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."

The Cloud City Mall was a temple of consumerism, a sprawling labyrinth of marble floors and glass storefronts.

It was mid-afternoon, and the luxury wing was sparsely populated. Ivy walked slowly, her heels clicking rhythmically on the polished floor. She wore a wide-brimmed hat that cast a shadow over her face and oversized sunglasses that hid her eyes.

She wasn't hunting. She was running an errand, picking up a specific brand of imported organic milk for Albion that was only sold at one high-end grocer here.

Felix had tipped her off. Calla and Braeden were here, picking out wedding bands at Tiffany's. She had intended to avoid them, to stick to her own path, but fate, it seemed, had other plans.

As she passed the central atrium, she saw them through the open doors of the jewelry store, just fifty feet away.

Calla was hanging onto Braeden's arm, pointing excitedly at a tray of diamond rings. She looked radiant, her laugh echoing faintly into the hallway.

Braeden, however, looked miserable. He was checking his watch, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He looked like a man serving a sentence, not planning a wedding.

Ivy's grip tightened on the paper bag in her hand. She turned, intending to take a different route, when a woman walking past her stopped at the nearby perfume counter.

The woman sprayed a tester into the air. Gardenia.

It was the scent Ivy had worn every day of their relationship. The scent he used to bury his face in. The scent that was on her skin the night he kicked her.

The heavy, floral aroma drifted on the air-conditioned currents, wafting toward the open doors of the jewelry store.

Braeden stiffened.

Ivy, who had paused in her retreat, watched in the reflection of a polished column as his head snapped up. He looked around wildly, his nostrils flaring. He pushed Calla's hand away and stepped out of the store, his eyes scanning the atrium.

His gaze swept over the perfume counter, past the woman who had sprayed the scent, and for a split second, it grazed over Ivy's form as she stood partially obscured by a display.

Ivy didn't flinch. She didn't run. She simply turned her back fully, her posture calm, and continued walking toward the exit as if she hadn't noticed a thing.

Braeden's face went pale. He took a stumbling step forward.

"Ivy?" he whispered. The word was swallowed by the cavernous space between them.

"Braeden!" Calla's shrill voice rang out. She ran out of the store, grabbing his arm. "Where are you going? We haven't picked the setting!"

Braeden ignored her. He pulled away and rushed to the perfume counter.

He stood exactly where the other woman had been seconds ago. The air was still thick with the smell of gardenias.

He gripped the edge of the counter, his knuckles white. He looked left, then right.

Ivy was gone.

"What is wrong with you?" Calla demanded, stomping her foot.

Braeden looked at her, his eyes wide and haunted. "I... I smelled her."

"Smelled who?"

"Ivy."

Calla's face twisted in annoyance. "She's dead, Braeden. She's fish food. Stop being so dramatic."

Braeden shook his head, running a hand through his hair. "It was so strong. It was like she was standing right here."

From the second-floor balcony, having taken the escalator up to circle back to the parking garage, Ivy watched them.

She saw Braeden's trembling hands. She saw the fear in his eyes.

A cold smile touched her lips.

"Haunted, are we?" she thought. "Good."

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. A text from Felix: Table at La Rive confirmed for 8 PM. Don't be late.

Ivy turned and walked away, leaving the ghost of gardenias to torment the man below.