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.

"Turn around," Adelia commanded.

Chris turned toward the three-way mirror in the private fitting room of the Beverly Hills boutique. The midnight-blue suit fit him like a second skin. It hid the scars, but it emphasized the width of his shoulders, the taper of his waist.

The tailor, a nervous Italian man, was still trembling slightly. He had seen the map of scars on Chris's back when he measured him-bullet wounds, knife slashes, burns.

"Where did you get those?" Adelia asked quietly, standing behind him. She reached out to straighten his collar, her fingers lingering on the fabric.

"A souvenir from a boating accident the Olsons arranged a few years ago," Chris said, his voice flat. "They weren't as thorough as they thought." He buttoned his cuffs.

"Tonight is the Washington Foundation Gala," Adelia said, watching his reflection. "Elizabeth and Greg will be there. It's their 'official' debut."

Chris met her eyes in the mirror. "Good. I'm going to make her regret every breath she takes in that room."

Adelia shivered. "You're wicked."

"I'm just getting started."

They arrived at the gala an hour later. The flashbulbs were blinding as the Bentley pulled up. Adelia stepped out first, wearing a gold dress that looked like liquid metal. She was stunning.

Then Chris stepped out.

The crowd went silent for a heartbeat. He looked like a dark prince. He offered his arm to Adelia, and she took it, beaming with a predatory triumph.

They walked into the ballroom. The air was thick with perfume and gossip.

Elizabeth was standing near the champagne fountain, laughing at something Greg said. Her laugh sounded forced, too high-pitched. Greg was holding a glass of wine, his hand shaking slightly.

Then, the room shifted. Heads turned. Conversations died.

Elizabeth looked toward the entrance. She saw them.

Chris was guiding Adelia through the crowd, his hand resting comfortably on the small of her back. He looked... magnificent. He looked nothing like the husband she had divorced 48 hours ago.

"Elizabeth, dear!" Adelia's voice cut through the silence. She dragged Chris over.

"Adelia. Chris," Elizabeth said. Her voice was brittle. She clutched her clutch bag so hard her knuckles were white. "I didn't think you'd have the nerve to show up."

Chris looked at her. His gaze was bored. He looked at her dress-a pale blue chiffon-and then dismissed it.

"I'm just here to see the entertainment," Chris said, his eyes sliding to Greg.

Greg puffed out his chest. "This is a private event, Chris. You don't belong here."

Chris laughed. "I own the building, Greg. Or rather, Adelia's holding company has owned a controlling stake for months. We just finalized the transfer of management rights this morning."

A ripple of whispers went through the nearby guests. Elizabeth felt the blood drain from her face.

"You're lying," she whispered.

"Check the deed," Chris said. He turned to Adelia. "I'm bored. Let's dance."

He didn't wait for a response. He led Adelia to the dance floor.

The band began to play a slow, sultry jazz number. Chris pulled Adelia close. His movements were fluid, dominant. He spun her, dipped her, his face inches from hers.

Elizabeth watched, unable to look away. Chris had never danced with her. He had always claimed he had two left feet. He had always been too tired, too sick.

Now, he moved like water.

Greg tried to touch her arm. "Liz, don't look at them."

She shook him off. "Don't touch me, Greg."

She watched Chris whisper something in Adelia's ear, and Adelia threw her head back and laughed. It looked intimate. It looked real.

Elizabeth felt a tear prick the corner of her eye. She wiped it away furiously. Hate. She had to hate him. But all she felt was a gaping, hollow loss.

The moving truck was discreet. Unmarked.

Adelia handed Chris a set of platinum keys. They were standing in the driveway of a modern, glass-walled villa.

"The villa next to Elizabeth's," Adelia said, a wicked grin on her face. "It cost me 50 million. But the look on her face will be priceless."

Chris looked at the property line. A low stone wall and a line of cypress trees were all that separated his new base of operations from the Washington estate.

"It's perfect," Chris said.

He spent the afternoon installing cameras. Not to watch Elizabeth-he didn't care enough to watch her-but to secure his perimeter. He checked the sightlines. He checked the exits.

Across the wall, Elizabeth was lying by her pool. She was trying to read a book, but she hadn't turned a page in twenty minutes.

She heard the roar of an engine. A deep, guttural growl.

She stood up and walked to the edge of her garden. Through the trees, she saw a black Lamborghini pull into the driveway next door.

The door opened. Chris stepped out. He was shirtless.

Elizabeth's breath caught in her throat. He was ripped. Lean, corded muscle defined his torso. Scars crisscrossed his skin, silver lines telling stories she didn't know. When had he gotten those?

Adelia stepped out of the passenger side. She was wearing a bikini top and a sheer sarong. She saw Elizabeth watching.

Adelia waved. It was a lazy, dismissive wave.

Elizabeth slammed her book shut and stormed back into her house. She slammed the sliding glass door so hard the glass rattled.

She went upstairs to her bedroom. She pulled the curtains shut, then peeked through the slit.

She went to her closet and pulled out a drone she had bought for a vacation she never took. Her hands were shaking as she synced the controller.

"I just need to see what they're doing," she muttered to herself. "It's security. That's all."

She flew the drone over the wall. The camera feed showed Chris and Adelia on the terrace. They were drinking champagne.

Chris was sitting in a lounge chair. Suddenly, he looked up. He looked directly into the camera lens of the drone hovering thirty feet above him.

It was impossible. He couldn't have seen it.

Chris stood up. He walked to the edge of the terrace. He looked at the drone, and then he looked at Elizabeth's bedroom window.

"Curiosity killed the cat, Elizabeth," he said. He didn't shout. He just spoke, and somehow, she felt like he was in the room with her.

He reached down and picked up a small, smooth stone from a decorative planter on the terrace. With a casual flick of his wrist, he sent it spinning through the air. It struck one of the drone's rotors with a sharp, sickening crack.

The drone wobbled, its buzzing turning into a high-pitched whine before it tumbled out of the sky and crashed onto the flagstones of his terrace.

The screen on Elizabeth's controller went black. Chris walked over to the wreckage and crushed the main body under the heel of his boot.

Elizabeth dropped the controller. She backed away from the window, her heart racing so fast it hurt. He was a monster. He was a terrifying, beautiful monster, and she had let him out of his cage.

That night, Adelia walked into Chris's study. She was wearing a silk robe.

"The game is getting interesting," she said, leaning against the doorframe.

Chris was looking at files on his computer. The Olson family debt ledgers.

"It's not a game, Adelia," Chris said without looking up. "It's a war."