Elizabeth stared at the signature. The ink was still wet, glistening under the desk lamp. He hadn't even looked at the alimony figures. He hadn't asked about the beach house, the cars, the stocks.

"You didn't read it," she said, her voice sounding thin in the large room.

"I don't need to," Chris said. He turned away from the desk and walked toward the small guest closet where the "old" Chris kept his meager belongings.

"You're walking away with nothing?" Elizabeth asked, incredulity sharpening her tone. "You have no job. Your family disowned you. You'll be on the street in a week."

Chris pulled out a battered duffel bag. He started throwing clothes into it-jeans, t-shirts, a leather jacket. He ignored the designer suits she had bought him to make him look presentable at galas.

"I don't keep trash, Elizabeth," he said, zipping the bag shut. The sound was harsh, like a zipper on a body bag.

The insult landed like a slap. Elizabeth took a step toward him, her face flushing. "I bought you those suits. I gave you a life."

Chris swung the bag over his shoulder. He walked up to her, invading her personal space until she was pressed back against the bookshelf. He smelled of tobacco and something sharper, something metallic.

He reached out. His thumb brushed her lower lip. It was a gesture that used to make her melt, used to make her feel powerful because he was so desperate to touch her.

Now, his skin felt rough. His eyes were devoid of warmth.

Elizabeth froze, her breath hitching in her throat. Her body betrayed her, leaning imperceptibly into his touch, conditioned by three years of marriage.

"You're pathetic," she whispered, though the word lacked conviction. She was staring at his mouth, wondering why it looked so cruel.

Chris smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. He pulled his hand away and wiped his thumb on his jeans, as if he had touched something sticky.

"And you," Chris said softly, "are expensive."

He turned and walked out of the study.

Elizabeth stood there for a second, paralyzed by the sheer indignity of it. He wiped his hand. He wiped her off his skin like dirt.

"Get out!" she screamed, the rage finally breaking through the confusion. She grabbed a crystal paperweight from the desk and hurled it at the door, but he was already gone. It shattered against the frame, raining glass onto the carpet.

Chris walked down the grand staircase. Marcus, the elderly butler, was standing in the foyer, holding the front door open. His face was a mask of professional neutrality, but his eyes gave him away. He looked at Chris with pity.

Chris stopped in front of him. He looked Marcus in the eye.

"Goodbye, Marcus," Chris said.

Marcus blinked. The pity vanished, replaced by a sudden, instinctual wariness. He had served powerful men his whole life. He knew what a predator looked like. And the man standing in front of him was not the broken boy who had walked up these stairs three years ago.

"Goodbye... sir," Marcus murmured, stepping back slightly.

Chris walked out the heavy oak doors and into the crisp morning air of the Hamptons. The gravel crunched loudly under his boots.

He didn't look back at the mansion. He didn't look at the manicured lawns or the fountain. He walked straight to the rusted sedan parked near the service gate-the only car in his name.

He threw the bag in the passenger seat and got in. The engine coughed, then roared to life with a rattle.

As he drove down the long, winding driveway, he checked the rearview mirror. He saw Elizabeth standing on the balcony, her silk robe fluttering in the wind. She looked small. Insignificant.

Chris reached into his pocket and pulled out the burner phone he had stashed days ago in the old Chris's memories. He dialed a number from a life he had left behind in another world, hoping the codes still worked in this one.

"Game on," he muttered, and floored the gas.

The diner smelled of stale grease and burnt coffee. It was a dive on the edge of the city, the kind of place people went when they didn't want to be found.

Chris sat in a corner booth, nursing a black coffee. He had cut his own hair in the bathroom mirror with a pocket knife. The shaggy, soft bangs that Elizabeth liked were gone. The result was brutal, uneven, but sharp. It sheared away the soft, boyish look, leaving behind something raw and aggressive.

He pressed two fingers against the lymph nodes in his neck. Swollen. He took a slow breath, detecting the faint, metallic, garlic-like scent on his own exhale-a scent only a trained professional would recognize.

"Arsenic," he murmured. "Micro-dosing."

The Olson family-his father, his stepmother, and his "perfect" brother Bailey-had been slowly poisoning the original Chris for years. Making him weak. Making him mentally unstable so no one would believe him when they finally cut him out of the will.

A waitress walked by, a pot of coffee in her hand. She glanced at him, opened her mouth to offer a refill, then closed it. There was a dark cloud hanging over his booth, a "do not approach" signal that was almost physical. She hurried past.

Chris checked the cheap burner phone. A news alert popped up.

REUNITED: Elizabeth Washington and Greg Valentine spotted at JFK. Is the fairytale back on?

The photo showed Elizabeth looking impeccable in a trench coat, with Greg Valentine-the "White Moonlight"-smiling that practiced, Ivy League smile beside her.

Chris felt a phantom ache in his chest. It was the residual soul of the original host, crying out for the woman who had just discarded him.

"Shut up," Chris hissed under his breath. He closed his eyes and visualized a steel door slamming shut on the emotion. The pain vanished.

He checked the time. The final filing was at the courthouse in an hour.

He stood up, dropped a few crumpled bills on the table-exactly 15%-and walked out.

The courthouse steps were a zoo. Paparazzi swarmed the entrance, hungry for the shot of the "Tragic Ex-Husband."

