The Porsche wove violently through the traffic on Highway 101.

Eleanor checked the rearview mirror. "No black SUVs. We're clear."

Katelyn didn't relax.

She unzipped the canvas duffel bag sitting at her feet.

She ripped off the baggy gray tracksuit, revealing a sleek black turtleneck and dark jeans underneath. She pulled a black trench coat over her shoulders and jammed a baseball cap onto her head.

The pathetic, trembling orphan vanished.

In her place sat a cold, calculating woman with ice in her veins.

Katelyn pulled a brand-new smartphone from the bag.

She booted it up, connected to an encrypted VPN, and typed in a 32-character alphanumeric password.

The screen loaded a dark web cryptocurrency wallet.

The balance displayed in Bitcoin was staggering. Millions of dollars.

For years, the underground art world had paid a fortune for the chaotic, brilliant works of the anonymous artist known only as "The Wilds."

Katelyn's fingers flew across the screen.

She transferred a massive chunk of the funds into a secure offshore account to cover the private jet charter and her tuition in London.

Eleanor whistled. "If Arnett knew the 'crazy girl' was sitting on a multimillion-dollar empire, he'd have a stroke."

"He'll find out eventually," Katelyn said, her voice dead flat. "And when he does, I'm going to take everything from him."

The Porsche pulled into the Signature Flight Support terminal at San Francisco International Airport.

There were no TSA lines here. No metal detectors.

A ground handler in a crisp white shirt walked up to the car.

Katelyn handed him her brand-new passport.

The name on it read: Kate Vance.

The handler nodded respectfully. "Your Gulfstream is ready, Ms. Vance."

Katelyn turned to Eleanor. She pulled her into a tight, fierce hug.

"Thank you," Katelyn whispered.

Eleanor shoved a business card into Katelyn's pocket. "My brother Julian is in London. Stay the hell away from him. He's still tangled up with the Atherton crowd and would sell you out for a designer watch in a heartbeat. This card is for a private fixer I trust. Call him if you need anything."

Katelyn nodded, though she had no intention of calling anyone connected to her old life.

She walked out onto the tarmac.

The wind whipped her trench coat around her legs. She climbed the stairs of the Gulfstream G650 and the heavy door sealed shut behind her.

She sank into the plush leather seat and ordered a whiskey on the rocks.

As the jet engines roared and the plane tore into the sky, Katelyn looked down at the shrinking California coastline.

She didn't cry. She took a sip of the burning liquid and smiled.

Back at the Reed estate, Alistair unlocked Katelyn's bedroom door to bring her dinner.

He walked to the bed and pulled back the duvet.

It was a pile of pillows.

Alistair's face drained of color. He hit the panic button on his radio.

Sirens blared across the Atherton estate.

Arnett burst into the room minutes later.

He stared at the empty bed. The veins in his neck bulged.

He grabbed the heavy brass lamp from the nightstand and hurled it against the wall, shattering it into a thousand pieces.

"Lock down the airports!" Arnett roared, spit flying from his lips. "Call the police! Tell them a severely mentally ill patient has escaped and is a danger to herself!"

Across the city, Etienne sat in his sprawling office at the Strickland Syndicate headquarters.

Zane walked in and dropped a piece of paper on Etienne's desk.

"The Reeds just put out a massive APB," Zane said. "One of their family members went missing."

Etienne picked up the paper.

It was a missing person flyer.

The photo was blurry, taken when the girl was maybe twelve years old. The text below read: Severe PTSD. Extremely fragile.

Etienne stared at the grainy photo. There was something vaguely familiar about the shape of her eyes.

But his mind immediately flashed to the woman in the closet.

The woman who had kissed him with violent hunger. The woman who had manipulated him and escaped like a ghost.

There was no way in hell that wild, cunning creature was this pathetic, fragile mental patient.

Etienne scoffed. He crumpled the flyer into a ball and tossed it into the trash can.

"Drop it," Etienne commanded coldly. "She took the money and ran. I'm done wasting my time."

Thirteen hours later, the Gulfstream touched down on the wet tarmac of London Luton Airport.

Katelyn stepped out into the freezing drizzle.

She took a deep breath of the damp air.

She hailed a black cab.

