Page 13 of The Birthday Girl
S unlight ricocheted off the Dallas skyline and through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows inside Tahlia's corner office. Thirty floors below, cars crawled through gridlock, and people scurried between buildings, all of them tiny, irrelevant specks from her vantage point.
The silence in her office felt absolute, sacred almost, interrupted only when she tapped her Montblanc pen against the blank legal pad.
Midway through a financial report, her private line lit up, the one reserved for emergencies.
Tahlia’s head whipped in its direction, and her brows met in the center of her forehead.
Lost in thought, she let the line buzz twice before answering. “Banks.”
“Good morning, Ms. Banks. It’s Ezra,” her crisis manager said.
Tahlia leaned back in her leather chair, eyes narrowing at the skyline. “Hi, Ezra. What do I owe the pleasure?”
“Unfortunately, Ms. Banks, I’ve got good and bad news.”
“Rip the bandage off. Start with the mess.”
“Since you insist.” His voice hardened. “One of your sister’s friends tried to sell footage from the baby shower, of you cracking Lawson over the head with a bottle.”
“Which one?” Tahlia shot upright, every nerve on alert.
“Give me a moment.” Papers shuffled in the background before Ezra cleared his throat.
“Mercedes Johnson. She arranged a drop with a freelance photographer who supplies The Daily Lens. They offered twenty-five thousand upfront to lock down the video and five more once they were sure it was really you.”
“What did you offer?”
“Forty grand. With an NDA. If it ever leaks, she knows she’ll be sued into oblivion.”
Tahlia’s laugh was sharp, humorless. “So that bitch got forty grand of my money?”
“Yes, but we secured the file. No one else will see it.”
“I suppose a thank you is in order,” Tahlia said, sneering. “But next time, you call me before spending a dime. I wouldn’t have paid her a single cent.”
“It was best to get the situation contained. What if Mr. Lawson decided to sue or press charges?”
“He wouldn’t,” she replied, unflinching. “A man with his reputation? Please. The public would’ve crowned me a hero, and over half the women in this country would’ve sent me flowers after finding out my boyfriend knocked up my sister. Lawson would’ve been the punchline, not me.”
Ezra hesitated. “Still, Ms. Banks—”
“There is no still,” she cut in. “That exposure wouldn’t have weakened me. It would’ve weakened him. Remember that before you go throwing my money around again.”
“But—”
“Erase that word from your vocabulary when you’re speaking to me. There is no ‘but.’ You did your job, and now the problem is mine. What happens next is none of your concern. End of discussion.”
“Ms. Banks, I’d advise against—”
“You don’t advise me,” she snapped. “You mitigate risk and neutralize exposure. Those are your duties, and that is why you’re on my payroll.”
Ezra hesitated before speaking again. “…Understood. We’ll stay ready.”
“Do that.” Tahlia ended the call with a slam of the receiver, her morning ruined by the thought of Mercedes.
Her chair shot backward as she stood, the wheels snagging on the rug.
Three quick strides carried her to the window, where she pressed her fingertips against the glass, leaving perfect oval prints behind.
The Texas sun turned the neighboring skyscraper into a blade of light, slicing directly into her eyes.
She squinted, whispering the Konami Calm under her breath.
Up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right, B, A, start.
The chant steadied her pulse, each word cutting through the static in her head until her breathing leveled out.
By the time she reached start for the fourth time, her rage had distilled into something far more useful. Focus.
Tahlia wasn’t one to be taken advantage of, especially not by someone like Mercedes, who thought she was clever enough to spar but too cowardly to ever take a real swing.
Mercedes had the survival instincts of a cockroach but none of the grit.
She’d crawl out for crumbs, but only if the lights were off and the coast was clear.
She was a parasite in the flesh. A worthless bitch.
For Tahlia, the baby shower hadn’t been tainted by what she did.
If anything, smashing that bottle over Tyriq’s head had been the highlight , the purest thrill she’d felt in years.
The laughter, the flowers, the ridiculous pastel balloons, none of it compared to the sound of glass shattering against his skull.
She replayed it now, over and over, each swing in her mind cleaner and more perfect than the last. The gasp of the crowd, the spray of liquor and blood, the way his body buckled under the weight of her fury. God, it was intoxicating.