A silver Rolls-Royce pulled up. The crowd surged. Elizabeth stepped out, looking like royalty. Greg was right behind her, placing a protective hand on the small of her back.

Elizabeth flinched. It was subtle-a tensing of her shoulders, a slight shift of her weight away from him-but Chris saw it from the parking lot.

He got out of his sedan. He was wearing a black t-shirt and jeans. No suit. No tie.

He walked toward the crowd. He didn't push. He just walked with a terrifying, absolute confidence. The reporters sensed it. The sea of cameras parted, silence rippling through the mob as they turned to look at him.

He looked dangerous. He looked like trouble.

Elizabeth saw him. Her smile faltered. She stopped on the steps, forcing Greg to stop with her.

Chris walked right up to them. He stopped on the step below them, so he was looking up, yet somehow, he seemed to be looking down on them.

"So this is the replacement?" Chris asked. His voice carried over the clicking of shutters.

Greg straightened his tie, trying to look authoritative. "Chris. I know this is hard for you. But Elizabeth deserves happiness. She deserves a real man."

Chris laughed. It was a low, menacing sound.

"She deserves exactly what she gets," Chris said. He looked at Elizabeth. Her face was pale, her eyes darting between him and the cameras.

He stepped closer to Greg. He leaned in, invading the man's personal space until he could smell the fear sweating through Greg's expensive cologne.

"Nice suit, Greg," Chris whispered, his voice dropping so only the three of them could hear. "Too bad about the limp dick."

Greg's smile tightened, a flicker of panic in his eyes before he masked it with indignation. His mouth opened, a sharp denial on his lips.

"You're insane, Olson," Greg hissed, trying to shove past him. "Utterly insane."

Chris smirked. He tapped his own temple. "I see everything."

He stepped back, gave Elizabeth a mock salute, and walked past them into the courthouse doors.

Elizabeth stood frozen. She looked at Greg. He was avoiding her gaze, his face a mask of fury, but she had seen that first flash of terror. And it was real.

"What did he say?" she asked, her voice tight.

"Nothing," Greg snapped. "He's crazy. Let's go."

But Elizabeth watched the doors swing shut, a cold knot of dread forming in her stomach.

The filing took ten minutes. Chris walked out a free man.

The paparazzi had dispersed, chasing Elizabeth's Rolls-Royce, but one car remained. A cherry-red Bentley Continental GT, idling directly in his path.

The tinted window rolled down. Adelia Cherry sat in the driver's seat. She was wearing oversized Chanel sunglasses and lipstick the color of fresh blood. She was Elizabeth's sworn enemy, a media mogul's daughter who thrived on chaos.

"That was quite a show, Mr. Olson," she purred.

Chris didn't stop walking until his hip was resting against the door of her car. He looked down at her over the rim of her glasses.

"You've been following me, Adelia. That's a dangerous habit."

Adelia paused. She took off her glasses. Her eyes were sharp, intelligent, and currently wide with surprise. No one spoke to her like that. Men usually stuttered or stared at her chest.

"Elizabeth is a fool," Adelia said, tapping her long, manicured nails on the steering wheel. "She traded a wolf for a poodle. I saw Greg's face. What did you say to him?"

"Medical advice," Chris said flatly.

Adelia laughed. It was a throaty, genuine sound. "I like you, Chris. You're... different. The reports said you were a broken man."

"The reports were wrong."

"I want to see the Washington family stock tank," Adelia said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Elizabeth has been walking around like she owns this city for too long."

"And I want to see the Olsons burn," Chris replied.

Adelia smiled. She unlocked the doors. "Get in. Let's discuss a merger."

Chris opened the door and slid into the passenger seat. The car smelled of leather and expensive vanilla.

Elizabeth's Rolls-Royce was stuck in traffic at the exit of the lot. She looked out the back window just in time to see Chris get into the red Bentley.

Her face went white.

"Is that... Adelia Cherry?" Greg asked, squinting. "Why is he with her?"

Elizabeth felt a surge of bile in her throat. Jealousy, hot and acidic, clawed at her chest. "Drive," she snapped at the chauffeur. "Just drive."

In the Bentley, Adelia gunned the engine. She wove through traffic with reckless speed, testing him.

Chris sat perfectly still. He didn't grab the handle. He didn't gasp. He watched the road with the bored detachment of someone who had driven through war zones.

"You're not scared?" Adelia asked, glancing at him.

"I've been in faster cars with people actively shooting at me," Chris said.

Adelia's grip on the wheel tightened. "Who are you really, Chris?"

She pulled over at a scenic overlook high above the city skyline.

"Here's the deal," she said, turning to face him. "We fake a relationship. I get the buzz. I get to humiliate Elizabeth. You get... well, you get to be seen with me."

Chris looked at her. He reached out, his hand circling the back of her neck. He didn't squeeze, but the weight of his hand was heavy, possessive. He pulled her slightly closer.

"Resource is a vague word, Adelia," he said softly. "I don't just want to be seen. I want 200 million dollars in a black account. And full access to your intelligence network."

Adelia gasped. Her heart hammered against her ribs. The audacity. The sheer, unmitigated arrogance.

"200 million? You're expensive for a fake boyfriend."

"I'm not a boyfriend," Chris said, his thumb tracing the pulse point on her neck. "I'm an investment."

Adelia stared into his eyes. She saw darkness there, and power.

"Deal," she whispered.