Chapter 4
The next afternoon, we cornered Sophie outside her university’s art building.
She looked exhausted, with dark circles under her beautiful eyes.
The moment she saw us, she tensed and gripped her canvas tote bag like a shield.
“I told you,” she began, her voice trembling. “I’m not—”
“Check your email, Sophie,” Jordan interrupted softly.
Sophie blinked in confusion.
Then she pulled out her phone and opened her mail app.
We watched in silence as her eyes moved across the screen.
It was an alert from the hospital administration.
Her breath hitched.
She scrolled down, fingers shaking violently, then read it again.
And again.
Finally, she looked up, all the color drained from her face.
“Who… who did this?” she whispered. “This says paid in full. It says there’s a surplus.”
“Liam isn’t the only one with deep pockets,” Jordan said, stepping forward. “The difference is, I don’t require you to sleep with me, and I don’t lie to you. You’re free, Sophie. The debt is gone.”
Tears spilled over Sophie’s lashes.
She dropped her bag. Art supplies clattered across the concrete as she buried her face in her hands and let out a sob that sounded like years of pressure finally breaking.
Lily immediately wrapped her in a hug and glared at a passing group of frat boys who stared too long.
When Sophie finally pulled herself together, she wiped her face and looked directly at Jordan.
The desperation was gone.
In its place was something sharp, bright, and terrifying.
“What do you need me to do?” she asked.
That night, the Scumbag Destruction group chat was officially born.
Lily — Number Five: “Okay, squad. Liam wants to take me to a Michelin-star place on Friday. Do I stall or go?”
Summer — Number Four: “Go. But tell him you need to leave early because your streaming PC fried and you’re stressed about replacing it. Plant the seed for money.”
Sophie — Number Three: “I have him Thursday. I’m going to tell him my professor offered me a private gallery showing, but I need fifty thousand to secure the space. If he doesn’t pay, I’ll cry.”
Jordan — Number Two: “Good. Bleed his liquid cash. He has exactly 4.2 million in a personal trust that isn’t tied to the company. We need that number at zero by the end of the month. I’ll keep him busy at the office all week to maximize his fatigue.”
The execution was flawless.
Being part of a coordinated four-woman strike team was the most intoxicating experience of my life.
Liam thought he was the ultimate puppet master, balancing four completely different women.
He had no idea we were all sitting in a group chat, writing his schedule for him.
Whenever he texted me, I’d screenshot it and send it to the group. Then we’d workshop the perfect reply.
“Tell him you’re reading Joan Didion and feeling melancholic,” Sophie suggested once. “He loves playing the intellectual savior.”
I sent exactly that, and within an hour Liam was at my door with an overpriced bottle of wine, ready to listen to me ramble about literature.
At the right moment, I casually mentioned that a boutique publishing house wanted to buy the rights to my next three novels, but I needed a two-hundred-thousand-dollar investment to partner with them.
“I can’t ask you for that, Liam,” I told him, looking down at my wineglass and playing the tragic artist. “It’s too much.”
“Nonsense, Summer,” he said, taking my hand. His handsome, sculpted face was the picture of wealthy benevolence. “I believe in your talent. I’ll have my broker wire it tomorrow.”
Mentally, I high-fived the group chat.
Meanwhile, Lily was tearing through his wallet.
She convinced him to sponsor her esports team and pulled a cool three hundred thousand out of his trust fund.
Sophie became a master of emotional manipulation, securing four hundred thousand for an art studio in Manhattan.
Every dollar was quietly funneled into offshore shell companies Jordan had legally locked down.
To Liam, he was investing in his beautiful, dependent girlfriends.
In reality, he was funding his own destruction.
But the best part wasn’t the heist.
It was poker night.
Once Liam’s schedule was entirely under our control, we made sure every Wednesday and Saturday night was blocked off.
We all told him we were busy.
I had writer’s block.
Lily had a marathon stream.
Sophie had late studio hours.
Jordan had board meetings.
In reality, the four of us were gathered in Jordan’s penthouse, drinking expensive champagne, eating caviar, and playing Texas Hold’em.
“I raise fifty,” Lily said, tossing a chip onto the mahogany table.
“Fold,” Sophie sighed.
“I still don’t understand how you bluff so well. You look like a cartoon character.”
“That’s the secret,” Lily said with a grin. “Weaponized cuteness.”
“I see your fifty and raise two hundred,” I said, feeling bold.
Jordan didn’t even look at her cards.
“Call.”
Then she added, “Speaking of bluffs, Liam tried to tell me today that his father is stepping down next month and making him sole CEO. Complete lie. The board is secretly trying to oust him.”
“How much personal cash does he have left?” I asked, raking in my chips when Lily groaned and folded.
“Down to his last five hundred thousand,” Jordan said, a dangerous gleam in her eyes. “He’s stretched thin. He looked terrible today. Pale. Bags under his eyes. Juggling four women while your company collapses takes a toll.”
“So what’s the kill shot?” Sophie asked, leaning forward.
Jordan placed her cards down and smiled.
“The Carter Corporation annual gala. Two weeks from now.”