The yellow taxi idled outside the massive wrought-iron gates of the Mason Estate in Long Island.

Sloane stepped out. She wore a cheap, black polyester suit that hugged her sharp curves perfectly. She looked up at the sprawling limestone mansion. The house that swallowed her father's company.

The security guard sneered at her ID before buzzing the heavy gates open.

Sloane walked up the long driveway. She stepped into the grand foyer. The marble floor echoed beneath her cheap shoes. She kept her eyes lowered, burying the toxic hatred deep in her gut.

Eleanora Mason sat on a velvet armchair. The matriarch of the family looked at Sloane like she was a stain on the rug.

Eleanora tossed a thick stack of papers onto the glass coffee table.

"This contract isn't just for nursing Gerard," Eleanora said, her voice like grinding stones. "It includes a marriage registry with my eldest grandson, Donavan Mason."

Sloane kept her face blank.

"It's a PR move to cover up a family scandal," Eleanora continued. "You are a prop. Don't ever dream of touching a single cent of Mason money."

Sloane's stomach didn't even flutter. She picked up the pen and signed the prenuptial and the NDA without hesitation. She played the part of the desperate, money-hungry peasant flawlessly.

Marla, the head housekeeper, grabbed Sloane's arm and dragged her down a dark, wood-paneled hallway.

They entered the intensive care suite at the end of the first floor. The smell of antiseptic hit Sloane's nose, making her throat tight.

Gerard Mason lay in the hospital bed. The man who had ruthlessly crushed her father was now a skeleton hooked up to a ventilator.

Sloane picked up a warm washcloth from the basin. She grabbed Gerard's frail hand and scrubbed the skin roughly.

Gerard's eyelids twitched in pain.

Sloane leaned down, her lips inches from his ear. "I'm back," she whispered.

By nightfall, the estate was blazing with light. The trust fund restructuring banquet was in full swing.

Marla shoved a drab, conservative gray evening gown into Sloane's chest.

"Put it on. You are Donavan's bride tonight. Let them look at you."

Sloane slipped into the dress. She walked down the grand staircase. The chatter in the ballroom died down. Hundreds of eyes locked onto her. The disgust in the room was a physical weight pressing against her skin.

The grand double doors opened.

Haden walked in. Corrie clung to his arm, radiant in a custom gown. Around Corrie's neck sat a diamond necklace.

Brynn's mother's necklace.

Sloane gripped her champagne flute. Her knuckles turned white. Her chest burned with the urge to lunge forward and rip Corrie's throat out. She forced herself to breathe.

Corrie spotted Sloane standing alone in the shadows. Corrie's eyes narrowed. Even in that hideous gray dress, Sloane's bone structure was striking.

Corrie smirked. She grabbed a glass of red wine and strutted over.

Right as she reached Sloane, Corrie's ankle "twisted." The red wine flew from the glass, splashing directly onto the hem of Sloane's gray dress.

A few muffled laughs echoed from the surrounding guests.

"Oh my god, I am so sorry," Corrie gasped, covering her mouth. Her eyes danced with vicious triumph.

Sloane didn't flinch. She didn't blush. She calmly set her champagne flute on a passing tray. She pulled a silk handkerchief from her clutch and dabbed her fingers.

"C'est dommage," Sloane said, her voice dripping with a flawless, icy Parisian accent. "That haute couture piece is from last season. And whoever altered the waistline completely ruined the silhouette."

The socialites standing nearby stiffened. Corrie's fake smile froze. A flash of panic crossed her eyes.

Haden heard the commotion and walked over. "What's going on?" he snapped.

His eyes landed on Sloane. He stopped dead. His heart gave a violent, unnatural thump against his ribs. He stared into those deep, cold eyes.

Sloane stared right back.

"The hospitality of the Mason family is truly eye-opening," Sloane said in English, her tone flat.

Across the room, Eleanora slammed her cane into the marble floor. A sharp warning.

Haden grabbed Corrie's arm and dragged her away, his face pale.

Sloane turned and walked toward the hallway to find a restroom. As she stepped into the shadows, the hair on the back of her neck stood up.

She felt a heavy, suffocating gaze on her.

