The Baroness was growing tired of Cruella.

The mysterious woman had ruined another event. As the Baroness stood on another red carpet, posing for the paparazzi and ignoring the rest of the crowd, a large garbage truck had appeared. Emblazoned on its side was the Baroness’s logo. The Baroness had watched, momentarily struck speechless, as the garbage truck backed up toward the carpet. The huge back lifted up and then tilted down, spilling dozens of dresses—the Baroness’s dresses—onto the ground like, well, garbage.

As the paparazzi turned to start shooting the garbage rather than the Baroness, the dresses began to move. A moment later, Cruella emerged from the pile of clothes. In a stunning gown, presumably of her own design, she lifted her arms and waved at the crowd. A spotlight appeared from somewhere, shining on her and making her look like a trophy on top of a pile of trash. Cruella jumped up onto the garbage truck, then gave one last wave as it moved down the street, pulling the dresses behind it like the train of a gown.

The Baroness had watched, fuming. Why did Cruella keep stealing her spotlight?

She was still stewing the next morning when her two most trusted bodyguards appeared in her office. Looking up from the pile of papers, she shot the men looks. She pointed to the papers. All of them had pictures of Cruella plastered on the front.

“Have you found her?” she asked.

The two men shook their heads.

“She’s a ghost,” one of them said.

This was not the answer the Baroness wanted. She was about to turn her fury on the men when the door to her office opened again. Roger stumbled in. The lawyer looked tired, his clothes rumpled and his hair a mess. He had, per the Baroness’s orders, been up all night trying to find out about the mysterious Cruella.

“Anything?” the Baroness asked. She didn’t care that he was tired. It was his job to be tired so she wouldn’t have to be.

Like the guards, he shook his head. “I couldn’t find anything on her,” he said nervously.

Anger flooded through the Baroness. Was everyone around her completely incompetent? Ordering the two security guards out, she turned to do the same to Roger. But as she did, her eyes landed on the byline for Tattletale’s most recent Cruella article. Anita Darling’s name jumped out at her.

The Baroness paused, considering. She’d always said that if you wanted to get something done right, do it yourself. Standing up, she gestured for Roger to follow her. She was going to make a little trip to see Anita Darling. Maybe then she would get some answers.

Anita Darling was tired. But happy. All the Cruella coverage had given her an in with her boss, and she was getting more and more assignments. Leaning over a small mirror on her desk, she applied another coat of mascara. She was supposed to be heading downtown for an event and was already late.

Hearing footsteps, she looked up and gulped. It was the Baroness.

Sweeping into the Tattletale offices, she made her way to Anita’s desk. Behind her were the two big goons who served as her bodyguards. When she got to Anita’s desk, the Baroness unceremoniously threw a copy of Tattletale down. Then she stood back, arms crossed.

“You’ll need more than eyeliner, you plain little thing,” the Baroness said, no trace of humor in her voice. “You do, however, have an eye for a good shot.” She nodded at the picture of Cruella staring up at both of them.

Anita took a breath and tried to calm her racing heart. “Baroness,” she said, hoping her voice sounded even.

The woman ignored her and went on. “I suddenly realized in all the coverage of Cruella, you always have the best shot. The best angle.” She paused and leaned closer. “Like you’re ready for it . . .”

Anita gulped. “Just lucky, I guess.”

The Baroness shook her head. She wasn’t buying it. “It’s like you know,” she went on. “Like you’re a part of it.” Her eyes narrowed and her lips curled back. Anita couldn’t help thinking the woman resembled a snake about to strike as she hissed, “Who is she? And more importantly, where is she?”

“I don’t know,” Anita said, trying her best to sound convincing. She couldn’t let Estella down. But the Baroness’s eyes drilled into her, making her blood run cold and her cheeks grow hot. Under the woman’s gaze, she felt her strength fading.

“Did you just lie to me?” the Baroness snarled.

The Baroness was a force. She could ruin Anita’s career—her life. “I . . . I . . .” she stammered, trying to think of something, anything, to say to get out of the situation.

“Don’t cry,” the Baroness said.

Anita cocked her head, confused. “I’m not,” she said.

Turning to go, the Baroness sighed. “You will,” she said, her meaning clear. If Anita didn’t fess up and help her, she would regret it. Watching as the woman sauntered toward the elevators, Anita let out her breath in a whoosh. She had managed to keep Estella’s identity secret—for now. But she wasn’t sure how long she could protect her friend. When the Baroness wanted something, she got it . . . whatever, or whomever, the cost.

Sliding into the back of her car, the Baroness snarled at Roger. Per her orders, the lawyer had waited for her while she talked to Anita. He looked up from his papers and paled at the fury on the Baroness’s face.

“We need to sue her,” she growled. She began to rattle off a list of possible offenses Anita had committed. “Defamation. False imprisonment. Vandalism. Something!”

Roger shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The Baroness’s anger filled the space, and he felt the blood drain from his face. The Baroness stared at him, waiting. “Well, we haven’t really, um . . .” he started. The Baroness gave him a blank look, and he rushed ahead. “Having been through the statutes and talked to the police, I’m not sure what our legal avenues are—”

The Baroness cut him off. “I need you to stop talking, Roger.”

He looked surprised. “You do?”

She nodded. She had asked him to do one thing—find a way to rid her of the nuisance known as Cruella. He had failed. And the Baroness did not tolerate failure. “You’re fired,” she said simply. Roger’s face fell, but the Baroness felt nothing. He was nothing to her. He could go play a sad song on his little piano for pennies for all she cared. Gesturing to the door, she made it clear he needed to go.

Roger fumbled with the handle, his hand shaking. The door wouldn’t open. “Sorry,” he said. “But how do you open this door?”

The Baroness suppressed a groan. Could the man do nothing? Wrenching the handle one more time, Roger finally swung the door open and slipped out of the car. Turning, he started to say something, but the Baroness stopped him with a stare. She had things to do and people to see—and Roger was no longer one of those people.

Slamming the door in his face, she signaled to the driver to go. She had to get back to the warehouse and fix things before they got even more out of control.