She almost wished it had been recorded in high definition. Slow-motion. Multiple angles. Why would she be ashamed of it? Why would she pretend it was a slip, or a “lapse in control,” when the truth was it had been the only honest moment of the entire charade?
Mercedes had dragged the memory back into the light, and instead of shrinking from it, Tahlia embraced it. Let the world see. Let them talk. Her image wasn’t fragile. It was forged in violence and steeled by spectacles.
If they thought she was crazy, good. Crazy women didn’t get pushed around. Crazy women didn’t beg. Crazy women made sure no one ever forgot the sting of broken glass.
Mercedes had reached for a piece of Tahlia, and that could not be forgiven. Murder was no longer an idle consideration, flitting at the edges of her mind. It had become math, the simplest equation in the world. Remove the problem. Preserve the empire.
She turned from the window, collected her coat, and slipped her Montblanc into her bag. The office around her was immaculate, as always. No trace of her day remained, nor any sign of her intent.
By the time Tahlia reached her private elevator, she’d drafted a list of necessities.
She would need leverage, evidence, and a means of presentation.
Mercedes had made the first move, but Tahlia would dictate every subsequent step, starting with a visit to the urban blight Mercedes called home.
There was something almost reassuring in the predictability of her adversaries.
They mistook money for power, and power for safety, never suspecting the violence required to keep either.
The elevator hummed as it carried her down to the lobby. When the doors parted, she stepped out, her heels clicking against polished marble. A rush of morning chatter filled the space, but it all blended into a blur. All focus was on her mission.
Detective Vega was halfway inside the elevator when he spotted Tahlia, and the sight of her yanked him back out.
“Tahlia Banks!” he shouted, his voice cracking across the lobby, dragging attention his way.
His crooked tie flapped as he charged through the thinning morning crowd, weaving around startled employees who shrank from his approach.
“Ms. Banks!” he called again, louder that time.
Tahlia didn’t so much as glance at him. She just continued to glide across the lobby, her heels stabbing the floor in an unbroken rhythm.
She had just reached the revolving doors when a hand firmly clamped down on her arm.
Tahlia pivoted, her gaze dropping to where his flesh met hers, and the temperature in the vicinity dropped ten degrees.
“Release me. Now.”
Vega’s hand jerked back like he'd touched a fire as he replied, “Sorry about that. My intent wasn’t to upset you, but you and I need to talk.”
Tahlia’s eyes traveled from his scuffed shoes to his five o'clock shadow, lingering on the coffee stain near his collar. “Who are you, and why do you think you’re entitled to my time?” she asked, finally lifting her eyes to meet his face, the coldness in her gaze like liquid nitrogen.
“I’m Detective Marcus Vega, and as I said, we need to talk.”
She exhaled through her nose. “About?”
Vega squared his shoulders, planting himself in her path. “Not here. At the precinct.”
Her brows arched, the faintest smile curling her lips. “Do you have a warrant?”
Vega exhaled through thin lips, choosing not to be intimidated. “No, but I do have questions only you can answer, Ms. Banks. The sooner you come with me, the sooner you can get back to…whatever it is you do up there.” His chin angled toward the elevators.
Tahlia’s hand flexed around her bag strap. “And if I decline?”
Vega’s expression softened, almost pitying. “You won’t. For the same reason you never let a story be written about you that you don’t personally narrate. You’re a control freak, Ms. Banks, and right now the only way to stay in control is to come with me.”
She bristled at the accuracy. Vega had the smug, resigned look of a man who’d outlasted a hundred suspects with more to lose and fewer resources. However, she wasn’t them.
Tahlia straightened, her eyes flicking over Vega’s shoulder to confirm the location of the building’s security cameras, then fixed him with a look designed to hollow out his resolve.
“You will not contact me again, Detective. If you require anything, you may speak with my attorney.” Her voice rang clear into the lobby, slicing through the hum of onlookers who had paused to be nosy.
Vega’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Ms. Banks, I—”
She raised a finger, the gesture so imperious it could have stopped a firing squad. “My. Attorney.” Tahlia slowly enunciated the two words, then turned her back and strode into the pulse of sunlight beyond the revolving doors.