She snapped her head up toward the second-floor balcony. A tall, broad-shouldered shadow stood in the dark.

The air shifted. A heavy, suffocating weight seemed to press down on her from the balcony, a gaze so intense and predatory it felt like a physical grip around her throat. A cold shiver raced down her spine, making the fine hairs on her arms stand up.

Sloane's lungs seized. She had only felt this kind of absolute, terrifying scrutiny once before, in the darkest corners of her nightmares. She shook her head, forcing the impossible thought away.

The banquet ended early. Marla escorted Sloane to the master bedroom at the end of the second floor. Donavan's private territory.

Sloane pushed the heavy oak door open. The room was pitch black.

A massive figure stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, his back to her.

The man turned around. The moonlight hit his face. It was a face carved from marble, flawless and absolutely freezing.

"Get out," Donavan ordered. His voice was a blade.

Sloane stood in the doorway. The cold radiating from Donavan was a physical force, but she didn't take a single step back.

Donavan walked over to the mahogany desk. He picked up a thick stack of papers and threw them onto the floor at Sloane's feet.

"This bedroom is a stage for my grandmother," Donavan said, his voice devoid of any human emotion. "Your existence is confined to the guest room downstairs and the nursing wing."

Sloane bent down. She picked up the supplementary agreement. Her eyes scanned the brutal clauses. No entering his study. No asking about his schedule.

She grabbed the heavy fountain pen from the desk and signed her name in quick, sharp strokes.

"Don't worry," Sloane said, tossing the pen down. "I have zero interest in a glacier."

Donavan's eyes narrowed. The muscle in his jaw ticked. He grabbed his suit jacket and walked straight past her toward the door.

He stopped in the frame. "Know your place. The Masons don't keep useless, clever pets."

He slammed the door shut.

Sloane let out a breath. Her shoulders dropped. This dead, loveless marriage was the perfect shield for her revenge.

She locked the bedroom door. She pulled the heavy velvet curtains shut.

From the false bottom of her cheap suitcase, she pulled out a heavily encrypted micro-laptop.

She booted it up. Lines of code reflected in her dark eyes. She put in a wireless earpiece and dialed Alex Thorne, her underground intel broker.

"Well, well," Alex's voice crackled. "Calling me on your wedding night? The ice king must be a disappointment in bed."

"Shut up, Alex," Sloane snapped. "Give me the update on Haden's shell company."

Alex's tone turned serious. "Haden is at the Hellfire Club in Manhattan right now. He's having a secret sit-down with Eugene Carrillo."

Sloane's fingers froze on the keyboard.

Eugene Carrillo. The name was whispered in Wall Street like a curse. A bloodthirsty, ruthless predator.

"Haden is trying to use a core Mason project as collateral to get a massive bridge loan from Eugene," Alex continued.

If Haden got that money, he would completely swallow Beauvais Fashion. Her father's legacy would be erased forever.

Sloane's heart hammered a violent rhythm against her ribs. She had to kill this deal tonight.

"Hack the club's security," Sloane ordered. "Find me a blind spot in their cameras."

She stripped off the suffocating gray dress. She pulled on a skin-tight black leather motorcycle suit. She slid a military-grade stun pen into her leather boot.

She opened the balcony doors. The rain was still pouring. She checked her watch, timing the security patrol.

She swung her leg over the stone balustrade and shimmied down the thick ivy vines. The rough bark scraped her palms.

She slipped through the shadows of the garden, dodging the sweeping security lights.

She reached the abandoned rear garage. "I owe you for this, Alex," she whispered into her comms. "Don't thank me yet," Alex replied, his voice crackling. "I had to bribe a fired groundskeeper to use the old smuggler's trail on the back hill just to get it past Mason security. It's parked in a blind spot behind the old hunter's shed." She pulled the tarp off the heavy Ducati motorcycle Alex had stashed there yesterday.

She pulled on a black helmet, kicked the engine to life, and shot down the hidden service road into the storm.

At the exact same time, a black Rolls Royce glided down the highway toward Manhattan.

