The Gulfstream G650 touched down smoothly on the private runway at JFK Airport. The roar of the engines slowly died down.

The cabin door opened.

Heidi stepped onto the stairs. The crisp autumn wind of New York whipped her long, dark, wavy hair back. She wore a custom-tailored, deep-V black trench coat and red-bottom stilettos.

She raised her chin. Her face was entirely different. Four years of agonizing reconstructive surgeries had erased the soft, timid girl she used to be. Now, her features were sharp, cold, and breathtakingly striking.

Four-year-old Caleb walked calmly by her left side. He wore a miniature tailored suit. He pushed his blue-light blocking glasses up his nose, his eyes scanning the tarmac with unnatural calculation.

On her right, four-year-old Seraphina bounced on her heels. She wore a fluffy pink dress and clutched a worn stuffed bunny to her chest.

Heidi gripped their small hands. She walked into the VIP arrivals terminal. Her presence immediately drew the stares of the few wealthy travelers scattered around the lounge.

Suddenly, a rapid burst of camera flashes erupted from the right corridor.

Heidi stopped. Her eyes darted toward the noise behind her dark sunglasses.

Surrounded by a dozen men in black suits, Christian Page walked into view.

He wore a charcoal gray suit that fit his broad shoulders perfectly. Four years had made his jawline sharper, his presence even more suffocatingly cold.

Brigette tried to cling to his arm, but he subtly kept a formal distance, allowing her only to lightly touch his elbow. She wore the latest Chanel tweed jacket, flashing a practiced, elegant smile at the paparazzi.

Heidi's hands shoved into her trench coat pockets. Her fists clenched so hard her nails dug crescent moons into her palms. Her blood boiled.

Caleb felt the sudden, rigid tension in his mother's arm. He tilted his head, his sharp eyes locking onto the crowd.

Seraphina stopped bouncing. Her large eyes fixed on Christian. She tilted her head.

"Mommy," Seraphina whispered, her voice soft. "That man looks really sad inside."

Heidi took a sharp breath. She forced her muscles to relax. "Don't stare, kids. Keep walking."

A gossip reporter shoved a microphone past the security line. "Mr. Page! When is the official wedding date with Miss Rutledge?"

Christian's footsteps stopped. A flash of pure disgust crossed his eyes. He glared at the reporter.

Brigette immediately pressed her chest against his arm. "We are currently planning the details," she answered sweetly.

Christian didn't say a word. He violently yanked his arm out of Brigette's grasp. He didn't care about the cameras. He didn't care about her frozen, humiliated expression.

Heidi watched from a distance. A cold smirk touched her lips. Trouble in paradise.

Christian turned to walk away. But then, he stopped.

His body went rigid. He snapped his head toward the VIP exit.

Across thirty feet of bustling terminal, his eyes locked directly onto Heidi.

Heidi's heart skipped a beat. Her breath caught in her throat. But she didn't look away. She lifted her chin higher, staring right back at him through the dark lenses of her sunglasses.

Christian's dark brows pulled together. He stared at the tall, cold woman in the black coat. His chest tightened. A bizarre, suffocating wave of familiarity slammed into his ribs.

Brigette followed his gaze. She only saw a wealthy woman with two kids. "Christian? The car is waiting."

His assistant leaned in. "Sir, the board meeting is in an hour."

Christian broke the eye contact. He swallowed hard, pushing down the sudden ache in his chest. He turned and walked through the sliding glass doors.

Heidi watched the black Page family motorcade pull away from the curb. She slowly took off her sunglasses. Her eyes were like arctic ice.

The Mcdaniel family butler stepped forward and bowed. "Welcome back, Miss. The Manhattan penthouse is ready."

Heidi put her sunglasses back on. She squeezed her children's hands.

"The game starts now," she said coldly. "Let's go home."

The black Lincoln Continental merged onto the Van Wyck Expressway. The air inside the cabin was suffocatingly thick.

Christian pressed a button on the armrest. The dark privacy glass rolled up, completely sealing the back seat off from the driver.

He yanked at his silk tie, loosening it. He couldn't get the image of that woman in the airport out of his head. The slope of her shoulders. The way she stood. It made his skin crawl with a ghost he had been trying to bury for four years.

Brigette picked up a crystal flute from the mini-bar. She poured champagne and leaned toward him, her voice dripping with honey. "Drink, darling?"

Christian didn't even look at her. He backhanded the glass.

The crystal shattered against the door panel. Amber liquid splashed all over Brigette's expensive Chanel skirt and the plush floor mats.

Brigette gasped, jumping back. She grabbed a napkin, her face flushing with anger and humiliation.

"Why did you do that in front of the reporters?" she snapped, her voice losing its sweet edge. "You made me look like a fool!"

Christian slowly turned his head. His eyes were dead. They sliced over her face like scalpels.

"Do not forget what you are," Christian said, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "You are a PR tool. Nothing more."

Brigette bit her lip. Her hands shook. "I am the mother of your children! Everyone knows I gave birth to Leo and Luna. I am the future Mrs. Page!"

Christian's eyes darkened into something terrifying. He lunged forward and grabbed her wrist. His fingers dug into her bones like a vice.