"The Royal College of Art, please," she told the driver in a carefully practiced British accent. She had spent countless nights in the dark, mimicking BBC broadcasts on her burner phone until her jaw ached, ensuring her American vowels were completely erased.

The hunt was over. The war had begun.

Three months later.

The Mediterranean sun beat down relentlessly on the deck of the Shadow Trust, a massive, hundred-meter black superyacht anchored off the coast of Monaco.

In the glass-walled penthouse office on the top deck, Etienne Strickland stood staring out at the azure water.

He wore a black dress shirt, the top two buttons undone, the sleeves rolled up to expose the heavy ink on his forearms.

He held a satellite phone to his ear.

"Cut their funding," Etienne said, his voice dropping to a lethal, icy register. "I don't care if they file for bankruptcy tomorrow. Bleed them dry."

He ended the call and tossed the phone onto his massive mahogany desk.

He rolled his shoulders, his jaw ticking with irritation.

V. Nash, his head of security, stepped into the office holding a leather-bound dossier.

"The latest reports on the European art syndicates we're tracking for money laundering, boss," Nash said, setting the file down.

Etienne flipped the folder open.

His eyes scanned the pages of financial data until they locked onto a specific paragraph.

It detailed the sudden, explosive rise of an underground artist known as "The Wilds."

Attached was a blurry photograph of a recent painting.

Etienne stared at the chaotic, violent brushstrokes.

A sharp, phantom pain flared in his shoulder where she had bitten him three months ago.

He slammed the folder shut.

"Take the yacht out to international waters," Etienne snapped. "I'm not attending that pretentious art gala on the lower deck tonight."

Down on the middle deck, the atmosphere was entirely different.

A string quartet played softly over the sound of clinking crystal glasses.

Katelyn stood near the railing, a glass of vintage champagne in her hand.

She wore a minimalist, backless black silk slip dress that clung to every curve. Her hair was swept up, her posture straight and commanding.

The terrified girl from California was dead.

She was Kate Vance now, the darling of the Royal College of Art, rubbing shoulders with Europe's elite.

She smiled politely, finishing a conversation in fluent French with a Parisian gallery owner.

As the man walked away, Katelyn turned to look out at the ocean, letting out a quiet sigh of exhaustion.

"Katelyn Reed?"

The voice hit her like a bucket of ice water.

Her fingers tightened around the stem of her champagne flute.

She turned slowly.

Standing there in a garish floral shirt was Julian Thatcher. Eleanor's older brother.

He had a blonde socialite clinging to his arm.

Katelyn's face remained a mask of absolute calm.

"Excuse me?" she said smoothly. "I think you have the wrong person. My name is Kate."

Julian stepped closer, his eyes raking over her body with sleazy amusement.

"Bullshit," Julian laughed. "Everyone in Atherton thinks you're locked up in a padded cell, and here you are, fishing for sugar daddies in Monaco."

The blonde socialite sneered, looking Katelyn up and down like she was trash.

Katelyn's heart hammered against her ribs, but her face didn't twitch.

Julian was a rat. He would sell her location to Arnett for a quick payout in a heartbeat.

She didn't argue.

She simply raised her glass and threw the freezing champagne directly into Julian's face.

Julian gasped, stumbling backward as the alcohol burned his eyes. The blonde screamed.

Before anyone else could react, Katelyn spun around and walked quickly toward the interior glass doors.

Julian wiped his face, his face turning purple with rage. He pulled out his phone and immediately dialed Brien Reed's number.

Katelyn pushed through the doors, her heart racing.

She needed to hide.

She took a wrong turn down a quiet, dimly lit corridor marked "VIP ONLY."

She pushed open a heavy velvet-lined door and stepped inside.

It was a private art gallery.

The room was pitch black, save for a few dramatic spotlights illuminating priceless classical oil paintings.

Behind her, she heard the heavy thud of security boots entering the corridor. They were looking for the woman who assaulted a guest.

Katelyn quickly darted behind a massive marble statue of Apollo, pressing her back against the cold stone.

She held her breath.

Footsteps echoed in the gallery. But they weren't coming from the door.

They were coming from the private elevator at the back of the room.

Etienne had come down to escape his own thoughts.

He stopped in front of a painting, his sharp ears catching the faint rustle of silk.

He turned his head slowly.

His eyes pierced through the shadows, locking onto the edge of a black dress peeking out from behind the statue.

