Ellery POV

The air in the basement shop in Queens smelled of ozone and stale neglect.

This was not the kind of place Mrs. Brendan Wiggins visited.

I tugged at the hem of the hoodie and jeans I had purchased with cash at a Goodwill three towns over.

The man behind the counter, a jittery forger named Sal, slid a manila envelope across the scratched glass.

"June Bennett," he said, grinning to reveal a row of rotting teeth. "Born in Ohio. No criminal record. Clean credit history. It’s a work of art, lady."

I didn't smile.

I slid a brick of cash across the counter.

"If anyone asks, you never saw me," I said.

Sal thumbed through the bills with practiced speed.

"For this much, I don't even see myself in the mirror."

I took the envelope and left, dissolving into the anonymity of the crowded street.

My heart battered against my ribs.

I was committing treason against the Syndicate.

If Brendan found out, he wouldn't just kill me.

He would lock me in the estate's west wing and leave me there until I turned to dust.

I took three different taxis to get to Evans' lab in the Meatpacking District.

It was disguised as a defunct veterinary clinic.

Evans was waiting for me in the sub-basement.

The room was white, sterile, and bitingly cold.

A metal chair with heavy leather restraints sat in the center.

It looked like an electric chair.

"Is this it?" I asked.

Evans nodded, his face drained of color.

"This is the machine that induces the neuro-chemical flood," he explained, tapping a console. "It targets the hippocampus and the amygdala. It essentially dissolves the synaptic pathways associated with episodic memory. You will keep your semantic memory—you will know how to speak, how to drive, how to use a fork. But the story of your life? Gone."

"Will it hurt?" I asked.

"Excruciatingly," he said.

"Good," I said. "Burn it out."

"You have to be sure, Ellery," Evans said, grabbing my shoulders. "Once I push that plunger, there is no going back. You won't know who Brendan is. You won't know he is dangerous. You will be a sheep walking into a world of wolves."

"I have a plan for that," I said, patting the pocket where I had stashed a notebook. "I wrote instructions for June."

He looked at me with pity.

"Why?" he asked. "Why not just run?"

"Because he would find me," I said. "He would tear the world apart to find Ellery Rich. But if Ellery Rich doesn't exist... if there is no recognition in my eyes when he finds me... he loses."

It was the only way to win against a narcissist like Brendan.

To deny him the satisfaction of my fear.

To deny him the satisfaction of my memory.

I checked my watch.

I had to be home in an hour to dress for dinner.

Brendan was bringing the Capos over.

I had to play the perfect hostess.

I touched the cold metal of the chair.

"See you Thursday, Evans."

I walked out of the lab and back into the sunlight.

I hailed a cab and gave the address of the fortress.

When I walked through the front door, Brendan was waiting in the foyer.

"Where were you?" he asked, his eyes narrowing. "The tracker on your car said you were in Queens."

I felt a spike of adrenaline, sharp and cold.

"I went to that antique shop you hate," I lied smoothly. "The one with the vintage lamps. I wanted to find something for the study."

His face relaxed.

He bought it.

Because in his mind, I was simple.

I was domestic.

I was June Cleaver with a black card.

He walked over and kissed my forehead.

"Next time, take a guard," he said. "Queens isn't safe."

I suppressed a dark laugh.

The only unsafe thing in my life was standing right in front of me, wearing a three-thousand-dollar suit.

"I will, darling," I said.

I walked past him up the stairs.

Every step was a countdown.

Three days.

Ellery POV

The velvet box sat on my vanity table like a small, black coffin.

Inside lay his birthday gift.

Or rather, my parting gift.

It was my wedding ring—a heavy platinum band encrusted with diamonds that were, in all likelihood, paid for with blood money.

I had taken a blowtorch to it in the garage earlier that afternoon, while Brendan was occupied at a sit-down. Now, it was nothing more than a twisted, mangled lump of metal. The loose diamonds rolled around the bottom of the box with a hollow rattle.

A perfect symbol of what our marriage had become.

Ruined.

My phone buzzed against the marble top of the vanity.

Another unknown number.

Kiya.

She was relentless. She wanted me to break. She was desperate for me to scream at Brendan, to cause a scene, to give him the excuse he needed to cast me aside and replace me with the mother of his child.

She didn't understand the game.

She was playing checkers.

I was playing 4D chess.

I opened the message. It was a video of her posing in a high-end lingerie store.

*Does he prefer red or black?* the caption read. *I want to look good when he comes over tonight.*

I felt a dull throb in my chest, but it was distant, muffled.

Like a bruise that had already yellowed and faded.

I turned off the screen and walked downstairs.

Brendan was in the living room, pouring a scotch. He looked tired. Running a criminal empire was exhausting work, after all.

He looked up as I entered, a smile touching his lips.

"You look beautiful, El," he said.

I was wearing a dress he had picked out for me. High neck, long sleeves, completely backless.

Modest for the world. Accessible only to him.

"Thank you," I said softly.

I walked to the wet bar and poured myself a glass of water, keeping my back to him for a split second to compose my features.

"Is everything okay with the servers?" I asked, turning around.

I already knew the answer.

