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One ◑ The Client

"It's been decades," Lucille spat out, glancing at the Birkin handbag she'd pulled out of her closet. Crinkling her nose in dissatisfaction, she tossed it carelessly over her shoulder. "Everything's so bland and lethargic."

Agnes caught the bag before it hit the floor. "Um, but we just closed a case for our client—"

"But it's a case!" Lucille emphasized the last word as though it were a profanity. "We're meant to punish the cheaters, not take pictures of them so their partners could cry and look pathetic. We're powerful women, not private investors—"

"Investigators."

"Ah, whatever!"

Throwing a bunch of silk scarves in the air, Lucille plopped down on the velvet pouf in the corner of the room. Her long blonde hair was a mess from all the times she'd run her hands through it in frustration. Her roughed up feelings (and hair) were a stark contrast to the sharp and structured trim of her dress, but a compliment to the absolute mess she'd made in the closet of her penthouse suite. Pumps and boots littered the floor, mixed with an assortment of jackets, dresses, and tops that she'd all yanked from their racks.

Still, the clutter didn't feel enough. She wanted to take out all her outfits, throw them onto the carpet, and perhaps set them on fire.

God, she hated this. She hated all of this.

Lucille was a witch, an avenger, one to be feared and revered. Not a nutter with a camera and too much time to spare.

She blamed technology—no, she blamed the people who were too weak to think beyond digital imprints and audio recordings. Everything had been fine up until thirty years ago. Back then, people allowed her to play just as dirty as their disloyal partners. People asked her to exact revenge as she saw fit, and they would let her take the reins.

Now? Click, click. Help me get proof so I can confront him. This will give me an advantage in the divorce. This will help me get custody of the kids. Yadda, yadda, yadda.

Fuck it. Lucille wanted real revenge, not a courthouse full of lawyers and long talks about money.

She exhaled sharply and crossed her legs as Agnes gathered the stuff on the floor, sorting them out on the chaise lounge.

"Nobody has come and sought our help for days, Agnes," Lucille lamented. "For all I know, that last client could be the last. And he was unbearably bleak. My soul bleeds."

Agnes sat on the plush white carpet and smiled up at her master. "Same thing happened last week. Silence for days, then bam—new client."

"But this week might be different."

"What if it isn't?"

"I don't know." Lucille tried to smile. Failed. "That wouldn't change the fact that I'm working with a timeline."

"Is this about the candle?" Agnes asked, then she immediately shook her head, regretting the question. "I'm sorry. It's just I never expected it to happen, for it to light up when we're having this problem. I don't want to think they're connected."

The statement hang over them like an ominous storm cloud, threatening to rain on what little happiness they had left. Even Agnes, who'd always tried to see the positive side of things, looked worried for once.

A pang of guilt blocked Lucille's throat for a moment. She looked away from her loyal servant, turning her gaze to the New York skyline stretching beyond her from behind the floor-to-ceiling windows. The glass panes of the buildings gleamed under the ten o'clock sunlight. From here she could see the splotch of green from Central Park, and the proud outline of Lady Liberty in the distance. Still a scenic view, even after all these years of staying in the city.

This was something she adored about being alive for thousands of years, the changes. The transitions, the differences. For now they were her enemy, but she was still counting on the day where they'd become her friends.

Lucille stood, straightened her hair, and held onto that hope now. Today, she would just stop worrying. About the clients, about the mystery of the candle, and what it could mean for her. In fact, she'd ask Agnes to get ready so they could have lunch at the Ritz and get shit-faced later.

"Remember the Giambattista Valli dress we purchased a month ago? The silk one with the embroidered flowers?" she asked, once again trotting over the custom glass cabinets to find the said dress. "I want you to wear that. I bet you would look stunning in it—"

Ring!

The familiar trill of the telephone in the hallway filled the closet room. Lucille stopped ransacking her vast collection at once.

"I got it," Agnes said and got to her feet, but Lucille stopped her.

"No, no. Go find the dress so we can go for lunch and both look fabulous." She patted Agnes on the cheek and turned towards the door. "It will be my treat."

Agnes raised an eyebrow. "It's always been your treat."

"I know and I love it. Excuse me."

Lucille exited the room and strode along the wide hallway, which was decorated with framed paintings and rare photographs. The phone was at the end, close to the sitting area, and it was still ringing when she got to the antique stool on which it was placed.

She picked up the golden receiver and pressed it to her ear. "Lucille Saint-Claire."

Robert the doorman answered her on the other end. "Good morning, Miss Lucille. I have here someone named Christie Shaw, and she's looking for you. Should I send her up?"

"Christie Shaw," Lucille repeated, racking her brains for a memory. When she came up with none, she said, "Send her here, darling. Thank you."

She could hear his smile even through the phone. "My pleasure, Miss Lucille."

"Who's that?" Agnes walked into the scene. The maroon dress was slung over her slender arm. "A client?"

"I have no idea." Lucille headed towards the kitchen to get a glass of water. And maybe prepare some refreshments for the guest. Whoever that was. "It's someone who goes by Christie Shaw. Perhaps she's a client, perhaps not, but I—"

"Christie Shaw?" Agnes let out a snort of laughter. "Miss Lucille, that's the wife of that bastard we captured in . . . 1978, I think?"

