Elise moved faster.

Her hand snatched the phone before Damian could crush it.

"Don't," Damian warned, his voice a low rumble of thunder. "If you answer that..."

Elise swiped the screen. She hit the speaker button.

"Baby!" Eddie's voice filled the luxury cabin. It was whiny and pitched too high. "Where are you? Did Donavan get you? The flight to Paris is booked, I'm waiting at the private terminal! Do you have the cash?"

Damian's jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. His hands were fists on his knees, the leather of his gloves creaking. He looked ready to tear the car apart.

Elise held the phone up. She looked at it with bored detachment.

"We're finished, Eddie," she said. Her tone was flat. Clinical.

Silence on the other end. Then, a sputtered laugh. "What? Babe, stop joking. Put Donavan on. Did the Vincent prick hurt you?"

"Don't call me babe," Elise said. "And don't call this number again. I'm blocking you. I'm deleting you. You don't exist."

"You bitch!" Eddie's voice turned nasty instantly. "You think you can dump me? After everything I did for you? You're nothing without me! You're just a crazy-"

Splash.

Elise dropped the phone into the silver ice bucket sitting on the center console.

The device sizzled as it hit the ice and water. The screen flickered green, then went black. Eddie's voice was cut off mid-insult.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Elise looked at Damian. She shrugged. "I hate it when people yell."

Damian stared at the ice bucket. He stared at the submerged phone. He looked back at Elise, his gray eyes wide with genuine confusion. The monster in him receded, replaced by a wary curiosity.

"You... destroyed it," he said.

"It was trash," she replied.

The car pulled into the underground garage of the Vincent Tower. The ride up in the private elevator was silent. Damian stood in the corner, watching her reflection in the metal doors.

When they entered the penthouse, Elise didn't go to her room. She walked straight to the study.

Damian followed her, his footsteps silent on the plush carpet.

She went to the wall safe hidden behind a painting. She punched in the code. 06-15-08. The day they met as children.

She heard Damian's breath hitch behind her. He hadn't changed the code.

The heavy door swung open. Elise reached into the back and pulled out a small, dusty velvet box.

She turned around. Damian was standing right there, too close. He smelled of rain and expensive scotch.

"You kept this," she said.

Damian looked at the box. His expression darkened. "I confiscated it. You bought it for him."

"No," Elise said. "I bought it for you."

She opened the box. Inside, a pair of sapphire cufflinks glittered under the chandelier light. They were deep blue, almost black.

"I bought them three years ago," she said softly. "But we fought that day. You said I was wasting money on trash for Eddie. You didn't let me finish."

It was a lie. A partial one. In her past life, she had bought them for Eddie. But Eddie had wanted cash, not jewelry. Now, they were a prop in her new narrative.

She took the cufflinks out. She stepped closer to Damian, invading his personal space.

She reached for his wrist.

Damian flinched, his muscles jumping under his shirt. But he didn't pull away. He let her unbutton his cuff.

Elise worked the sapphire link through the fabric. Her fingers brushed the pulse point on his wrist. His heart was racing. Fast. Erratic.

"They match your eyes," she whispered, looking up at him through her lashes.

Damian looked down at her. He looked at the cufflinks. He looked at her hands touching him.

His chest heaved. He grabbed her wrists, his grip tight.

"What game is this, Elise?" he demanded, his voice rough. "What do you want?"

"I want to start over," she said. "I want to be your wife. A real one."

Damian's eyes searched hers. He leaned down. His face was inches from hers. His gaze dropped to her lips.

He was going to kiss her.

Then he stopped.

His eyes narrowed. He looked at her fingers. specifically, at her thumb. The black nail polish was chipped, revealing the jagged edge of her nail.

His nose wrinkled. A flicker of distress crossed his face.

OCD.

Elise suppressed a smile. Of course. He couldn't handle the imperfection. The dirt. The chaos of her current look.

She pulled her hands back. "I'm a mess."

Damian let out a breath that sounded like a groan. He turned away, running a hand through his hair. He pressed the intercom button on the wall.

"Sterling."

"Sir?"

"Get a manicurist here. Now. And call Valentina. Tell her to open the salon. We're coming in."

"Sir? It's 2 AM."

"Did I stutter?"

"No, sir."

Damian turned back to Elise. He looked at her torn fishnets, her smeared eyeliner.

"If you want to be my wife," he said, his voice regaining its usual arrogant composure, "you will look the part. I won't have you walking around looking like a raccoon."

Elise smiled. "Whatever you say, Dami."

Sterling appeared at the door, holding a cream envelope. "Sir, a courier just dropped this off. It's from the Nelson estate."

Damian took it. He ripped it open.

"Dinner. Friday night," he read. He looked at Elise. "Your father wants us there. Jill will be there."

"Good," Elise said. She walked over and took the invitation from his hand. Her eyes were cold. "I have a few things to say to my dear cousin."

