Two Can Play That Game Sequel to Playboy Rehab

Across the white tablecloth of Serafina, Bradyn Hubbard—Cara Lewis's boyfriend of three years—set his wine down and leaned forward. He pulled a thick, cream-colored envelope from his jacket and slid it across the table until it rested in front of her.

Cara looked down. The gold foil lettering was fresh from the press.

Engagement Gala

Groom: Bradyn Hubbard

Bride: Hailie Lewis

Venue: The Lewis Estate, Long Island. Next Saturday.

"Cara, let's be realistic," Bradyn said, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. "Hailie is my ticket to the top. Marrying her is the only shortcut for a guy like me to get a seat on the board. I don't love her—she's just the ladder I have to climb for my career."

Cara stared at the card, then lifted her cold amber eyes to meet his. "So you're proposing what, exactly?"

Bradyn gave a smug, self-satisfied smile.

"We break up publicly. But in private? Nothing has to change. You funded my MBA and paid my rent for three years—I haven't forgotten that. Stay quiet, be my little secret on the side, and once I secure the Lewis assets, I'll make sure you're taken care of in luxury."

Cara stared at his shameless face, her voice dropping into a dangerous, silky calm. "You sold yourself as a kept man to my stepsister, and you expect me to be your dirty little secret?"

"Don't make it sound so ugly, Cara," Bradyn scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. "That's how men get ahead in Manhattan. Be realistic, Cara. You're broke and you have no one. Who else is going to take care of you? Don't be stupid. Just take the deal."

Cara looked at him for one quiet second, her lips curving into a razor-sharp smile.

"In your wildest dreams, Bradyn."

Without a second's hesitation, Cara picked up her crystal tumbler and threw the cold bourbon and ice straight into his face.

The freezing liquor drenched his styled hair and soaked the collar of his designer shirt. Bradyn gasped, shooting up from the velvet booth in sheer shock, frantically wiping his stinging eyes.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" he snarled, glaring at her as neighboring tables turned to stare.

Cara set the empty glass down with a quiet, deliberate tap.

Without breaking eye contact, she reached into her Saint Laurent bag, pulled out a thick manila folder, and dropped it heavily onto his soaked lap.

"Open it, parasite," Cara said calmly.

Bradyn's hands shook as he ripped the folder open.

A thick stack of forensic-grade photographs spilled across the table. His breath caught in his throat—the photos showed him and Hailie completely naked, tangled in the satin sheets of a suite at the Baccarat Hotel.

Taped right behind the prints was a notarized invoice.

Columbia MBA Tuition & Fees: $186,000.00

Tribeca Penthouse Lease Subsidies: $94,000.00

Bespoke Wardrobe & Networking Tabs: $62,000.00

TOTAL REIMBURSEMENT DUE: $342,000.00

Bradyn's face turned an ashen, sickly gray. "You... you tracked me?"

"Three hundred and forty-two grand," Cara said, tapping the total with a manicured nail. "Wire it back to my account by Monday morning. If you don't, these photos go directly to Hailie's father and the Lewis board."

The shock on Bradyn's face instantly curdled into ugly fury. He slammed both hands on the table, leaning in with a desperate hiss. "You crazy bitch! You gave me that money willingly—that was trust money! You can't sue me for gifts!"

"I invested in a partner, Bradyn, not a freeloader," Cara said coldly. "You lived off my money for three years just to become my stepsister's leashed lapdog. Pay back every cent by Monday, or wear the collar in public."

"You fucking bitch—" Bradyn lunged forward, grabbing for her wrist.

Cara smoothly stepped back, out of his reach. She stood tall, smoothing the front of her tailored coat, looking down at him with absolute disgust.

Slowly, deliberately, she raised her hand and flipped him a clean, effortless middle finger.

"Congratulations on the engagement, Bradyn," Cara said softly. "You and Hailie deserve each other."