The morning sun pierced through the thick clouds over Manhattan.

Francis walked out of the hospital lobby, pinching the bridge of his nose to ward off a looming headache. He had just finished arranging a team of elite private nurses for Benjaman.

He slid into the leather backseat of the Maybach.

"Back to the penthouse," he ordered the driver, his voice rough with exhaustion.

As the car navigated the morning traffic, his mind kept flashing back to the cold, dead look in Arianna's eyes last night. The stinging heat of her slap still lingered on his cheek. A strange, unfamiliar knot of anxiety tightened in his gut.

The car descended into the private underground garage of his building. He took the express elevator straight to the top floor.

He pushed the front door open.

The apartment was dead silent. The usual rich smell of freshly brewed espresso was completely absent.

He pulled at his silk tie, loosening the knot.

"Arianna?" he called out. He assumed she was locked in the bedroom, still giving him the silent treatment.

No one answered.

He frowned, his heavy footsteps echoing as he strode down the hall and pushed open the master bedroom door.

The moment he stepped inside, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. The room was too clean. It lacked the subtle, warm scent of her presence.

He walked quickly to her vanity.

The marble surface was completely bare. Her expensive skincare bottles, her signature perfume-everything was gone.

He spun around and yanked open the double doors of the massive walk-in closet.

His breath hitched.

The entire right side of the closet was empty. The wooden hangers swung slightly in the draft.

He looked down. Her three silver Rimowa suitcases were missing from the floor rack.

A cold spike of genuine panic pierced the chest of the man who controlled billions on Wall Street.

He ripped his phone from his pocket and dialed her number.

The number you have dialed is unavailable. The cold, robotic voice grated against his ear.

He opened WhatsApp and quickly typed a message. Where are you?

He hit send. A harsh red exclamation mark instantly popped up next to the bubble.

Blocked.

The blood rushed to his head, his face flushing with sudden, explosive anger.

He hurled his phone across the room. It bounced off the heavy mattress with a dull thud.

Pinching the bridge of his nose to control his surging temper, he strode over to the bed, snatched the device back up, and shoved it into his pocket.

He stormed out of the bedroom and roared down the hallway. "Reginald!"

The elderly butler scurried out of the kitchen, looking terrified.

"Sir?"

"Where is she?" Francis demanded, his voice vibrating with rage.

Reginald swallowed hard. "The security logs show the Madam left the premises at 3:00 AM, sir. She did not request a driver."

"And no one thought to stop her?" Francis bellowed.

Reginald bowed his head, staring at the floor.

Francis shoved past him and marched into his home office. He grabbed the heavy landline receiver from his desk and punched in his assistant's number.

"Morgan," Francis snapped the second the line opened. "Track every credit card under Arianna's name. Ping her phone's GPS. Now."

He paced the length of the office, his jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached.

Five minutes later, the phone buzzed. He snatched it up.

"Sir," Morgan's voice trembled. "All of her supplementary cards have been manually deactivated. There are no new charges. And her phone... the signal is completely gone. It's like she vanished."

Francis walked over to the crystal decanter on the wet bar. He poured three fingers of neat whiskey into a glass and threw it back.

The alcohol burned a fiery trail down his throat, but it did nothing to stop the sickening feeling of free-fall in his stomach.

He had always believed she was a fragile vine that needed his money and power to survive. She couldn't just leave.

He slammed the glass down. His eyes caught sight of a thick, brown courier envelope resting on the center of his mahogany desk.

He lunged forward and ripped the tab open.

He pulled out a stack of crisp, legal documents.

Divorce Agreement.

He flipped violently to the last page.

There, signed in sharp, aggressive black ink, was her name. Arianna Barr. She hadn't even used his last name.

He stared at the signature. The veins in his hand bulged against his skin.

A guttural roar tore from his throat. He grabbed the stack of papers and his empty whiskey glass, hurling them both violently at the floor-to-ceiling window.

The glass shattered into a thousand pieces.

A black, bulletproof SUV pulled into the heavily guarded underground parking garage of the Eleonore Powers global headquarters on Fifth Avenue.

Arianna stepped out of the vehicle. She wore a tailored beige trench coat, the collar popped up. A black silk mask covered the lower half of her face, and oversized dark sunglasses hid her eyes.

She bypassed the main lobby entirely. She swiped an unmarked, black keycard at the private VIP elevator.

The doors closed, shooting her up to the top floor.

The elevator chimed. As the doors opened, the rich, bitter scent of dark roast coffee hit her senses.

Sitting behind a massive glass desk was Eleonore Powers. The legendary fashion icon had stark silver hair cut into a sharp bob. She was glaring down at a stack of financial reports.

Hearing the click of heels, Eleonore looked up, peering over the rim of her reading glasses.

Arianna reached up and pulled off the sunglasses and the mask.

Eleonore froze. She stared at the sharp, cold face of her former protégé.

Eleonore slammed her hands on the desk and stood up. She grabbed her gold-tipped cane, the metal striking the floor with a heavy thwack.

She marched around the desk, stopped directly in front of Arianna, and slapped her hard across the face.

Arianna's head snapped to the side. Her pale cheek instantly bloomed with a bright red mark.

She didn't flinch. She didn't step back.

Eleonore's eyes were shining with unshed tears. "Six years!" the older woman hissed, her voice shaking with fury. "You buried a once-in-a-generation talent to play house with a man who doesn't even look at you!"

Arianna slowly turned her head back. She looked at her mentor, the fire of rebirth burning fiercely in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," Arianna whispered.

She reached into the pocket of her trench coat and pulled out a small, encrypted black USB drive. She placed it gently on the glass desk.

"This is my new collection for the CFDA Awards."

Eleonore let out a harsh scoff, clearly doubting her. She snatched the drive, plugged it into her sleek monitor, and clicked the folder open.

The first sketch loaded onto the screen.

Eleonore stopped breathing.

The design was a violent explosion of emotion. The tailoring was impossibly bold, the lines aggressive and raw. It was the work of someone who had burned to the ground and forged themselves anew in the ashes. It was infinitely better than the young Ember.J from six years ago.

Eleonore's wrinkled fingers trembled slightly as she clicked the mouse, scrolling rapidly through the rest of the collection.

When she reached the final image, she collapsed back into her leather chair. She let out a long, shaky breath.

She looked up at Arianna. The genius was truly back, and she was out for blood.

Eleonore slammed her finger on her intercom button.

"Get the core PR team in here right now. Level one clearance," she barked.

She looked at Arianna. "I will bypass the background checks. You will be entered anonymously."

Within the hour, a highly coordinated storm hit the dark web and the upper echelons of the fashion industry.

Encrypted, untraceable emails landed in the inboxes of the editor-in-chief of Vogue and top fashion critics.

The email contained no text. Only a blurred, extreme close-up of a fabric texture, and a burning wax seal of the letter J.

Forty-five minutes later, anonymous fashion gossip accounts on Twitter exploded.

RUMOR: The ghost of fashion is back. Ember.J is entering the CFDA.

Arianna stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, looking down at the yellow cabs crawling like tiny insects on Fifth Avenue.

A cold, razor-sharp smile touched her lips.

Chanelle had built her entire brand on stolen ideas and cheap imitations.

Ember was going to burn her empire to the ground.