Chapter 4 - THE RED LIPSTICK THREAT
The shattered remnants of bulletproof glass sparkled like diamond dust across the marbled entrance foyer of Bellamy & Vale.
Nora and Julian sprinted out of the elevator, their footsteps crunching loudly against the glass. Parked outside on Michigan Avenue, a sleek white Maserati let out a deafening blast of its horn before peeling out into the midnight traffic, its tail lights vanishing into the Chicago mist.
Nora knelt beside the heavy brick resting on the floor. Wrapped securely around it was a piece of high-end stationery, smeared with thick, violent strokes of Chanel Rouge Allure red lipstick.
She unfolded the paper. Scrawled across it in frantic, jagged handwriting were the words:
YOU THINK YOU’VE WON, YOU COMMON TRASH? YOU CAN’T BAN ME. I WILL BURN THIS ENTIRE EMPIRE TO THE GROUND BEFORE I LET A STREET RAT RUN IT.
“Subtle,” Julian remarked, stepping up beside her and looking down at the note. He picked up the brick with a handkerchief, his expression darkening into a mask of pure ice. “Mrs. Alistair’s handwriting. She’s completely unhinged.”
“This isn’t just a vandalism stunt,” Nora said, standing up and sweeping her gaze across the dark, cavernous boutique. Shadows danced between the multi-million-dollar jewelry displays and racks of haute couture. “She’s desperate. If her husband is pulling her allowance or threatening divorce over how she treated Lily, she knows her entire social standing is evaporating.”
“And she blames you entirely,” Julian added, pulling out his smartphone. “I’m calling corporate security. We’ll have her slapped with a restraining order by sunrise.”
“No,” Nora said sharply, holding out a hand to stop him.
Julian paused, raising an eyebrow. “No? Nora, she just vandalized flagship property and threatened you.”
“If we involve the police right now, it becomes a messy, private domestic dispute between the Alistairs that gets swept under the rug by high-priced divorce lawyers,” Nora said, her eyes flashing with a sudden, brilliant tactical clarity. “We don’t call the police. We call the press.”
Julian slowly lowered his phone, a look of profound respect—and something much warmer—flashing across his face. “You want to wage war in the public square.”
“She wanted to humiliate me in front of the entire boutique?” Nora smiled, the fear completely gone, replaced by the cold, calculating genius of a born leader. “Let’s give her nationwide front-page coverage. Tomorrow morning at 9:00 AM, right when the morning rush hits Michigan Avenue, we are holding a live press conference right here in the shattered lobby.”
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“And what about the note?” Julian asked, tapping the red lipstick-smeared paper.
“We frame it,” Nora whispered. “We put it on display right next to the $3,400 cashmere wrap Lily loved. We call the exhibition: The Cost of Cruelty. Let’s see how her charity board friends react to that.”
