Amanda stared at the typed letter. Neatly strung words zoomed in and out of focus as their meaning sank in. Mademoiselle Roussel . . . I regret to inform you . . . with immediate effect.

She swallowed hard and slipped the letter into her purse.

Most of her colleagues would cheer at the news. They’d rush into each other’s offices and say, “Did you hear? Viper Tongue got the sack! Serves her right.” Some of them might send around an e-mail invite for a celebratory drink. Others would just shrug and say good riddance.

Would anyone feel sorry for her? She furrowed her brow. Karine would. And maybe Paul from accounting. Perhaps even Sylvie from marketing, unless she was on meds again and not feeling anything at all.

But none of it really mattered.

What did matter was that the end of the world was upon her. Her personal, localized Armageddon had arrived in an innocent-looking envelope with the Energie NordSud logo on it.

Amanda grabbed her handbag and marched out the door. Keeping her back as straight as she could, she strode through the hallway, down the marble staircase, and out the main entrance.

Eyes on the gate, one foot in front of the other.

She nodded to the security guard and passed through the turnstile.

“Mademoiselle Roussel?” the guard asked, looking at his computer screen and then at her.

“Yes?”

“I must collect your access card.”

“I’ll come back next week to gather my things,” she said as flatly as she could, handing him her card.

He nodded. “We’ll let you in. Just make sure your visit is supervised by Monsieur Barre.”

“Of course.”

Amanda turned on her heel and marched away, hoping the guard hadn’t seen her grimace. Truth was she’d rather donate her fine glass paperweight and Bodum French press to the company than ask Julien Barre—the bastard who’d fired her—to allow her to clean out her desk.

And have him breathe down her neck while she was doing it.

In the métro car, Amanda’s eyebrows rose at the number of vacant seats before she remembered it was only three in the afternoon—the earliest she’d left the office in four years. As the train stations passed before her eyes, a plan formed in her mind. She’d get home and locate her father’s Swiss Army knife. Then she’d down a few shots of vodka, return to the office, kill Julien, and kill herself.

It sounded like an excellent plan.

Twenty minutes later, she pushed open the door to her apartment and went straight to the minibar, praying she hadn’t imagined the bottle of vodka hiding behind her expensive wines.

Bingo!

There it was—cold to the touch and as real as the sharp pain in her heart.

She filled a glass with the transparent liquid and drained it. The beverage burned her tongue. Amanda yelled out a battle cry, jumped up and down a few times while punching the air, and poured herself another glass. She set it on the coffee table and retrieved a tub of chocolate ice cream from the freezer. With her glass in one hand and the ice cream in the other, she kicked off her shoes and settled into her creamy leather sofa—the one she’d bought on credit, like almost everything else in her stylish little apartment.

By the time she finished her second glass, Amanda’s diabolical plan had begun to lose its appeal. Julien Barre deserved to die, for sure, but murder was a messy business.

And suicide—even more so.

She pictured herself on the floor, blood gushing from her punctured stomach and trickling from her mouth.

Ugh.

Besides, what if she failed to finish Julien off? Or herself? After all, the biggest creature she’d ever assassinated had been a cockroach. The act had been so disgusting it gave her nightmares for weeks.

Fine. No killing.

But then what? She couldn’t just sit here and do nothing—she was a fighter. Amanda clenched her fists and willed her vodka-soaked gray matter to hatch up a plan B. As soon as her brain obliged, she stomped to the bedroom and dug her crimson femme fatale lipstick from her makeup case. She shoved her most elegant evening gown, a tee, and a pair of panties into an overnight bag and rushed out of her apartment.

Plan B was insane, but it was carnage-free.

A few meters down the street, Amanda withdrew as much cash as the ATM would give her, and hailed a cab.

“Where to, madame?” the driver asked as she slumped into the backseat.

“Gare Saint-Lazare, please.” She pulled out her phone and added on an impulse, “I’m going to Deauville.”

“A beach weekend?” He smiled into the mirror.

“Nope. A night of gambling at the casino,” she said, flashing him her brightest smile.

The driver’s eyebrows shot up before he returned his gaze to the road. He didn’t offer a comment.

Amanda sat back and tapped “blackjack rules” into the search engine on her phone.

She had three hours to master the game.