Chapter 10
New York does not slow down for death.
It glitters.
It parties.
It taxis past crime scenes like they are temporary inconveniences.
And on the night Andre Arthur died, Manhattan looked breathtaking.
It was February. The kind of winter night that made breath visible and eyelashes brittle. Snow from the previous storm had hardened into sculpted drifts along the sidewalks, sparkling under streetlights like crushed diamonds. Fifth Avenue shimmered. Downtown pulsed. Somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed — not urgently, just consistently, like background music.
Arthur Beauty Global was hosting its Winter Luminary After-Dark Showcase at the top of its own building — a reassertion of dominance after Paris. The messaging had been clear: We are unshaken. We are inevitable.
The rooftop had been transformed.
Clear heated domes arched against the sky. Ice sculptures glowed blue from within. Velvet lounge furniture in deep wine and midnight surrounded mirrored tables reflecting city lights. Servers floated through the crowd with champagne coupes and trays of caviar like they were extensions of the architecture.
The skyline stood behind them — Empire State glowing gold, Hudson black and endless, bridges strung with light.
It was obscene.
It was perfect.
And underneath it, something was rotting.
—
The trio arrived together.
Iconic without trying.
Jenna wore black silk with a slit that suggested threat. Her curls were pulled back high, sharp earrings glinting like warning signals. She walked like someone who had learned she could take up space.
Melissa wore a structured ivory coat over a sleek satin dress, her makeup sharp but luminous. She looked less like someone who had fallen into proximity to power and more like someone who understood it now.
James wore a long charcoal coat over a tailored suit that fit like precision. His expression was calm. Too calm.
They paused at the entrance to the rooftop, just for a second.
“Last time we were this dressed up, someone robbed us,” Jenna muttered.
“Let’s try not to get robbed,” James replied lightly.
Melissa looked at both of them.
“No matter what happens tonight,” she said softly, “we don’t fracture.”
Jenna extended her hand.
James stacked his on top.
“Intern City,” Jenna said.
James smirked. “We really named ourselves that?”
Melissa nodded. “We survived everything together. That’s what this is.”
Three hands tightened.
They stepped into the party.
—
Andre was already holding court near the bar.
He looked immaculate. Dark navy tux. Crisp white shirt. No tie. The kind of effortless confidence that only billionaires and delusional men possess.
But his eyes were sharper tonight.
Harder.
Simone stood near him in structured silver, her posture impeccable, her gaze scanning.
Luis arrived shortly after the trio, catching Jenna’s eye immediately. He crossed the space between them without hesitation.
“You look dangerous,” he said quietly.
“I am,” Jenna replied.
He smiled faintly. “Good.”
There was no fight in her tonight. Just clarity.
“You were right,” she said softly. “I move toward explosions.”
Luis studied her carefully. “And?”
“And I don’t want to lose you in one.”
Something shifted between them — not heat this time, but grounding.
Luis reached for her hand openly. In public. In front of everyone.
Jenna let him.
Across the rooftop, James spotted Noah.
He hadn’t known if Noah would come.
Noah stood near the edge of the dome, hands in coat pockets, city lights behind him like a halo.
James approached carefully.
“You came,” he said.
Noah exhaled. “I almost didn’t.”
“I almost didn’t ask you to.”
A beat.
“I’m not your enemy,” Noah said quietly.
James swallowed. “I know.”
“Then why do you act like everyone is temporary?”
Because permanence is dangerous, James almost said.
Instead he said, “I’m trying not to drown.”
Noah’s gaze softened. “Then stop swimming alone.”
The music swelled inside the dome — something orchestral and expensive.
James stepped closer.
“I was with Simone,” he admitted again. “But not like that. She’s scared.”
“Of what?” Noah asked.
James looked past him — toward Andre.
“Of what Andre built.”
Noah studied him carefully.
“Do you trust him?” he asked.
James hesitated.
Then answered honestly.
“No.”
The honesty landed like something sacred.
Noah stepped forward and kissed him.
Not dramatic.
Not desperate.
Intentional.
And this time, James didn’t look over his shoulder.
—
Inside, Melissa found herself face to face with Simone.
Silver against ivory.
Stillness against calculation.
“You’re calm tonight,” Melissa observed.
Simone’s lips curved faintly. “I prefer inevitability.”
“You knew about the theft,” Melissa said quietly.
Simone didn’t deny it.
“I knew about vulnerabilities,” she corrected.
“Is that what you call them?”
Simone’s eyes sharpened. “Andre believes power protects him. It doesn’t.”
“And you?” Melissa asked. “What do you believe?”
Simone’s gaze flicked toward Andre, who was laughing with investors near the bar.
“I believe empires collapse from inside,” she said softly.
The words sent a chill through Melissa.