In the backseat, Donavan Mason reached up and ripped his silk tie off. The dead, cold look in his eyes vanished. It was replaced by a raw, predatory hunger.

His assistant in the passenger seat handed him a silver half-mask.

"Mr. Eugene," the assistant said respectfully. "Haden is waiting at the club."

Donavan took the mask. A cruel, bloodthirsty smile twisted his lips. "Good. Let's make him bleed."

Sloane's Ducati tore through the neon-lit streets of Manhattan. She killed the engine in the dark alley behind the Hellfire Club.

She took a deep breath, letting the cold air fill her lungs. She pushed the heavy steel service door open. The thumping bass of electronic music hit her chest like a physical blow.

The hunt was on.

Sloane slipped into the service corridor. She punched Alex's bypass code into the keypad of the staff locker room. The light flashed green.

She broke into a locker and pulled out a black waitress uniform with gold embroidery. She stripped off her leather jacket and pulled the uniform on. She tied her hair into a tight bun, slid on a pair of thick black-framed glasses, and hooked a black medical mask over her ears.

She grabbed a silver tray loaded with champagne flutes and pushed through the swinging doors into the VIP lounge.

The bass vibrated in her teeth. Lasers sliced through the dark, smoke-filled room.

A drunk Wall Street bro reached out to grab her waist. Sloane didn't blink. She drove the hard edge of the silver tray directly into his wrist bone. He recoiled with a hiss. She kept walking.

Alex's voice buzzed in her ear. "V01. End of the hall. Blackwater mercs on the door."

Sloane kept her head down. She walked past V01, pretending to serve the adjacent booth. As she passed a tall potted palm, she stuck a micro-bug to the ceramic base.

Static hissed in her earpiece, followed by Haden's desperate, sweaty voice.

"I guarantee a thirty percent return in six months, Mr. Carrillo. The Mason name is backing this."

A low, gravelly voice cut through the audio. It was heavy, suffocating, and dripping with raw power.

"Your cash flow is bleeding. Your collateral is tied up in litigation. Your proposal is garbage."

Sloane's breath hitched. Eugene's voice was like a scalpel cutting through bone.

Haden stammered. "Please, if you just look at the projections-"

"Get this trash out of my sight," Eugene growled.

Before Sloane could even think of pulling the fire alarm, the heavy oak door of V01 exploded open.

Haden was thrown out by two massive bodyguards. He hit the Persian rug hard, the air rushing out of his lungs with a pathetic wheeze.

His business plan fluttered down, slapping him in the face.

Sloane immediately turned her back, pretending to wipe down a brass wall sconce.

Haden scrambled to his feet, cursing under his breath. He didn't even look at the waitress. He practically ran toward the elevators.

Sloane smiled under her mask. Step one, complete. Haden was ruined.

"Sloane, wait," Alex's voice crackled urgently. "Eugene's assistant just walked into the private lounge next door with a black briefcase. It matches the description of the Song Group's shadow ledger."

Sloane's eyes snapped toward the door of the private lounge. The Song Group helped destroy her father. That ledger was the holy grail.

The door was cracked open. A sliver of yellow light spilled onto the carpet. No guards.

She set her tray down. She stepped silently toward the door and pushed it open.

The room smelled of expensive whiskey and heavy cigar smoke. It was empty.

She took one step toward the mahogany desk.

SLAM.

The door behind her slammed shut. The deadbolt clicked violently.

Sloane spun around. She crashed directly into a wall of solid, burning muscle.

A massive hand shot out and clamped around the back of her neck. The grip was like iron. He slammed her backward against the heavy wooden door.

The air was knocked from her lungs.

She looked up. A pair of blood-red, feral eyes stared down at her from behind a silver half-mask.

The man's jaw was clenched so tight the muscle twitched. His chest heaved. His body heat radiated through his suit, scorching her skin.

Eugene Carrillo.

Eugene's free hand slid down her waist, his touch burning through the thin uniform.

"A lost little mouse?" his voice was pure gravel, rough and dangerous. "Or a cheap gift from Haden?"

Sloane's heart hammered against her ribs. Her hand slid slowly toward the top of her boot. Toward the stun pen.

She stared into the eyes of the beast.