Harper POV

The diamond weighed down my hand like a shackle.

It was heavy. Cold.

And it was far too big.

Bennet had sized the ring for the woman I was three years ago, before the stress of living under a sociopath's thumb whittled me down to the bone.

Gravity took the loose band. The ring slipped off my finger and hit the polished concrete floor with a sharp, mocking clatter.

I bent down to pick it up.

On the underside of the band, near the tracker, my thumb brushed against a tiny, almost invisible indentation.

A button.

A strange instinct took over. Curiosity pricked at me.

I pressed it.

A tiny speaker, embedded in the setting, crackled to life.

"...so demanding, Bennet. You just got there."

It was Gianna's voice.

Crystal clear.

The ring wasn't just a tracker.

It was a two-way bug.

Bennet must have activated the receiver on his end, probably to listen to me, to monitor his property.

But he had forgotten to mute his own end.

Or maybe he simply didn't care. Maybe he was just that arrogant.

"I told you I would come," Bennet's voice came through the tiny speaker. "Stop crying."

"I hate that you gave her a house," Gianna sobbed. "You built her a castle."

"It is a prison, Gianna. Not a castle. A place to keep her out of sight so I can be with you."

The air left my lungs.

I walked to the massive floor-to-ceiling windows of the living room.

I looked out into the darkness.

About a mile away, across a small valley, lights flickered on.

Another estate.

It looked identical to this one.

A mirror image.

I pressed the ring to my ear.

"Look," Bennet said. "I am landing now. Look at your paradise, Gianna."

I watched the blinking red lights of the helicopter descend toward the twin estate.

He had built two houses.

One for the wife he broke.

One for the mistress he rewarded.

"It is exactly like hers?" Gianna asked.

"Better," Bennet said. "Yours has the master suite facing the sunrise. Hers faces the cliffs. She likes the dramatic view. You like the light."

I felt a chill settle deep in my marrow.

He knew me.

He knew exactly what I liked, and he had weaponized it to isolate me.

My phone pinged.

A text from Bennet: Meeting with the Commission is running late. Don't wait up. I love you.

I looked at the text.

Then I listened to the ring.

I heard the sound of a zipper.

"Make me a promise," Gianna whispered. "Make us public. I am tired of being a secret. I want to be Mrs. Crosby in the daylight."

There was a silence.

I held my breath.

"Yes," Bennet said. "Soon."

"How soon?"

"After the Gala. I will phase her out. I will say she is mentally unstable. The hand injury drove her mad. We will institutionalize her."

My knees gave out.

I sank to the floor.

Institutionalize.

He wasn't just going to keep me as a pet.

He was going to lock me in a padded room so he could play house with the woman who had shattered my bones.

Terror gripped me for a second. But then, something else replaced it. Something cold and hard.

I stood up.

I walked to the drafting studio Bennet had stocked with expensive supplies I couldn't use.

I picked up a charcoal stick with my left hand.

I didn't draw a building.

I drew a line.

A hard, black line across a fresh sheet of paper.

This was the line.

He had crossed it.

I put the ring back on my finger.

I needed to keep listening.

I needed to know their every move.

Because in ten days, Harper Cline was going to die.

And Aria Reed was going to rise from the ashes.

Harper POV

The red silk gown was tight enough to cut off my circulation-exactly the way Bennet liked it.

He had chosen it, of course.

"Red is the color of passion," he had murmured as he zipped it up my spine, his knuckles grazing my skin.

"Red is the color of blood," I had thought, staring into the vanity mirror.

We swept into the ballroom of the Crosby-owned hotel for the Anniversary Gala, a space that was dripping with crystals and gold.

Five hundred of New York's elite had gathered to celebrate a marriage that didn't exist outside of photo ops.

Bennet's hand was a steel vise on my lower back, steering me through the crowd.

He paraded me around like a prize pony he was considering putting down.

"Smile, Angel," he whispered, his breath hot against my ear. "Everyone is watching."

I forced my lips upward.

It felt like chewing on broken glass.

That was when I noticed the waitresses.

They were all wearing elaborate Venetian masquerade masks, obscuring half their faces.

"Why the masks?" I asked, struggling to keep my voice light.

"A theme," Bennet said dismissively, tightening his grip. "So no one outshines you, my dear."

Liar.

It was so he could hide her in plain sight.

I scanned the room, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I saw her near the champagne tower.

The platinum blonde hair was unmistakable, even beneath the feathers and lace.

She was watching us.

Her eyes were burning holes into my dress, dissecting me.

She moved with a predatory grace, carrying a tray of crystal flutes.

As she passed a group of older Dons, she stumbled.

It was theatrical.

Fake.

The tray crashed to the floor. Glass shattered, and champagne soaked the polished shoes of a Capo.

The room went silent.

Bennet released me instantly.

"Excuse me," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low register. "I need to handle this incompetence."

He marched over to the masked waitress.

He grabbed her upper arm-hard enough to bruise.

"My office," he growled, loud enough for the surrounding guests to hear. "Now."

He dragged her out of the ballroom, playing the part of the perfectionist host.

The guests whispered behind their hands.

I waited ten seconds, then followed.

I knew the layout of this hotel better than anyone. I had designed it, after all.

I slipped into the service corridor.

When I reached the executive meeting room, the door was slightly ajar.

