Rose handcuffs

（"Bloodstained diamonds and cold shackles glittered at the engagement party.)

In the ballroom of the Pierre Hotel on Fifth Avenue, Amber finishes her third touch-up with Dior Flame Blue Gold Lipstick. The mirrored elevator reflects her three-piece Tom Ford smoking suit with silver cufflinks engraved with today's Nasdaq closing index-an engagement gift to herself that reassures her more than the three-carat Harry Winston diamond ring from Ethan.

"It's time for Wall Street's number one fiancée to change her expression." Scarlett suddenly flashed out from behind the champagne tower, her Gucci satin wrap dress looking like a gaudy viper. The BFF and investment assistant, who has known her for seven years, is jabbing her collarbone with the fingertips of her Cartier studded bracelet, "It's time to renew your micro-emoji management fee, Ethan's looking for his loot."

The ballroom erupts into applause, and six hundred pairs of Jimmy Choo heels simultaneously turn to the revolving staircase. ethan descends in a customized Brioni suit, a Tiffany champagne glass in his left hand, a platinum band identical to hers on the ring finger of his right hand, and the CNBC camera instantly focuses on the Armani Prussian blue of his tie - the one that they had used three hours earlier for a dinner. -Three hours earlier, they had just marked the healthcare stocks they were shorting with that color.

"Thank you all for witnessing this $2.7 billion dollar merger." Ethan's declaration of wedding vows had the hedge fund managers cackling and raising their glasses, his cuffs smelling of the Creed Napoleon Water perfume she'd given him as he swept around Amber's waist, "and especially my poison, my anti-vulnerability hedging tool..."

The crystal chandelier suddenly explodes.

Screaming, Amber's heels sink into some kind of warm liquid. She touched the bloody hole in the temple of Robert, the fallen godfather of private equity, and the Harry Winston diamond in her own palm was lodged in a ballistic groove. Twenty meters away, Scarlett's Chanel N°5 perfume mingled with the smell of nitrous, and the shape of her mouth in the same lipstick said, "The game's escalated, darling."

When the Secret Service rushes in, Amber is bandaging Robert's wounds with a blood-stained Fendi shawl. ethan's wedding ring has somehow ended up on the dead man's ring finger, and she's just gotten an alert on her cell phone that she's zeroed out her JPMorgan Chase account." The "Black Widow of Wall Street" tweet flashed on a SWAT riot shield, and Scarlett's cries as an eyewitness were more piercing than a Bloomberg terminal alarm.

"Do you know what top investment banks do with distressed assets?" Ethan bent his ear to whisper before she was escorted into the police car, his fingers tracing the rose gold cuffs around her wrists, "Divest, reorganize, and repackage for sale." The motion of him ripping the second button off her shirt was as skillful as tearing up a betting agreement.

Under the fluorescent lights of the Manhattan detention center, Amber practiced her expression management against her bulletproof glass reflection. The Latino drug lord next door hands her an eyebrow-trimming blade wrapped in a Hermès silk scarf: "Sweetheart, the rule here is-" she's interrupted by a guard's stun gun, and Amber licks the blood from the corner of her mouth as she carves three vertical lines into the heel of her Prada Louboutin shoe in the escort corridor, a habit she picked up the year she shorted the subprime mortgage crisis: all disasters are quantifiable. disasters are quantifiable.

As the scent of Blue Mountain coffee wafted from the warden's office at 3 a.m., Amber watched Ethan hold a press conference with his arm around Scarlett on CNN, the camera sweeping over the Van Cleef four-leaf clover ring on the latter's ring finger. Amber finally laughed when Scarlett choked up and said, "She even stole our nursery plans" -- the stack of drawings that clearly documented Ethan's path to transferring assets through an offshore trust.

"Do I need to put you in touch with a funeral counselor?" The female guard asked, chewing gum.Amber polished her handcuffs with the white shirt of her incarceration suit, the metal surface reflecting the newborn fire in her eyes, "No, make an appointment with the best tattoo artist in Manhattan." She ran her fingertips across the skin just below her collarbone, "I'm going to tattoo a line of Moody's rating code here-"

Alarms suddenly went off and the hissing of rioting prisoners shook the concrete walls.Amber sharpened the tip of her stolen coffee stirring stick and wrote the first formula for revenge in the sidebar of the Wall Street Journal:When love becomes a toxic asset, you learn to strangle creditors with debt leverage.