Page 160 of Dial F for Finance

“No,” I say, my voice raw. But the knocking comes again, louder this time, accompanied by a muffled voice that sounds suspiciously like Serena’s.

I push my chair back. My pulse is a frantic, erratic drumbeat in my ears. The revelation about Dominic is still expanding in my chest, a supernova of guilt and awe.

“Jenna!” Serena’s voice filters through the cheap wood of the front door, confirming my suspicion. “Open the door before Audrey attempts a forced entry. She watched a YouTube tutorial on the flight.”

“I merely stated the theoretical mechanics of a bump key,” Audrey’s muffled, defensive voice chimes in.

I freeze in the hallway, swiping aggressively at my damp cheeks. I look back at Ma, who has followed me out of the kitchen, her brow furrowed in utter confusion.

“Friends from Chicago,” I manage to whisper, though the word friends feels entirely inadequate for the four women currently staging a siege on a porch in Queens.

I take a steadying breath, smooth my hands down my T-shirt, and unlock the deadbolt.

I pull the door open and find them standing in a formidable, impeccably dressed huddle. Serena is at the front, wearing her signature red trench coat. Layla is beside her, clutching a massive cardboard tray of coffees. Nora looks fiercely protective, still wearing her navy jacket with the school crest on the breast pocket, and Audrey is wearing her usual pinafore dress while peering at the door hinges with genuine interest.

They look completely absurd on this cracked concrete stoop. They also look like a lifeline.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, my voice cracking on the second-to-last word.

Serena steps forward, her dark eyes scanning my face. She takes in the red-rimmed eyes, the defensive posture, the sheer emotional wreckage I’m currently wearing.

“First of all,” Serena starts, no nonsense, “Dominic doesn’t know we’re here. We are not his emissaries, and we are not here to negotiate on his behalf.”

“We stole Bennett’s fancy plane,” Audrey says, waggling her eyebrows.

“We didn’t steal anything. I’m his wife. I have full access.”

“It’s more fun the other way,” Audrey says with a sly smile.

Layla rolls her eyes. “Anyway . . . The point is, we came because you don’t get to divorce us.”

“She’s right. You also resigned from Mercer Capital,” Audrey adds, adjusting her glasses. “And I can attest that running away from your support network during a period of acute emotional distress does little more than increase your long-term misery. We’re here to mitigate the variables, AKA talk some sense into you because we already miss you at brunch.”

“You also left the group chat and won’t return any of our calls,” Serena adds.

“Most importantly, we brought caffeine and unconditional support—no matter what you decide,” Nora says softly, her warm gaze seeing right through the last remaining shards of my armor. “Can we come in?”

I stare at the four of them. The women who saw the “ice queen” and decided she was worth pulling into their inner circle anyway. My throat closes completely. I spent my entire life building walls to keep people out, terrified that if I let them see the cracks, they would leave. But Dominic didn’t leave. He went to the root of the rot and quietly planted a garden. And these women didn’t leave. They boarded a plane and tracked me down just to prove the foundation is real.

“Yeah,” I whisper, stepping back and pulling the door wide. “Come in.”

They file into the narrow hallway, a parade of cashmere, silk, and aggressive loyalty that instantly makes the space feel three times smaller. The scent of Layla’s expensive perfume collides with the smell of Ma’s furniture polish. Serena sheds her trench coat with the ruthless efficiency of a general setting up a forward operating base.

“Mrs. Pemberton,” Serena says, extending a perfectly manicured hand to my mother, who is staring at them like they just beamed down from an alien spacecraft. “I’m Serena Morgan. We’re Jenna’s unauthorized crisis management team.”

“I brought coffee cake,” Layla chimes in, holding up a sleek white bakery box. “And enough espresso to kill a small horse. I didn’t know what kind of milk you kept, so I brought oat, almond, and something called macadamia breeze.”

Ma blinks, looking from the towering, intimidatingly polished Serena to the vibrating Layla. “I . . . I’ll get some plates. And maybe some real mugs.”

“You are a saint, Mrs. P,” Audrey says, already wandering toward the living room, her eyes darting around to take in the old photos lining the walls of the cramped house. Ma disappears with the tray of coffees and the cake.

And I stand frozen, completely undone by the sheer force of them.

Nora stays back a second, her hand gently cupping my elbow. “Breathe, Jenna,” she murmurs, low enough that the others don’t hear. “We aren’t here to push. We’re just here to sit with you.”

I nod, a jerky, mechanical movement, and follow them into the living room.

It’s surreal, seeing these brilliant, high-powered women perched on the faded floral upholstery of my childhood. Audrey immediately pulls a slim notebook from her bag, clicking a pen with terrifying efficiency.