I monitored the network traffic in real-time. Every board was green.

"We have a crisis," he said, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "A breach in the firewall. I have to go in tonight."

He looked me dead in the eye.

The comfort he found in his own deceit was almost impressive.

"Oh no," I said, feigning a perfect note of concern. "Will you be late?"

"Very," he replied. "Don't wait up."

He finished his drink in one swallow and set the heavy crystal glass down with a clink. He walked over, closing the distance between us, and cupped my face in his hands.

His thumb traced the line of my cheekbone.

"You are so good to me, Ellery," he murmured. "My sanctuary."

Bile rose in my throat. I fought the urge to gag.

He didn't see a person when he looked at me.

He saw a mirror that reflected a better, cleaner version of himself. He thought he could go sleep with his mistress and come home to his saint. He thought he could have it all.

"Go," I whispered, leaning into his touch one last time. "Handle business."

He kissed me—hard, possessive, marking his territory before leaving to invade someone else's.

I watched him walk out the door.

The moment the red taillights of his armored SUV disappeared down the driveway, I went straight to the security room.

I pulled up the logs.

There was no breach.

There was no crisis.

Just a man who was bored with his wife.

I sat in the glowing blue light of the monitors, the code scrolling across the screens in a rhythmic waterfall. I had built all of this for him. I had digitized his operation, secured his communications, and legalized his legacy.

And he was throwing it all away for a girl who couldn't even spell 'laundering'.

I opened my pocket and took out the velvet box.

I placed it on his mahogany desk, right on top of his ledger.

He would find it on his birthday.

The day I would be gone.

He would open it and find the wreckage of his marriage staring back at him.

And by the time he realized what it meant, June Bennett would already be on a bus to nowhere.

Ellery POV

The sky above our private beach detonated in a violent wash of red and gold.

Fireworks.

Brendan had commandeered the entire coastline for the Fourth of July gala.

Hundreds of guests—politicians, federal judges, captains of industry, and kingpins of the underworld—mingled on the sand, crystal flutes of champagne in hand.

Brendan stood behind me, his arms caging my waist, his chin resting heavily on my shoulder.

"Look up," he commanded softly.

A massive shell launched into the dark, exploding to form two interlaced letters that seared the night sky.

B & E.

The crowd roared its approval.

"See?" His voice was thick with pride, hot against my ear. "Everyone knows who you belong to."

To the crowd, it was a romantic gesture.

To me, it was a branding.

Like cattle.

He was signaling to the other Dons that his house was in order, that his wife was secure, and his property was fenced.

I smiled for the flashing cameras.

I played the part.

But behind my sunglasses, my eyes were dissecting the crowd.

Then I saw her.

Kiya.

She wasn’t supposed to be here.

Mistresses were kept in the shadows, in uptown apartments and hotel suites, not paraded at family functions alongside senators.

She stood near the buffet, wearing a dress that was a shade too bright, a size too tight.

She was glaring right at me.

Slowly, deliberately, her hand drifted to her stomach.

A subtle gesture.

A threat.

Brendan didn’t see her. Or maybe he did, and he liked the risk.

He liked the idea of two women silently warring over his legacy.

"I have to take a call," Brendan said, finally releasing his grip on me. "Business."

He strode away toward the dunes, away from the light.

I counted to ten.

Then I followed him.

I didn’t need to be stealthy. I was the hostess. I was the Queen. I could go wherever I damn well pleased.

I moved through the long shadows of the beach house, the bass of the party music fading into the rhythm of the waves.

I heard them before I saw them.

They were arguing in hushed, venomous tones near the boathouse.

"You promised," Kiya hissed, her voice trembling. "You said you would leave her after the baby was born."

"I said we would see." Brendan’s voice was sharp, dismissive. "Keep your voice down."

"She is barren, Brendan!" She shrieked the whisper, the sound tearing through the salt air. "She can't give you a son. I am carrying your legacy!"

I froze.

Barren.

He had told her.

That was my deepest wound, my darkest secret. A lingering ruin from the car crash that had taken my parents.

I had whispered that truth to him in the dark, weeping in his arms, trusting him with my brokenness.

And he had handed that pain to his mistress to use as a shiv against me.

"Enough!" Brendan snapped. "You do not speak about my wife. She is the Queen. You are..."

He stopped.

He didn’t finish the sentence.

But the silence screamed it louder than words.

She was the incubator.

I was the figurehead.

Neither of us were people to him. We were just functions.

I stepped back, the sand crunching softly under my heels.

I had heard enough.

I didn’t need to confront him. I didn’t need to slap her.

That was what they expected. Drama. Emotion. Tears.

I turned and walked back to the party.

I plucked a fresh glass of champagne from a passing tray.

I watched the B & E burn in the sky until it faded into drifting gray smoke.

The smoke was fitting.

Because that was all we were now. Ash and wind.

Tomorrow was Thursday.

Tomorrow, the Architect would demolish the building.

I took a sip of the wine.

It tasted like freedom.

I pulled my phone out and sent one final text to Evans.

"I'm ready."

Then I dropped the phone into a silver trash can and walked back to my husband, smiling the smile of a woman who had already left the building.