Scandalise Me. Caitlin Crews

that time, where she’d been shepherding a client as part of her first job in PR. She’d stared at him, hoping he’d disappear the way he sometimes did in the nightmares she’d refused to admit she’d been having since her escape from Treffen, Smith, and Howell.

      But, of course, he’d only smiled at her.

      It wouldn’t kill you to be polite, he’d said, kindly, but she could see the monster in his eyes.

      In fact, she’d said, it might.

      His smile had only deepened, turned friendlier. Jason Treffen at his most dangerous.

      Enjoy that sassy spirit of yours, he’d said, as if he’d been bestowing a gift upon her. It won’t last.

      Some of her coworkers had burst into the room then and had been wowed at the sight of Jason Treffen, saint of New York, standing there with a lowly new PR associate like Zoe. She’d had to smile politely while he took pictures with them. When he’d slung an arm around her shoulders. While he’d chatted with them, doling out his usual host of platitudes and insights, all of which took on a nightmarish hue should you happen to know what lurked beneath it.

      He’d engineered that meeting, she knew he had. To remind her that whenever he so desired, he could reach out and make her feel slimy and cheap. Used.

      Zoe had already vowed she’d take him down some day. After that run-in, she’d determined that she wanted it to hurt. And her desire for revenge had burned in her, a naked flame, hot and bright. Eclipsing everything else.

      You exist because I allow it, he’d told her at a charity event not five years ago, cupping her elbow in his hand and making her feel as if a thousand insects swarmed over her skin. Everything you own, all you’ve accomplished, is mine. I gave it to you and I can take it away, Zoe.

      She hadn’t been quite so young then. And she hadn’t much cared that she was dead inside.

      I can’t imagine why you’d bother, she’d said, and she’d been so proud that she’d stood there as if turned to stone, as if it didn’t matter that he was touching her.

      Why do I do anything? Again, that nasty laugh. He’d dug his fingers into the tender place above her elbow, making her whole arm numb. She’d remembered that he’d liked pain. Inflicting it, watching others suffer it. But she’d only stared back at him, cool and unimpressed, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of reacting. Because I can, Zoe. I can do whatever the hell I want. Remember that.

      The last time she’d seen him had been some months ago. She’d been in a very fancy restaurant celebrating the birthday of one of her former clients, who also happened to be a heavyweight in New York politics. She’d expected to see Jason there, working the party in his usual way, and she hadn’t been disappointed.

      She’d braced herself for the inevitable encounter—but he hadn’t approached her. He’d been reveling in a crowd of admirers until a young woman appeared at his side and whispered something in his ear.

      Zoe had seen the way Jason let his hand rest a moment too long on the young woman’s arm. She’d seen the way he’d turned to look down at her, seen the flash of that repulsive smile of his that had made her stomach lurch from all the way across the room. She’d seen them turn toward the door, the woman stepping out to walk in front of him, so he couldn’t see her face any longer.

      That face which had been a blank except for her eyes, which were dark with self-loathing and sheer, stark misery.

      Zoe knew that expression. She knew. It had been like a kick to the gut, so hard she hadn’t been able to breathe, and she’d had to stand still and watch.

      Then she’d felt something else—that creeping, sickening feeling that told her he’d seen her. Sure enough, when she’d jerked her gaze away from the young woman who hurried from the party and out into the fall night, Jason was watching her.

      He’d held her gaze across the crowd. So arrogant. So superior. She’d clenched her fingers so hard around the stem of her wineglass that she’d left deep grooves in her own flesh. She’d worried that she might be sick where she stood.

      Jason Treffen had merely smiled. Pleased, as ever. Winning, as usual.

      Zoe sucked in a breath now, snapping herself back into her own bathroom. You’re safe, she told herself, again and again, until her heart rate smoothed out. She stepped into the hot water, and sank into its silken embrace until she was submerged up to her chin.

      At last, it was time. The whole country was gearing up to celebrate Jason Treffen and his many years of humanitarian “service” to all, and that was where Zoe came in. It was time to take him down. It was time to hit him where it hurt. Past time.

      It was time to do some winning of her own.

      And Hunter Grant—who had dated Sarah Michaels back when Zoe and Sarah were both caught in Jason’s trap, who had broken that poor girl’s heart, who had flaunted another woman in Sarah’s face on the night she’d died, and that was assuming he hadn’t been doing something far worse—was going to help her do it.

      Or Zoe would destroy him, too.

      No matter how he made her feel.

      * * *

      Hunter hated Midtown with a passion.

      He hated the streets crammed full of grim worker drones, so self-important and brusque. He hated the building that housed Treffen, Smith, and Howell, an architecturally uninspired black box indistinguishable from the rest of the block it stood on. He hated the press of the crowds on the streets outside. The ubiquitous hot dog vendors, the stink of the subways that rose up through the grates at his feet, the black sparkle of the listless fountain that dominated the courtyard entryway to the building and stood waterless this time of year, like a metaphor.

      He hadn’t set foot in this building since the night of that terrible Christmas party ten years ago.

      But he was under siege from at least three different lawsuits these days thanks to his antics, and so he’d finally agreed to meet his legal team today in this hateful place. This grand, gluttonous monument to so many lies.

      Hunter knew he could very well run into Jason here. And probably would. The man’s name was etched into the wall, after all. He didn’t know what he’d do if that happened.

      He knew what he wanted to do, what he should have done ten years ago: punch the smug, insufferable bastard in the face, which was only the smallest part of what Jason Treffen deserved.

      Maybe it was time to make sure he got it—but, of course, that would require action.

      Austin had spent the time since their ghoulish little December anniversary dinner exposing his father for the monster he was to his family. Alex had spent it plotting out ways to further make Jason pay, publicly. Austin and Alex had plans. They wanted to take Jason down and they had ideas about how to do it. Austin had already done his part. Alex was working on his.

      While Hunter was avoiding the entire thing, as if that might make it go away. Along with most of the texts and calls he received from his old friends, while he was at it.

      He didn’t bother scowling at his reflection in the gleaming elevator doors before him as he rocketed up toward the firm. He knew what was looking back at him. If anything, Zoe Brook had been too conservative in her rundown of his flaws.

      The doors slid open, and Hunter wasn’t at all surprised to see a young woman standing there, looking sleek and polished and delighted to see him.

      Looking like déjà vu.

      “Hello, Mr. Grant,” she said, smiling. “I’m Iris.”

      If he had to guess, he’d say she was the latest incarnation of what Sarah had been. The title had been Legal Assistant back then. But if this one was another of Jason’s girls, doing paralegal work was the very tip of the iceberg.

      And that twisting, nasty feeling in his gut told him he knew exactly what that iceberg entailed, and that this girl was