He walked forward, his footsteps completely silent on the thick carpet.

Katelyn squeezed her eyes shut, praying to the dark.

Suddenly, a massive, calloused hand shot into the shadows.

Long fingers clamped around her bare wrist like a steel vice.

With one violent tug, Etienne ripped her out of the darkness and into the spotlight.

Katelyn gasped, her eyes flying open.

She crashed directly into a solid, muscular chest.

She looked up.

The air vanished from her lungs.

The harsh spotlight illuminated Katelyn's face perfectly.

Etienne stared down at her.

His pupils dilated so fast his eyes looked completely black.

He saw the starlit eyes. He saw the tiny mole on her collarbone.

It was her.

The phantom he had been hunting for three months was standing right in his gallery.

The grip on her wrist tightened painfully.

"You," Etienne breathed, his voice a dangerous, vibrating rumble.

Katelyn's mind short-circuited.

It was the bastard from the linen closet.

Before she could process the impossibility of the situation, the heavy velvet doors of the gallery swung open.

"Check behind the displays," a security guard ordered.

Katelyn panicked.

If the guards caught her, they would drag her back to Julian. Julian would hand her to Arnett.

She looked up at Etienne. His jaw was locked, his eyes burning with a terrifying mixture of rage and raw hunger.

She had to use him again.

Katelyn stepped directly into his space.

She pressed her chest flush against his. She slid her free hand up his chest, gripping the lapel of his black shirt.

She dragged her thigh slowly, deliberately against his leg.

She went up on her tiptoes, her lips brushing his jawline.

"Take me out of here," she whispered, her voice a husky, desperate purr. "Or take me right here on the floor. Your choice."

Etienne let out a harsh, incredulous laugh.

He couldn't believe the sheer audacity of this woman. She was trying to play him again.

The beams of the guards' flashlights swept across the far wall.

Etienne's eyes darkened.

He didn't say a word. He wrapped his massive arm around her waist, lifting her entirely off the floor.

He carried her to the back of the gallery, pressing his thumb against a biometric scanner hidden in the wall.

A seamless metal door slid open.

He threw her inside and stepped in after her. The door hissed shut, cutting off the guards' voices completely.

It was a glass-walled private elevator.

The elevator shot upward with stomach-dropping speed.

Etienne backed Katelyn up until her spine hit the cold glass.

He planted his hands on the glass on either side of her head, trapping her.

He leaned in, his face inches from hers.

"What's your name?" Etienne demanded, his voice laced with venom. "Or are you going to lie to me again before you try to rob me?"

Katelyn met his furious gaze without flinching.

"Kate," she lied smoothly. "And I don't need to rob you. You look like you can afford whatever I want."

The elevator chimed.

The doors opened directly into the sprawling, ultra-luxurious master penthouse.

Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the pitch-black ocean.

Etienne didn't hesitate.

He scooped her up, threw her over his shoulder, and strode into the master bedroom.

He tossed her onto the massive, circular black velvet bed.

Katelyn bounced on the mattress, trying to scramble backward, but Etienne was already on top of her.

He grabbed the delicate straps of her silk dress.

With one violent yank, the expensive fabric tore down the middle.

It wasn't a gentle seduction. It was a war.

Katelyn didn't cower. She fought back.

She dug her nails into the heavy muscles of his back, pulling him down, matching his aggression with a feral hunger of her own.

They collided in a chaotic tangle of limbs, biting, scratching, and consuming each other.

Meanwhile, down on the lower deck, Julian was pacing furiously.

"Yes, Mr. Reed," Julian said into his phone. "I swear to God, it was her. She's on the Shadow Trust."

Thousands of miles away in California, Arnett slammed his fist on his desk.

"Call the maritime authorities," Arnett roared to his assistants. "Send the helicopters. Ground that yacht!"

Back in the penthouse, the storm finally broke.

Katelyn lay on the tangled black sheets, her chest heaving, her skin flushed and marked with red fingerprints.

Etienne sat up against the headboard.

He reached over, pulled a cigarette from a silver case, and lit it.

He took a slow drag, his eyes never leaving her face. The rage had settled into a deep, possessive satisfaction.

He blew a stream of smoke toward the ceiling.

"You're not running this time, Kate," Etienne said, his voice a low, gravelly threat. "You're not leaving my sight."