"Oh." Lucille paused, her hand frozen on the handle of the fridge. The memories came crashing back, causing her chest to flood with nostalgia. "The good old days. God, I miss making people's lives miserable."

Together, they prepared their usual array for guests, which consisted of tea in the finest china and a selection of biscuits. Agnes put it all on one of their ceramic trays, balanced it on her well practiced hands, and set it up in the sitting area with a vase of fresh daisies.

Meanwhile, Lucille watched the elevator doors, waiting for Christie Shaw to show up.

This woman was one of the tough ones, Lucille mused. A badass, if you described her in today's language. Christie Shaw, even though she'd apparently kept her husband's last name, had been quite merciless. She'd let Lucille end her husband in one of the slowest, most torturous ways: stabbing him in shallow, not fatal places and leaving him in a forest full of wolves.

Brutal? Yes. Heartless? Also yes. Well-deserved? Definitely.

Despite her earlier woes about the past and her decision not to wallow in it, Lucille found herself looking forward to meeting Christie Shaw again. So much so that when the elevator doors opened, she extended her arms to the old woman as though to greet a long-lost friend.

Christie Shaw, now wrinkled and hunched and white-haired, backed away from her. "I apologize, Miss Lucille."

"What?" Lucille was taken aback. She looked at Agnes for answers, but she was too busy staring at Christie with narrowed eyes. "Why are you apologizing?"

"I shouldn't be here, I know." The old woman bowed her head deeply, almost sinking to her knees. "I broke the vow."

Ah, the vow. Lucille had forgotten.

Don't look back, don't return. That was the vow she'd set for all the people who opted for the extreme punishments. She'd always instructed them to leave and go far, to forget everything that happened and live a new life. Christie Shaw seemed to have broken everything, not only by keeping a piece of her husband, but for coming here too.

"Yes, you did break the vow," Lucille told her regretfully. She reached for the metal poker by the fireplace and raised it for a strike. "You know what this means—"

"Wait!" Agnes sprinted towards her and grabbed the poker. However, she wasn't looking at her. Her eyes were fixed on the elevator. "There's someone in there."

Lucille followed her line of sight, and sure enough, she saw that the elevator hadn't moved down. There was light filtering through the cracks in the outline of the door.

Okay, now Christie had really messed up.

"I'm sorry." She was nearly sobbing. "I'm so sorry, Miss Lucille. I can't forget what you've done for me. No matter how much I tried to keep your instructions in mind, I just can't."

"You brought someone here? To me?" Lucille's eyes flashed dangerously. "You have five seconds to explain before I shove you in the fireplace and make barbecue out of you."

"It's m-my granddaughter," Christie stammered, this time really getting on her knees by Lucille's feet. "She needs your help. She's been ruined by a man. She wouldn't talk to me for months, wouldn't eat, couldn't sleep. She's only nineteen. This man, in his thirties no less. . . ."

She trailed off, and despite Lucille's rage, her heart broke. Agnes successfully managed to pry the poker out of her grip.

"And what do you ask from me, Christie?" she asked, tilting her head in the direction of the elevator as a signal for Agnes. "What does your granddaughter want?"

"Revenge," she whispered.

Agnes pressed the button. The elevator doors slid aside, revealing a young black-haired woman wearing jeans and a white shirt. She had a heart-shaped face and dark eyes, which were fearfully flickering around the penthouse sitting room. When her gaze met Lucille's, the world seemed to have stopped for a moment.

A strange pinching sensation overcame Lucille. She couldn't place where exactly, much less figure out why. Nevertheless, she stood to her full height as the young lady approached.

"M-Miss," she mumbled. "Please help me."

The way her voice broke down at the last word made it hard for Lucille to stay angry. This wasn't a surprise. She'd always be unable to truly be furious with the ones who sought her help.

However, she already knew where this was heading. Christie's granddaughter was young, naive. The man who toyed with her was well experienced in the field.

Lucille started the countdown. She was betting on the mention of court within the first five minutes of this talk.

She sighed. "Come. Let's sit and get this over with."

Christie and her granddaughter shared a nervous look, but they followed Lucille and Agnes to the corner of the sitting room anyway. They occupied the upholstered sofa, facing Lucille, who was lounging on her red leather high-backed chair. Agnes stood behind her, watching the conversation unfold instead of serving the guests.

And well, Lucille didn't care that the guests weren't being treated highly. If they're just going to insist on more court things, might as well make this quick.

Lucille poured herself some tea. "So, what's your name?"

"I'm Mia," she said timidly.

"Nice to meet you." Lucille took a sip. "Who is this man and how did you meet him?"

"His name is Cade Linden." She swallowed hard and avoided everyone's eye. "I met him two years ago, when I was looking for an internship. You probably know him. He runs Paradigm Publishing."

"Paradigm Publishing? I don't think he's worth knowing. Carry on."

"It's still too painful to talk about."

Lucille watched the young girl, noting the way she was grimacing, the way she was balling her hands on her lap. She'd been treated shittily by this Cade Linden, no doubt.

And there were so many ways to hurt him back.

Leaning against her chair, Lucille stared at Mia and posed the hard question, "What do you want to be done to him, Mia? Everything is possible."

"I want him to pay." For the first time since she'd gotten here, Mia looked determined. "I want him to pay with his life."

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