FGI 2: The Elven Crown

The elevator dings like it's congratulating me — $50 million closed as effortlessly as ordering my usual oat milk latte.

No one other than me could pull off this deal, especially when the company that hired me wouldn’t even reveal their name. All I could find was the acronym FGI and despite my rigorous Googling, I could not find any more information. Either way, Wall Street’s boys’ club can kiss my Versace-clad ass.

I’m double-fisting my Chanel purse in one hand and a chilled bottle of Dom Pérignon, vintage, in the other. If you're going to celebrate shattering another glass ceiling, do it in couture with champagne that costs more than most people’s monthly rent.

I pause at my front door and smooth a flyaway strand of my signature red hair, vibrant, silky. It makes sense where the nickname “Red” came from. It’s become my calling card in a way, plus Crystal MacLeoir was too long to whisper with envy in the boardroom.

My key clicks in the lock. I push the door open with the confidence of a woman who already knows her man will be waiting, shirtless and beaming, ready to toast her genius.

Except…

Silence.

Odd.

My boyfriend Tanner’s bougie diffuser puffs away in the corner making the apartment smell like eucalyptus and sandalwood. But no Tanner in sight. No “Hey babe, you’re home!” No sound of his acoustic guitar or the kettle boiling for one of his herbal teas. Just... nothing.

I step inside, my heels echoing on the hardwood.

“Tanner?” I call.

No answer.

Weird.

“Tanner?” I call again, stepping further inside.

I flick on the lights.

The full expanse of my penthouse blazes to life. Every inch of it is a gleaming testament to my success. Floor-to-ceiling windows flood the space with the lavender hues of twilight. The river glistens below, slicing through the city like a vein of silver.

Just as I walk into the living room, I spot it.

The evidence unfurls like a crime scene in a bad soap opera.

The Dom bottle in my hand grows warmer. I grip it tighter, not for comfort, for control. Or the illusion of it.

The trail leads to the bedroom.

I stop just outside the door.

Then I hear it.

A moan. A woman’s gasp of pleasure.

Tanner’s voice, low, familiar, edged with something I haven’t heard in months. The kind of sound that used to be mine.

I raise my chin, take a breath, and with the wrath of a betrayed goddess, I fling the door open.

The door slams against the wall with a crack that echoes through the room like a gunshot.

Tanner yelps and dives for the sheets, all limbs and panic, like the coward he is.

“Oh don’t bother,” I say, voice like ice. “I’ve already seen it. It’s nothing to write home about.”

He scrambles, dragging the covers up over his chest like that’ll shield him from the nuclear-grade disgust radiating off of me. His face is flushed, hair messy, mouth working to form some bullshit excuse.

I lift a brow. “Pathetic.”

Then I see her.

My best friend?

She’s staring at me, wide-eyed, clutching the sheets to her chest like the devil just walked in. Maybe she did.

“Tiff,” I say, softly. Too softly.

The name tastes like acid on my tongue. Tanner opens his mouth.

“Crystal, babe, let me explain…”

My heart? It’s broken, but no one here gets to see that.

I turn to Tiffany, who is now scrambling out of the bed like she can slither her way out of this.

“I know to expect little of men,” I say, each word clipped and clean. “They’re weak. Predictable. Boring, even in their betrayals.”

Her name doesn’t even feel real anymore. It belongs to someone I used to love before she stabbed me in the back with a stiletto.

“You bitch.”

She winces like I slapped her. She deserves worse. She doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t even cry. Just grabs her dress off the floor, half-tripping as she runs out of the room like the shame-filled little cockroach she is.

I stare at the door she just vanished through.

Then I let myself breathe.

Tanner? Still here. Still naked. Still delusional enough to think he has something to say. Tanner stumbles toward me, dragging the sheet with him like some sad little Roman emperor.

“Crystal—Red—please,” he stammers, “I messed up. I know I did. But you’re everything to me, you have to believe that. It didn’t mean anything… she didn’t mean anything…”

I hold up a hand.

“Tanner.” My voice is calm. Chilling. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”

He freezes.

I cross the room and yank open the closet door.

I blink. It’s gone.

He flinches.

I zip the bag, swing it at him, and he stumbles catching it, sheet slipping just enough for me to roll my eyes. Still unimpressive.

“Go back to being an ‘aspirational fitness influencer,’” I sneer. “Or whatever the hell you’re calling your unemployment now. Go live your mediocre life, Tanner. Somewhere else.”

He tries again. “Crystal, please, don’t do this…”

But I already have. I march past him, wrench open the front door, and shove him outside.

“Wait… my… my shoes…”

Before he can get another word out, I slam the door in his stunned, half-naked face. The sound is deeply satisfying. Like a champagne cork. My own little bit of justice.

Then there’s just silence and me by myself, yet again. Seems like this is always how I end up.

I lean back against the door, breathing heavily.

Then it hits.

My knees give out, and I crumple to the marble floor like a broken statue. For a moment, I let it happen. The tears I swore wouldn’t come, flood down my cheeks, hot and humiliating.

I stay on the floor longer than I want to admit, knees pulled to my chest, head in my hands. The Dom bottle sits abandoned beside me, a dumb, expensive witness to my humiliation.

The apartment is silent, but outside my front door there is a soft rustling, a whisper of paper against wood.

I lift my head just as a card slides under the door.

The envelope is made of heavy cardstock and reeks of elegance. My name is written on the front in looping golden calligraphy.

I hesitate before picking it up and slipping the letter out.

~Miss MacLeoir,

Your presence is requested this evening at Valhalla. One drink. One opportunity. One choice.

— FGI~

My brow furrows.

I flip the card over. It shimmers faintly in the light, almost in a holographic way.

I snort. Clearly, maybe I took one too many consolatory gulps from the Dom.

Still… Valhalla is my favorite bar. And if distraction is what I need, this is the universe practically gift-wrapping it.

I wipe my face with the back of my hand and resolve to move on. Tonight, as quickly as possible. Giving into emotions is for the weak.

I stand.

I’m too powerful. Too legendary to cry over a man whose biggest ambition was landing a discount code for creatine.

I head to the mirror. Fix my lipstick. Toss my hair like I’m in a fragrance ad.

It’s time for a drink. Or maybe five.