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.

The sun had set, and Cloud City had transformed into a grid of neon and gold.

A black sedan pulled up to the valet stand of La Rive, the most exclusive private club in the city. The doorman, a man who had turned away senators, checked his clipboard.

"Name?"

"Felix Vance," the agent said, stepping out of the car. He extended a hand to help Ivy out.

She emerged.

She wore a dress of crimson silk, backless and plunging. It was the color of fresh blood, the color of war. It clung to her curves like a second skin. Her hair was swept up, revealing the elegant line of her neck.

The doorman blinked. He didn't ask for her name. He just opened the velvet rope.

Inside, the club was dimly lit, the air filled with the soft crooning of a jazz singer and the clinking of crystal.

Ivy scanned the room as they walked to their table. She saw producers, oil tycoons, politicians. The air smelled of money and secrets.

"Don't look too hungry," Felix whispered as they sat down in a shadowed booth.

"I'm not hungry," Ivy replied, picking up the menu. "I'm full."

She ordered a glass of champagne, but she didn't drink it. She watched the door. She watched Braeden's usual table. It was empty.

After twenty minutes, she felt a restlessness in her legs.

"I'm going to the ladies' room," she told Felix.

She slipped away from the table, navigating the crowded room. The hallway leading to the restrooms was quiet, lined with plush velvet wallpaper and potted palms. The jazz music faded to a dull thrum.

Ivy paused in front of a mirror to check her lipstick.

Scritch. Scritch.

A soft sound came from behind a large fern in the corner.

Ivy turned. "Hello?"

Nothing.

She took a step closer. She saw a small shoe-a shiny black patent leather Mary Jane-poking out from behind the heavy velvet curtain.

Ivy crouched down. "That's not a very good hiding spot," she said gently.

The curtain moved. A little face peeked out.

It was a girl, maybe three years old. She had wild, curly dark hair and huge, terrified eyes. She was trembling.

Ivy's heart did a strange, painful flip in her chest. The girl looked... familiar. There was something about the shape of her eyes, the curve of her chin.

"Are you lost, sweetheart?" Ivy asked, extending a hand.

The girl stared at Ivy's hand but didn't take it. She shook her head frantically. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

Mute? Ivy thought.

Suddenly, heavy footsteps echoed from the far end of the hallway. A man's voice, deep and angry, called out. "Search the perimeter!"

The little girl's eyes went wide with panic. She lunged forward and grabbed Ivy's hand.

Her grip was desperate, shockingly strong for such tiny fingers.

"It's okay," Ivy started to say.

But the girl didn't wait. She pulled. She dragged Ivy toward a mahogany door marked VIP - PRIVATE.

Before Ivy could protest, the girl reached up, turned the heavy brass handle, and pulled Ivy inside.