The penthouse smelled like sweat, wine, and something self-congratulatory.
Jake stepped inside casually, the kind of entrance a man makes when he already knows the ending.
There was laughter coming from the bedroom. He walked down the hall and pushed open the door.
There they were, exactly as he knew they would be.
Haven, naked and sprawled across the sheets, looking like a cologne ad for moral bankruptcy. Clay beside him, a wine glass dangling from his fingers with the bored elegance of a man waiting for his rescue.
Haven's head snapped up, his eyes going wide before the mask slammed back into place. "Jake. What are you—"
"Smile," Jake said, raising his phone toward Haven. "I might use this one for the cover."
The flash went off like a small bomb.
Haven flinched, one hand coming up to shield his face. "What the hell?! Cover of what?"
Jake lowered the phone slowly, savoring the moment. "The book I'm writing. How to Screw a Sociopath Without Getting Screwed. Catchy, right?"
Clay snorted into his wine before setting the glass down on the nightstand. He swung his legs off the bed and stood, dressing himself with the unhurried confidence of a man who'd choreographed this moment down to the second.
"I'd buy a copy," Clay said, buttoning his shirt. "Hell, I'd buy ten. Give 'em out as Christmas gifts."
Haven sat up fully now, the sheet pooling around his waist. "What the fuck is going on?"
Jake reached into his messenger bag, the one Haven had bought him, pulled out a manila envelope, and tossed it onto the bed. It skidded across the silk and came to rest against Haven's leg.
"That," Jake said, "is your peace offering. Sign it, and we walk away clean. Don't sign it, and things get messy. Your choice."
Haven stared at the envelope before opening it with the slow dread of a man realizing he had miscalculated his own worth.
Divorce papers.
Twenty-three pages, professionally printed, already signed by Jake. A clean exit agreement with all the trimmings: $5 million settlement, mutual non-disclosure, no-fault dissolution. Everything neat and legal and ready to file.
No threats in writing.
No room for interpretation.
Just a final invoice for services rendered.
"You can't be serious," Haven snapped.
Jake grinned. "I was never serious, Haven. That was always your job."
Clay smoothed his clothes as he finished dressing. "You know, we really thought you'd catch on sooner. You're not stupid, Haven. I mean, you made a fortune in real estate. You can read a room."
"You're just too in love with your own reflection to notice when someone else is holding up the mirror," Jake added.
Haven's knuckles went white around the papers. "You think this is going to stick? You think I'll just pay you five million dollars to fuck off?"
"You already have," Clay said, picking up his wine glass for one last sip before setting it back down with a soft clink. "We're just closing out the tab. Making it official. You know how important paperwork is."
"You little grifting pieces of—"
"No, no," Jake interrupted, holding up a finger like a teacher correcting a student. "Let's not cheapen this with insults. It wasn't a grift. That implies desperation. Sloppiness."
He moved to Haven's console table and poured himself two fingers of Macallan 25. "What we did was an investment strategy. You invested in me. In us. You showered us with gifts, paid for trips, upgraded our lives. You just didn't realize the return came in the form of Clay and me walking away rich and you sitting here wondering how two broke nobodies turned you into their personal ATM."
Haven threw the papers across the room. "I'll call my lawyer. I'll bury you both."
Jake took a slow sip of his drink. "Go ahead. I hope they enjoy reviewing the prenup you never signed."
The color drained from Haven's face.
"See," Clay said, settling into the armchair by the window like he was about to deliver a TED Talk, "that was your first mistake. You were so confident Jake would never leave, so sure of your own irresistibility, that you didn't bother with the paperwork. You said prenups were for people who think love has a shelf life." He smiled. "And Jake, sweet sentimental Jake, was so swept up in the romance of it all that he didn't press the issue."
"Which means," Jake continued, moving to stand beside Clay, "that in the eyes of the law, this was a real marriage. Brief, but real. And in this state, that means I'm entitled to a settlement. Now, we could drag this through court, air out all your dirty laundry, let the judge decide what I deserve."
Jake gestured to the scattered papers. "Or you could sign those documents, pay the $5 million, and we all move on with our lives."
Haven laughed. "Five million. That's your magic number?"
"It's fair," Clay said. "We did the math. Consulted with an attorney. In a contested divorce, you'd probably end up paying more. Plus legal fees. Plus the reputational damage when it comes out that you were fucking your new husband's ex while the ink on the marriage license was still wet."
"You were in on this from the start," Haven said, staring at Clay with something between admiration and disgust. "The whole thing. The affair. The breakup. The—" His eyes snapped to Jake. "You played me."
