The first thing Ivy felt was the cold.

It wasn't just a chill; it was a bone-deep freeze that made her teeth chatter violently before she even opened her eyes. Then came the sting-sharp, salty spray hitting her face like tiny needles.

She gasped, her eyes flying open.

Darkness. Rain. The roar of an engine.

She tried to move, but her arms were pinned to her sides. Ropes bit into her wrists and ankles, coarse and tight. She was lying on a hard, wet surface. Teak wood. A deck.

Lightning flashed, illuminating the world in a stark, white strobe.

She was on a yacht. The sea churned black and angry around them, waves crashing against the hull.

Standing above her were three figures.

Braeden stood near the railing, his back to her, staring out at the storm. He held a glass of amber liquid, his posture relaxed.

Closer to her stood two women.

Calla Mcgowan was clinging to Braeden's arm, her face buried in his shoulder. She was shaking, seemingly sobbing. But as the lightning flashed again, Ivy saw Calla's eyes peeking out. They were dry. And they were smiling.

"Is she awake?" Brittny Mcgowan asked. Ivy's stepmother stepped forward, her high heel digging painfully into Ivy's shoulder.

Ivy tried to scream, but a strip of heavy duct tape sealed her mouth shut. She could only make a muffled, pathetic sound.

"Look at her," Brittny sneered, looking down at Ivy with pure contempt. "Like a drowned rat."

"Is it done?" Braeden asked, his voice bored. He didn't turn around.

"The doctor confirmed it. A threatened miscarriage, but the stress was too much. He said the tissue was expelled," Brittny lied smoothly, a flicker of cruel satisfaction in her eyes as she concocted the perfect story to sever Braeden's last tie to Ivy. She had paid the doctor handsomely to create a report that would satisfy Braeden's rage and seal Ivy's fate. "The bastard is gone. Just like her reputation."

Ivy's heart shattered. Gone? Her baby was gone? Tears welled in her eyes, hot and blinding, mixing with the rain on her face. She shook her head frantically, looking at Braeden's back, begging him silently to turn around, to see her.

"Good," Braeden said. "Get it over with. I have a board meeting in the morning."

Brittny snapped her fingers. Two burly men in dark raincoats stepped out from the shadows. They grabbed Ivy, one by the shoulders, one by the feet.

She thrashed, kicking uselessly against her bonds. She locked eyes with Calla. Help me, she pleaded with her eyes. We grew up together.

Calla just tightened her grip on Braeden's arm. "Poor Ivy," she whispered, loud enough for Braeden to hear. "She was so unstable. Suicide is such a tragedy."

Brittny leaned down as the men hoisted Ivy toward the railing. Her face was inches from Ivy's. She smelled of expensive perfume and rot.

"You want to know a secret, sweetie?" Brittny whispered, her voice barely audible over the wind. "Your mother didn't die of a heart attack."

Ivy went still. Her eyes widened in horror.

"I switched her pills," Brittny hissed, a cruel smile twisting her red lips. "It took weeks. Watching her heart fail, bit by bit. Just so I could take her place. And now... I'm taking yours."

Rage, hot and molten, exploded in Ivy's chest. It was the only thing warmer than the freezing rain. She screamed behind the tape, a sound of pure, animalistic fury.

Brittny laughed. "Goodbye, Ivy."

The men swung her.

Gravity took over.

For a second, she was weightless, suspended in the black void between the yacht and the water. Then, the ocean rushed up to meet her.

She hit the water with a bone-jarring impact.

The cold was absolute. It paralyzed her instantly, stealing the air from her lungs. She sank like a stone, the weight of the ropes dragging her down into the crushing dark.

The lights of the yacht faded above her, growing smaller and smaller.

Her lungs burned. Her vision began to tunnel.

This is it, she thought. I'm dying.

But then, Brittny's voice echoed in her mind. I switched her pills.

Her mother. Murdered.

Her baby. Killed.

Her life. Stolen.

No.

A primal instinct, older than fear, surged through her blood. She kicked. She thrashed. The water had soaked the ropes, making them slick. The knot around her wrists, tied hastily by careless thugs who underestimated a woman they thought was already half-dead, gave just a fraction of an inch.

Ivy pulled until her skin tore, until her wrist bone felt like it would snap. Fueled by a hatred that burned hotter than the icy water, she twisted with a final, desperate surge of adrenaline.