"If those children didn't need a mother on paper," Christian hissed, his face inches from hers, "you would have been thrown out of New York four years ago."

Brigette winced in pain. Panic flared in her chest. She knew he had been secretly investigating the hospital records from that night.

She forced tears into her eyes. "I almost died saving your life! I gave you your heirs!"

Christian's face twisted with absolute revulsion. He violently shoved her hand away. He leaned back against the leather seat, looking exhausted.

"I haven't touched a single hair on your head in four years, Brigette," he said, his voice hollow. "Don't push your luck."

The words slapped her across the face. The illusion she sold to the world was a lie. He had never slept with her. Not once since the fire.

"If you ever call the paparazzi to stage another wedding stunt," Christian warned, staring out the window, "I will cut off your trust fund by morning."

Brigette went pale. She swallowed her pride and nodded quickly.

The car fell into a dead silence.

Christian reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. His thumb rubbed against a small, silver ring. The edges were charred black from fire. It was the only thing they recovered from the warehouse. Heidi's ring.

Every time he closed his eyes, he heard her screaming his name on the phone. The guilt ate his stomach alive.

Brigette watched him stare at the ring. Pure venom flashed in her eyes.

She pulled out her encrypted phone. She typed a quick message to her biological father, Bobbie Weeks. Accelerate the plan. The old man needs to die now.

The Lincoln pulled up to the Wall Street headquarters. The bodyguard opened the door.

Christian stepped out, instantly transforming back into the ruthless CEO. He walked into the lobby without looking back.

Brigette sat alone in the back seat. She crushed the napkin in her fist and threw it at the floor.

Inside the elevator, Christian's assistant held an iPad. "Sir, the underground surgeon you hired has arrived in New York."

Christian's eyes sharpened. "Book the consultation at the hospital for tomorrow morning. Whatever the cost."

The underground parking garage of the Manhattan hotel was dim. Only a few fluorescent tubes flickered overhead, casting long, cold shadows.

Heidi popped the trunk of her black Range Rover. She wore a tailored black trench coat. She lifted her heavy medical bag and set it inside.

A strand of dark hair fell across her face. Without thinking, she reached up with her right hand and tucked it behind her ear. It was a lazy, absentminded gesture.

Less than thirty feet away, Christian stepped out of the back seat of his Maybach.

His eyes swept across the garage and froze.

He saw the back of the woman at the Range Rover. He saw the exact angle of her neck. He saw the way her fingers tucked the hair behind her ear.

His brain short-circuited. Logic screamed that Heidi was dead. Logic screamed she burned to ashes four years ago. But his body moved on its own.

Christian shoved his bodyguard out of the way. He broke into a dead sprint.

His dress shoes slapped loudly against the concrete.

Heidi heard the rushing footsteps. She turned halfway around.

Before she could react, a massive hand clamped down on her wrist like an iron trap. The sheer force of his momentum spun her around. Her back slammed hard against the cold metal of the Range Rover.

Christian pinned her against the car. His chest heaved. His eyes were bloodshot, wide with a desperate, manic panic.

"Heidi," he breathed, his voice cracking.

Inside the tinted windows of the Range Rover, Seraphina looked up from her iPad. Her empathetic abilities flared instantly. She felt a tsunami of grief, regret, and brokenness crashing against the glass.

Heidi stared into Christian's face. He was inches away. She could smell his expensive cologne.

For a fraction of a second, her heart hammered against her ribs. Then, the memory of his voice on the phone echoed in her skull. Let her die.

The warmth drained from Heidi's body. Her eyes turned into chips of ice.

She didn't struggle. She looked at him with absolute, clinical boredom.

"You have the wrong person, sir," Heidi said. Her voice was smooth, carrying a flawless, upper-class British accent.

Christian froze. He stared at her face in the dim light. It was beautiful, sharp, and completely unfamiliar. There was no trace of his wife's soft features.

But the scent. The feeling. He gripped her wrist tighter, refusing to let go. He searched her eyes for a lie.

Heidi frowned slightly. "You are compressing my median nerve. If you don't release my wrist in the next three seconds, you will cause localized ischemia."

Christian blinked. The cold, highly technical medical vocabulary hit him like a bucket of ice water. His Heidi was terrified of needles. She barely knew how to use a band-aid.

The manic light in his eyes died. His shoulders slumped. The absolute devastation that washed over his face was physical.

He slowly opened his fingers. He took a step back, looking like a man who had just been gutted.

"I'm... sorry," Christian whispered, staring at the concrete.

Heidi rubbed her red wrist. She didn't show a single ounce of pity. She opened the door and slid into the driver's seat.

The engine roared to life. The Range Rover backed out and sped toward the exit, the red taillights washing over Christian's pale face.

In the back seat, Seraphina tugged on Heidi's sleeve. "Mommy. That bad man has a thunderstorm in his chest. He's breaking."

Heidi's grip on the steering wheel tightened until her knuckles ached. "Good. He deserves it."

In the garage, Christian leaned against the hood of his Maybach. He buried his face in his hands.

He took a deep, shuddering breath and dropped his hands. His eyes were hard again.

He looked at his assistant. "Run the plates on that Range Rover. Find out exactly who that woman is."