"We played you," Jake corrected. "Together. From the very beginning. That's what makes it beautiful. You wanted to win me away from him so badly that you never stopped to ask if the game was rigged."
Clay stood and tossed a small envelope onto the bed. "Cloud backup of every text, every email, every gift receipt. A paper trail that would make the IRS weep with joy. Sign the papers, and all of it disappears. Refuse, and we start making calls. TMZ might not care about a real estate developer, but your investors might care that you're messy. Your board might care. Your father definitely will."
Haven's hands were shaking now. "This is blackmail."
"No," Jake said gently. "Blackmail would be if we were threatening to release information unless you paid us. This is a divorce settlement. A generous one, actually. We're giving you an out. We're letting you save face. All you have to do is sign."
"You expect me to believe you'll just go away?"
"We're already gone," Clay said, pulling on his jacket. "Have been for weeks. We're just finalizing the paperwork."
Jake turned to exit the bedroom. Behind him, Haven stood and yanked on his robe. "You're going to regret this."
At the bar, Jake stopped, picked up a wine bottle, and topped off his glass before raising it in a mock toast. "There's nothing to regret. You weren't a mistake, Haven. You were a calculation. And we always carry the one."
He drained the glass, set it down on the counter, and walked out with Clay following close behind.
The door clicked shut with the soft, final sound of a chapter ending.
In the hallway, waiting for the elevator, Clay finally let himself grin. "You think he'll sign?"
Jake pressed the button. "He'll sign. He's too vain not to. The alternative is messier, and mess doesn't photograph well."
"How long do you give him? Before he tries to come after us anyway?"
"Doesn't matter," Jake said as the elevator doors opened. "We'll be gone. New names, new country, new everything. That was always the plan."
They stepped inside. The doors began to close.
And somewhere in the penthouse, something shattered. Glass or ceramic or possibly Haven's ego. Hard to say.
The elevator descended in smooth, expensive silence.
"You know," Clay said, watching the floor numbers tick down, "I almost feel bad."
"Almost?"
"Almost."
Jake leaned against the polished brass wall, letting the adrenaline finally start to ebb. "He'll land on his feet. People like Haven always do."
"Yeah," Clay agreed. "But at least he'll land millions lighter."
The ground floor button glowed. The elevator doors slid open onto the marble lobby.
They walked out.
And didn't look back.
Three months later, the Azores greeted Jake and Clay with wind, salt, and the kind of quiet that only the wealthy could buy.
The villa sat perched on a cliff overlooking the Atlantic. It was smaller than Haven's penthouse. Less ostentatious. But it was theirs, purchased with the funds from the sold vacation home Haven had bought for Jake as a wedding gift.
Clay stepped out of the infinity pool. "Still checking the news?"
Jake glanced at his phone and smiled. "Haven listed the penthouse. Took a three-million-dollar loss on the sale, according to the real estate blogs."
"Ouch," Clay said, settling into the lounge chair beside him. "That's gotta sting."
"He'll survive. His father's company is worth hundreds of millions. He's just bruised, not broken."
"Good. I'd hate to think we actually destroyed him. That would make us the bad guys."
Jake snorted. "We conned a narcissist out of five million dollars plus another four million in wedding gifts. We're definitely the bad guys."
"Morally ambiguous protagonists," Clay replied. "Practically unsung heroes."
The sun was starting to sink, and somewhere in the villa, music played.
Jake set his phone down on the table and reached for Clay's hand.
"You ever regret it?" he asked. "The whole thing. The months of setup, the performance, the lies?"
Clay thought about it for a moment and shook his head. "Nah. You?"
"Not even a little bit."
They clinked glasses to that.
Behind them, the villa door opened. Their lawyer stepped onto the terrace with a bottle of champagne and a smile.
"It's done," she said, popping the cork. "The settlement cleared. The NDA is filed. As of three hours ago, you're officially divorced, five million dollars richer, and legally untouchable."
Clay took the champagne and poured three glasses. "You're an artist, Patricia."
"I prefer the term 'ethically flexible,'" she said, accepting her glass. "But I'll take the compliment."
They drank as the sun sank into the Atlantic, and somewhere very far away, Haven probably poured himself a scotch and wondered how two nobodies had played him so completely.
But that was his problem now.
Not theirs.
Jake closed his eyes and listened to the ocean, and for the first time in months, he felt something like peace.
Or just the absence of guilt.
Or maybe it was just the satisfaction of a perfectly executed plan.
Either way, he smiled.