“Is that what you’re doing?” she asked.
Simone leaned closer.
“I’m surviving,” she replied.
And then she walked away.
—
At 10:42 p.m., snow began falling again.
Soft flakes drifted through the heated dome entryway whenever the door opened.
Andre took the stage for his speech.
The crowd gathered. Influencers. Investors. Press. Employees. Interns.
The trio stood together near the front.
Andre smiled that impossible smile.
“Winter,” he began smoothly, “is about clarity.”
Melissa felt her pulse quicken.
Andre continued, voice steady and warm. “You strip away noise. You see what remains.”
He gestured toward the Luminary display — rebuilt after Paris, encased now in reinforced glass.
“We have been tested,” he said. “And we are still here.”
Applause rippled.
James glanced sideways at Simone.
She was not clapping.
Andre lifted his glass.
“To power,” he said.
And then—
The lights flickered.
Just once.
Subtle.
The music faltered.
A hum passed through the crowd.
Melissa’s stomach dropped.
The screens around the dome — previously displaying campaign visuals — went black.
Then lit up.
Security footage.
Live.
From inside the building.
Gasps tore through the rooftop.
The footage showed the twenty-seventh floor corridor.
Empty.
Then—
A figure entered frame.
Walking calmly.
Purposefully.
Toward Andre’s private office.
Timestamp: 9:58 p.m.
Tonight.
The crowd turned instinctively toward Andre.
Andre went still.
The footage shifted.
Inside his office now.
The door opened.
Andre stepped inside.
Alone.
The room fell silent.
On screen, Andre moved toward his desk.
Sat down.
Reached for something out of frame.
Then—
The door opened again.
Another figure entered.
Coat.
Dark.
Face obscured by angle.
The crowd held its breath.
Melissa felt her fingers tighten around James’s sleeve.
On screen, Andre stood abruptly.
They were arguing.
No audio.
Just gestures.
Sharp.
Escalating.
The second figure moved closer.
Andre’s expression changed — anger, then shock.
Then—
The screen cut to static.
The rooftop lights snapped back to full brightness.
And somewhere below them —
A scream echoed up the elevator shaft.
Real.
Human.
Panicked.
Security burst toward the doors.
The trio ran without thinking.
Down the stairwell.
Heels in hand.
Breath burning.
Floor after floor.
Until they reached the twenty-seventh level.
The hallway was chaos.
Security.
Staff.
Someone crying.
The door to Andre’s office stood open.
Inside —
Andre Arthur lay behind his desk.
Still.
Blood staining the immaculate white marble floor.
The room smelled metallic.
Unreal.
Melissa stopped short, air leaving her lungs in one violent rush.
Jenna grabbed her arm.
James went pale.
Simone stood in the doorway.
Perfectly still.
Her expression unreadable.
Sirens began outside.
Snow continued falling.
—
Hours later, they sat together on the curb outside the building.
Police tape fluttered behind them.
Flashing red and blue lights painted the snow in surreal color.
New York traffic continued around the block.
A group of tourists took photos across the street.
The city did not pause.
Jenna wrapped her coat tighter around herself.
“He’s dead,” she said flatly.
“Yes,” Melissa whispered.
James stared at the building.
“He looked shocked,” he said quietly. “In the footage.”
Luis joined them, slipping his arm around Jenna’s shoulders.
Noah sat on James’s other side.
No one asked if they should leave.
They weren’t leaving.
Melissa’s phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
Her heart slammed.
She opened it.
A single message.
It wasn’t supposed to happen like that.
Attached: video file.
She showed James and Jenna immediately.
Hands shaking.
They opened it.
Security footage.
Clearer.
Different angle.
Andre’s office.
The second figure entering.
This time the face was visible for half a second.
Just long enough.
The three of them inhaled at the same time.
“No,” Jenna whispered.
On screen —
Standing in Andre’s office.
Arguing.
Was someone they knew.
Someone close.
Someone who had sat at the martini table.
The footage froze on that face.
Then cut to black.
The message below it:
Welcome to Intern City.
The police sirens wailed louder.
Snow fell harder.
James looked at Melissa.
Melissa looked at Jenna.
Three interns who had arrived in spring with ambition and lip gloss and naive hunger.
Now sitting on a curb in winter.
At the center of a murder.
At the center of an empire collapse.
At the center of something much bigger than they had ever meant to touch.
Jenna let out a shaky breath.
“Intern City,” she said quietly.
James swallowed.
“We’re not interns anymore.”
Melissa stared at the frozen face on her screen.
“No,” she said.
“We’re witnesses.”
And somewhere above them, in the dark glass of Arthur Beauty Global, the city reflected back.
Cold.
Glittering.
Watching.
Fabulous.