Her hand slipped free.

She ripped the tape from her mouth, a silent scream of bubbles escaping her lips. She clawed at the ropes around her ankles, freeing her legs.

Her lungs were screaming for air. The darkness was closing in.

She looked up. A faint, rhythmic thrumming sound vibrated through the water. Not the yacht. Something else.

A light. A small, bobbing light in the distance.

Ivy kicked upward. She fought the ocean, fought the pain in her abdomen, fought the desire to just let go.

She broke the surface, gasping, heaving in mouthfuls of salty air and rain.

The yacht was speeding away, a distant blur of lights on the horizon. They hadn't looked back.

But fifty yards away, a fishing trawler was cutting through the waves.

"Help!" Ivy rasped, her voice broken. "Help me!"

She swam. Every stroke was agony. Every kick sent fire through her injured womb. But she swam with the hatred of a woman who had nothing left to lose.

As she reached the side of the rusty boat, grabbing onto a dangling net, she looked back at the disappearing yacht.

I will kill you, she vowed, the thought clear and cold in her mind. I will kill you all.

Four Years Later.

The automatic doors of Cloud City International Airport slid open, and the world exploded into white light.

Flashes popped in rapid succession, a strobe-light assault that would have blinded a normal person. The paparazzi were swarming, shouting names, jostling for position. They were waiting for a pop star rumored to be landing today.

They weren't waiting for her. Not yet.

Ivy Hogan stepped out into the chaos.

She wore a camel-colored trench coat belted tightly at her waist, the collar popped to frame her face. Her eyes were hidden behind oversized black sunglasses. She didn't flinch at the noise. She didn't shrink away.

She paused, letting the crowd flow around her like water around a rock.

Four years ago, Ivy Hogan had been a trembling girl who begged for love. The woman standing on the curb now was forged from steel and ice.

A small hand tugged at the hem of her coat.

Ivy looked down. A little boy, around three years old, stood beside her. He wore a miniature navy suit and a white shirt, looking like a tiny corporate executive. He held a tablet in one hand, his thumb scrolling rapidly across the screen.

Albion Hogan. Her son. Her reason for breathing.

"The car is forty-five seconds away," Albion said, his voice calm, precise, and entirely devoid of childish wonder. He glanced at the screaming mob of photographers with mild annoyance. "Inefficient use of energy."

Ivy smirked. She reached down and smoothed his dark hair. "Be nice, Al. They're just doing their job."

A reporter near the front lowered his camera, squinting at them. "Who is that?" he whispered to his colleague. "She looks familiar. Is that... no, it can't be."

Ivy heard him. She turned her head slightly, lowering her sunglasses just an inch. Her eyes, cold and sharp as cut glass, locked onto the reporter.

He froze.

She pushed the glasses back up and raised a hand. It was a graceful, commanding gesture. A porter immediately rushed over with their luggage cart.

"Personal space," Ivy said softly as a particularly aggressive cameraman tried to shove his lens near Albion's face.

Her hand shot out, catching the lens hood. She didn't push; she just held it there, her grip iron-clad.

"Back up," she said. Her voice was velvet wrapped around a razor blade.

The cameraman stumbled back, looking startled. "Sorry, lady. Just trying to get a shot."

"Get a shot of something else," she advised.

A sleek black sedan pulled up to the curb. The rear door opened, and a man in a sharp grey suit stepped out. Felix Vance. Her agent. Her partner in crime.

"Welcome back to hell, darling," Felix drawled, holding the door open.

Ivy ushered Albion inside, then slid in after him. The heavy door thudded shut, cutting off the noise of the airport instantly. The silence of the luxury car was a balm.

Felix handed her a thick file folder. "Everything is set. The apartment, the bank accounts, the new identity documents for the public."

Ivy took the file but didn't open it. Her gaze was fixed out the window.

The car merged onto the highway leading toward the skyline of Cloud City. It was a city of glass and steel, towering monuments to greed and power.

A massive digital billboard loomed over the highway.

It featured a woman with blonde hair and a beatific smile, holding a rescue puppy. The text read: Calla Mcgowan: Philanthropist of the Year. The Heart of the Randall Foundation.

Ivy's hand tightened on the leather armrest. Her knuckles turned white. Her breath hitched in her throat, a physical reaction to the visceral hatred that spiked in her blood.

