Chapter 273
Chapter 273:
She kicked the dresser, pain shooting through her foot and only fueling her anger. Everything had fallen apart. Herod was in the hospital, probably talking to the FBI right now. Her name and face were all over the news. She had to dye her hair black and wear colored contacts just to check into this dump without being recognized.
All her careful plans, destroyed. The Grid still functioned. Kane Industries still thrived. Camille still stood tall beside Victoria Kane.
Rose grabbed the remote and switched off the TV before she could smash it completely. She couldn’t afford to draw attention—especially with every cop in the city looking for her.
She sank onto the bed, pressing her palms against her eyes. The headache that had started three days ago, when she shot Herod, throbbed relentlessly behind her temples.
She hadn’t slept more than two hours at a stretch since then. Every siren made her jump. Every knock on a nearby door sent her heart racing.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. She was supposed to win.
Rose reached for her bag and pulled out the newspaper she’d bought that morning. The front page showed a picture of Herod being wheeled into the hospital on a stretcher. The headline read: “BOMBING SUSPECT CRITICALLY WOUNDED, POLICE SEEK FEMALE ACCOMPLICE.”
Accomplice. The word burned in her mind. After everything she’d planned, everything she’d sacrificed, she was reduced to Herod’s “accomplice.” Not even the mastermind. Not even worth her own headline.
Her gaze shifted to the smaller article in the bottom corner: “PHOENIX FOUNDATION GALA EXPECTED TO DRAW CITY’S ELITE.” Below, details about the event: Friday night, eight o’clock, at the Grand Plaza Hotel. Security would be tight, the article noted, but the guest list remained impressive.
Business leaders. Politicians. Celebrities.
Rose read the article three times, her mind racing.
Everyone who mattered would be there. Victoria Kane. Alexander Pierce. And, of course, Camille. They would dress in their finest, drink champagne, and congratulate themselves on their generosity.
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While Rose hid in this rat hole, eating vending machine food and jumping at shadows.
The unfairness of it all hit her like a physical blow. She’d been the one with the real plans, the real vision. She’d been the one willing to do whatever it took to win. And yet Camille, sweet, simple Camille—who had never had to fight for anything in her life—still came out on top.
“Not this time,” Rose whispered, her fingers tightening on the newspaper until it tore. Not this time.
She stood abruptly, a new energy flooding her body. The charity gala was the answer. One last strike, bigger than anything she’d attempted before. A final chance to destroy everything Camille had built.
Rose pulled her burner phone from her bag and dialed a number from memory.
.
.
.