"You're not going," Damian said. "You'll run."

"I'm going," Elise said. "And you're taking me. As your fiancée."

"Sterling goes with you to the salon," Damian countered instantly. "He doesn't leave your side."

"Deal."

Elise turned to walk to her room. As she turned, her smile vanished.

She needed to get to that salon. She needed a computer. And she needed to make sure Jill Hayes regretted ever being born.

The mirror at Valentina's SoHo studio was unforgiving.

Elise sat in the leather chair, staring at her reflection. The harsh studio lights illuminated every flaw. The patchy dye job in her hair-streaks of green and purple fading into a dull black. The heavy, cakey foundation that hid her skin.

She looked like a bruise.

Sterling stood by the door, arms crossed, tapping his foot. He was watching her like a hawk. Every five minutes, he typed something into his phone. Updating Damian.

Valentina, a tall woman with silver hair and impeccable posture, stood behind Elise, holding a lock of purple hair with two fingers as if it were radioactive waste.

"Darling," Valentina sighed. "What is the theme this time? 'Dumpster Chic'? 'Zombie Apocalypse'?"

Elise reached up. She unbuckled the spiked leather collar around her neck. The heavy metal clattered onto the glass counter.

"Clean slate," Elise said. Her voice was quiet but firm. "Wash it all off, Val. I want to look like a Nelson."

Valentina's eyebrows shot up. "Are you serious?"

"Deadly."

Valentina clapped her hands. "Get the solvent! Get the deep conditioner! We have an exorcism to perform!"

Assistants swarmed.

For the next hour, Elise was scrubbed, rinsed, and polished. The chemical smell of dye remover filled the air.

When the towel was finally pulled from her head, Sterling dropped his phone.

Elise's hair was wet, but it was a rich, glossy raven black. It fell in heavy waves down her back. Her face was scrubbed clean of makeup. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, but flawless. Her eyes, without the heavy liner, were huge and startlingly green.

She looked fragile. And dangerous.

"I need to use the restroom," Elise said, standing up.

Sterling stepped forward. "I'll check it first."

He checked the single-stall bathroom. No windows. No exits. He nodded.

Elise went inside and locked the door.

She moved fast. She sat on the closed toilet lid and pulled off her left boot. She pried up the inner sole.

Underneath was a tiny, flat object wrapped in plastic. A micro-SIM card.

She pulled a burner phone from her bra-she had swiped it from a distracted assistant's bag earlier. She popped the back, inserted the SIM.

Power on.

The screen didn't show a standard OS. It booted into a command line interface.

Elise's fingers flew across the tiny keyboard. She rebooted the burner into a sandboxed virtual environment that would leave no trace, its memory set to wipe clean on shutdown. She then routed her connection through a chain of encrypted proxies in three different countries, a digital ghost slipping through the web.

Login: NINE.

Password:

The dark web forum loaded instantly.

Status: ACTIVE.

"Nine is back," she muttered.

She posted a single message: Accepting urgent contracts. BTC only.

Within ten seconds, her inbox flooded.

Nine! Where have you been?

Need firewall breach on Pentagon sub-server.

Need dirt on Senator X.

She ignored them. She typed a quick script, routing it through three proxies in Russia and Brazil. She sent an anonymous email to the Chief of Information Security at Vincent Corp.

Subject: Zero-day exploit in your transaction server. Patch attached. First one is free.

Send.

She flushed the toilet, hid the phone back in her bra, and walked out.

Valentina was waiting with a rack of clothes.

"No skulls," Valentina said. "No fishnets."

She pulled out a dress. It was emerald green velvet. Floor-length. High neck, long sleeves, but with a slit that went up to the thigh and an open back that dipped dangerously low.

"Try this."

Ten minutes later, Elise stepped out of the dressing room.

The velvet clung to her curves like a second skin. The dark green made her eyes pop. She looked like a queen from a dark fairytale. Regal. Untouchable.

Valentina put a hand over her heart. "My masterpiece."

Sterling stared. His mouth opened and closed. He fumbled for his phone and snapped a picture.

Ping.

Three seconds later, Sterling's phone rang.

He answered it on speaker.

"Bring her home," Damian's voice growled. It sounded strained. "Now. And buy the dress. Buy the whole damn rack. No one else wears that."

Elise smirked.

She walked out of the studio, Sterling trailing behind her carrying garment bags.

As she stepped onto the sidewalk, a white Porsche screeched to a halt at the curb.

Jill Hayes stepped out.

She was holding a venti latte, wearing a white sundress that made her look like an innocent angel. She was clearly here to gloat. She had probably heard Elise was at the salon and wanted to see the freak show.

Jill scanned the sidewalk. Her eyes slid right past Elise.

She looked at Sterling. "Sterling? Is Elise inside? I heard she was getting her... fur dyed?"

Elise stepped into Jill's path.

"Hello, cousin."

