped credenza, her heels clicking against the floor. The screen lit up with an incoming call from an unknown number.
“Hello?” Margot answered, her voice regaining its usual poise.
“Ms. Hensley,” a smooth, unfamiliar voice replied. “My name is Daniel Greene. I understand you’re looking for… certain information about Ryan Caldwell.”
Margot’s heart skipped a beat, her fingers tightening around the phone. Her mind raced, but her tone remained calm. “I don’t know who you are or what you’re talking about.”
“Of course not,” Greene said with a chuckle. “Let’s just say I have access to some files that might interest you. Photos, emails, financial records. The kind of material that could make Mr. Caldwell’s life very uncomfortable.”
Margot’s grip on the phone tightened further, her knuckles whitening. “And what exactly are you hoping to gain from this?”
“A modest fee for my services,” Greene replied smoothly. “Think of it as a mutually beneficial transaction. I’ll send you a sample of what I’ve found. If you’re interested, we can discuss terms.”
The line went dead before Margot could respond. She stared at the phone, her thoughts a whirlwind of intrigue and suspicion.
“Who was that?” Sophie called from her chair, her tone cautious.
Margot turned slowly, a faint, predatory smile curving her lips. “An opportunity.”
Sophie groaned, sinking deeper into her chair. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
“You don’t have to,” Margot said, already opening her planner to jot down notes from the call. Her neat handwriting flowed across the page, but this time, the strokes carried a flicker of hesitation. “But I think I just found my first strike.”
Sophie sighed and reached for her mug. “Just promise me you’ll keep this ‘opportunity’ legal. I really don’t want to have to bail you out of jail.”
“No promises,” Margot quipped, her pen moving with purpose.
As the sunlight poured into the room, illuminating the planner’s carefully drawn battle lines, Margot felt a flicker of something she hadn’t experienced since the wedding debacle: power. Yet beneath that power, a faint, unspoken question lingered, one she wasn’t ready to face—what would it cost her?