"She looks happy," Ivy said, her voice flat.

"She is," Felix said, watching her carefully. "And rich. And engaged. The wedding to Braeden is set for next month."

Ivy laughed. It was a dry, humorless sound. "Perfect timing."

Albion, who had been typing on his tablet, stopped. He reached over and placed his small hand on top of Ivy's clenched fist.

"Heart rate elevated," he noted. "Calm down, Mother. Anger compromises judgment."

Ivy looked at her son. His eyes-so much like his father's, whoever that was-were filled with a wisdom that didn't belong to a toddler.

She took a deep breath, forcing her muscles to relax. She flipped open a compact mirror and checked her reflection. Perfect red lips. Flawless skin. Not a trace of the girl who drowned.

"You're right, Al," she whispered, snapping the compact shut.

She looked back at the city approaching in the distance.

"Let the games begin."

The loft was exactly what she had asked for: minimalist, cold, defensible.

Located in the arts district, it had exposed brick walls and floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a panoramic view of the city she intended to conquer. There was no clutter. No personal items. Just the essentials for war.

Ivy dropped her keys on the kitchen island and walked to the window. She pressed her hand against the glass.

The city lights blurred.

Suddenly, she wasn't in a luxury loft. She was back in that clinic in the foreign country, three years ago.

The smell of antiseptic. The harsh fluorescent lights humming overhead. The pain in her body was a dull, throbbing ache, but the pain in her heart was a gaping wound.

A doctor, his face obscured by a surgical mask, shaking his head. "Boy is strong," he said in broken English. "But girl... too small. Lungs not work. She is gone."

Ivy screaming. Begging to see her. The doctor holding up a polaroid photo-a blurry image of a tiny, blue-skinned infant. "Best you not see. We take care."

The whole place had felt wrong, temporary, as if it could be packed up and vanish overnight. The doctor's eyes, above his mask, had been cold, evasive, refusing to meet hers for more than a second. The emptiness in her arms where her daughter should have been.

"Mommy?"

The voice pulled her back. Ivy gasped, blinking rapidly. The clinic vanished. The loft returned.

She turned around. Albion was sitting on the floor, surrounded by disassembled components of the Wi-Fi router.

"The encryption was standard WPA2," Albion said, frowning at a circuit board. "Embarrassing. I'm upgrading it to a protocol I found online. We can't have anyone tracking our location."

Ivy let out a shaky breath and smiled. She walked over and kissed the top of his head. "Thank you, my little genius."

Felix was spreading photos across the kitchen island. He looked at her with concern.

"You went away again," he said quietly.

"I'm fine," Ivy lied. She picked up a script from the table. The Red Palace.

"Target one: The Audition," Felix said, tapping the script. "It's fully funded by the Randall Group. Braeden is the executive producer. Calla is rumored to be consulting on casting."

"Of course she is," Ivy muttered. "She loves playing God."

"The lead role is the villainess," Felix continued. "Empress Wei. She's manipulative, cruel, and seductive. It's ironic."

"It's perfect," Ivy corrected. She picked up a dart from a bowl on the counter.

On the far wall, Felix had taped up photos of their targets. Braeden. Calla. Brittny.

Ivy weighed the dart in her hand. She narrowed her eyes, focusing on Braeden's smiling face.

Thwack.

The dart buried itself right between Braeden's eyes.

"Bullseye," Albion said without looking up from his router.

"I'm counting on it," Ivy said.

"There's something else," Felix said, checking his phone. "Braeden is hosting a charity gala tonight at 'La Rive'. It's a high-security event. The elite of Cloud City will be there."

Ivy raised an eyebrow. "Tonight?"

"It's risky, Ivy," Felix warned. "If you go, you're showing your face before the audition. Before we're ready."

"I need to see him," Ivy said. Her voice was hard. "I need to see him when he's not expecting it. I need to smell his fear."

She walked to the closet where her new wardrobe hung-rows of silk and velvet, armor for the modern battlefield.

"I'm not Ivy the victim anymore, Felix," she said, pulling out a garment bag. "I'm Ivy the actress. And tonight is just a dress rehearsal."

Albion looked up, holding a screwdriver. He pointed at Calla's photo on the wall.

"Is that the witch?" he asked.

Ivy's expression softened, but her eyes remained deadly.

"Yes, baby," she whispered. "That's the witch."