Jill stopped. She looked at the woman in the green dress. She looked at the face.

Her eyes widened. Her hand jerked.

The latte cup exploded on the pavement. Hot coffee splashed onto Jill's white shoes.

"E-Elise?" Jill stammered. "What... what happened to your face?"

"I washed it," Elise said coolly. She stepped closer, towering over Jill in her heels. "You seem shaky, Jill. Is it the caffeine? Or is it your conscience?"

Jill recovered quickly. She forced a smile that looked more like a grimace. "You look... different. Better. I'm so glad. Grandpa will be so relieved you don't look like a witch anymore."

"Save it," Elise whispered, leaning in close. "I know about the trust fund, Jill. I know about Eddie. Enjoy your dinner tonight. It might be your last good meal."

Jill paled. She took a step back, nearly slipping in the spilled coffee.

Elise walked past her. She got into the waiting car.

As the door closed, her phone buzzed against her skin.

Deposit Received: 50 BTC.

Elise smiled. She had her war chest. Now, she just needed a battlefield.

The Grand Ballroom at The Plaza Hotel smelled of lilies and old money.

Crystal chandeliers dripped light onto the guests below. The elite of Manhattan stood in clusters, sipping champagne and murmuring.

Damian stood alone near a pillar. He held a glass of whiskey he hadn't touched. His tuxedo was sharp, tailored to perfection, but his posture was rigid.

"She's not coming, Damian," Conrad Vincent said, walking up to his grandson. The old man leaned on a cane, his face a map of disapproval. "The girl is unstable. You're making a fool of this family by waiting for her."

"She'll be here," Damian said. His voice was tight.

"She's probably high in a gutter somewhere with that painter," Conrad scoffed.

Across the room, Arthur Nelson looked at his watch and wiped sweat from his forehead. Jill stood next to him, looking sympathetic.

"I'm so sorry, Uncle Arthur," Jill said loudly enough for the nearby guests to hear. "I tried to call her. She just... hung up. You know how she gets when she's having an episode."

A ripple of laughter went through the crowd. Poor Arthur. Saddled with that disaster of a daughter.

Damian's grip on his glass tightened. If she didn't show... if she had run...

The heavy double doors at the entrance swung open.

The room went quiet.

Elise Nelson stood in the doorway.

She was flanked by Donavan, but no one was looking at him.

The emerald velvet dress caught the light, shimmering with every movement. Her black hair cascaded over one shoulder. Her head was held high, her chin tilted at an angle of absolute arrogance.

She didn't look like a disaster. She looked like a weapon.

She stepped into the room. The crowd parted for her like the Red Sea.

Jill dropped her fork. It clattered loudly against her china plate.

Arthur Nelson gasped. For a second, he thought he was seeing his late wife.

Elise walked straight toward Damian. She didn't look at the guests. She didn't look at her father. She only had eyes for him.

Damian felt the air leave his lungs. He had seen the photo Sterling sent, but the reality was visceral. She was stunning. And she was walking toward him.

Elise stopped in front of him. She smiled-a small, private smile that didn't reach the rest of the room.

"Sorry I'm late, Dami," she said, her voice smooth like honey. "Traffic was murder."

She reached out and took his arm.

Damian looked down at her hand on his sleeve. He covered it with his own. His thumb stroked her knuckles.

"You're not late," he said, his voice rough. He looked up, challenging the room with a glare. "We haven't started."

Jill recovered from her shock. She marched over, her face a mask of concern.

"Elise! Oh my god, you actually came. And you're wearing... velvet? In June? That's certainly a choice."

Elise turned to her. She looked Jill up and down.

"And you're wearing white, Jill," Elise said. "Trying to communicate your innocence? It's a bit on the nose, don't you think?"

A few guests snickered. Jill's smile faltered.

"I was just worried," Jill said. "We all were. We thought you might have... relapsed."

"Relapsed into what?" Elise asked innocently. "Good taste? Clearly, it's not contagious. You should try to catch it sometime."

Damian let out a short, sharp laugh. He looked at Elise with a mixture of shock and delight.

Irma Hayes, Jill's mother, bustled forward. She was a large woman in a dress that was too tight.

"Elise!" she barked. "Show some respect to your cousin! She has been organizing this dinner for weeks while you were out partying!"

Elise opened her mouth, but Damian stepped forward. He placed his body between Elise and Irma.

"I kept her," Damian said coldly. "She was with me. Do you have a problem with my schedule, Mrs. Hayes?"

Irma's mouth snapped shut. She shrank back under Damian's glare.

"No... no, of course not, Mr. Vincent."

Damian looked down at Elise. "Hungry?"

"Starving," she said.

He led her to the head table. As she sat down, she felt Conrad Vincent's eyes on her. The old man was studying her like a bug under a microscope.

She met his gaze and nodded politely.

Conrad didn't smile. But he didn't look away either.

The game was on.