I didn't need to see to know what was happening.

I heard the soft, desperate moans.

I peeked through the crack.

Bennet had her pressed against the mahogany conference table, her legs wrapped around him.

Her mask was off, discarded on the floor.

They were devouring each other.

"You bad girl," Bennet groaned, his voice thick with lust. "You embarrassed me on purpose."

"Punish me," Gianna begged, arching into him.

I turned away.

I didn't feel jealousy.

I felt a cold, heavy disgust.

I returned to the ballroom just as Bennet walked back in, adjusting his tie with practiced ease.

He looked flushed, energized.

He took the stage, commanding the room.

"My friends," he announced, raising a glass. "Tonight, I honor my wife. To celebrate five years, I am gifting her the deed to this very hotel."

Applause erupted, deafening and hollow.

He handed me a leather folder.

It was a prop.

Just like me.

As I stepped down from the stage, Gianna appeared from the shadows near the stairs.

She was still in her waitress uniform, but her mask was gone, her lipstick smeared.

She walked straight at me.

She didn't slow down.

As we crossed paths, she slammed her shoulder into my chest.

"Oops," she sneered, her voice a venomous whisper.

I stumbled back, the heel of my shoe catching on the hem of my gown.

Bennet was there instantly.

But he didn't catch me.

He reached out and steadied Gianna.

"Watch where you are going," he snapped at me.

The shove from his rejection hit harder than the physical blow.

Thrown off balance, I fell backward.

My head cracked against the sharp marble corner of a pillar.

Pain exploded behind my eyes.

Black spots danced in my vision.

The last thing I saw was Bennet holding Gianna's waist, looking down at me with cold annoyance, before the darkness took me.

Harper POV:

I woke to the sterile sting of antiseptic masked by the cloying scent of expensive lilies.

I was in a private suite at the Family hospital.

My head throbbed with a dull, heavy rhythm, like a drum beating behind my eyes.

Bennet was sitting in the chair next to the bed.

He was holding my prosthetic hand, kissing the plastic fingers with a reverence that made my stomach turn.

"You're awake," he said.

His voice was thick with a performance of concern.

"I was so worried. You were clumsy, Angel."

Clumsy.

He pushed me.

"Where is she?" I croaked, my throat dry as sandpaper.

"Who?"

"The waitress."

Bennet's face hardened, the mask slipping for a fraction of a second.

"She is gone. I fired her. I told you I would handle it."

"Did you?" I asked, searching his gaze. "Did you ruin her?"

"Completely," he lied.

He stood up and poured me a glass of water.

"Drink. You have a concussion. The doctor says you need rest."

He played the role of the doting husband perfectly.

He fed me soup.

He read to me from a glossy magazine.

He charmed the nurses who came in to check my vitals, flashing them his signature disarming smile.

Then, his phone rang.

Two sharp chimes.

"I have to take this," he said, standing up abruptly. "Urgent Family business."

He walked into the hallway, closing the door but not fully latching it.

I fished the ring from the fold of my hospital gown.

I had managed to palm it and hide it before the nurses stripped me of my clothes.

I pressed the button.

"Is she dead?" Gianna asked, her voice tinny through the tiny speaker.

"No," Bennet whispered. "Just a concussion."

"Good. I want her to see me take her place."

"Gianna, you were reckless at the gala."

"The gala was suffocating. Listen, I have an idea. The doctor said she needs help at home, right?"

"She needs monitoring."

"Let me come to the Villa."

Bennet paused.

"As what?"

"A maid. A nurse. Whatever. Tell her it's for her therapy. Tell her I am there to serve her as penance for breaking her hand. She is pathetic enough to believe it."

I gripped the ring so hard the metal cut into my skin.

"Exposure therapy," Bennet mused, the cruelty evident in his tone.

"The psychologist did suggest facing her trauma."

"Exactly. Let me be close to you, Bennet. In your house. In your bed when she is asleep."

"Fine," Bennet said. "Pack a bag. But you wear the uniform. And you call her Ma'am."

"I will call her whatever you want, as long as I can spit in her food."

Bennet laughed, a dark, low sound.

"Good girl."

The line went dead.

Three days later, Bennet drove me home.

He swept me up bridal style and carried me into the foyer.

The staff was lined up, heads bowed in respect.

And there, at the end of the line, stood Gianna.

She was wearing a black maid's uniform with a crisp white apron.

Her blonde hair was pulled back in a severe bun.

She looked demure.

She looked the picture of repentance.

Bennet set me down.

"Harper," he said, his voice gentle. "Dr. Evans suggested that having Gianna here, under your command, would help you heal. She is here to serve you. To beg for your forgiveness through labor."

He looked at me, expecting gratitude for his cruelty.

Gianna curtsied.

She looked up through her lashes, and her eyes were shining with unadulterated malice.

"At your service, Ma'am," she said.

I looked at Bennet.

I looked at the woman who wanted to destroy me.

I didn't scream.

I didn't cry.

I let my shoulders slump in feigned defeat.

"Okay, Bennet," I whispered. "Whatever you think is best."

He kissed my temple.

"That's my good girl."

He didn't see the fire in my eyes.

He didn't know that he had just let the wolf into the hen house.

But he had calculated without one variable.

I wasn't a hen cowering in the coop anymore.

I was a lioness, silently waiting for the cage door to swing open.