Avery ate the eggs.

She hated herself for it, but not because they were good. She ate because her body was a machine, and this was fuel. After the adrenaline of the past twenty-four hours, she was running on empty. She carefully inspected a piece of bacon, then a forkful of egg, looking for any discoloration, any sign of tampering. Finding none, she ate methodically, angrily, stabbing the fork into the plate. This was a tactical retreat, not a surrender.

She looked at the empty chair where Brandon had sat. The indentation of his body was still visible on the velvet cushion.

Her mind drifted, pulled back by the gravity of a memory she tried to suppress.

Ten years ago.

The rain was torrential, turning the boarding school grounds into a mud pit. A sixteen-year-old Avery was running behind the gymnasium, looking for a place to hide from her step-siblings.

She found Brandon instead.

He was fourteen. Small for his age, scrawny, with hair that was too long. He was on the ground, curled into a ball, being kicked by three senior boys.

They were hurting him bad. Blood was mixing with the mud.

Avery didn't run for a teacher. She didn't scream.

She saw a field hockey stick lying in the grass. It was heavy, solid wood.

She picked it up.

She walked up behind the ringleader-a boy named Trent-and swung the stick with everything she had. It connected with the back of his knees with a sickening crack.

Trent screamed and went down. The other boys turned, seeing a girl with wild eyes holding a weapon. They scrambled, terrified by the sheer ferocity in her face.

Avery dropped the stick. Her hands were shaking.

Brandon looked up. His face was a mask of bruises. One eye was swollen shut.

He didn't say thank you.

He crawled over to her. He grabbed her hand. His fingers were coated in his own blood. He smeared it across her palm.

"You saved me," he rasped, his voice broken.

"Now I belong to you."

Avery tried to pull her hand away. "You're bleeding. Go to the nurse."

Brandon just stared at her, unblinking. Imprinting.

Avery shuddered, snapping back to the present. That was the day the "Mad Dog" was born. He had grown six inches that summer and came back a nightmare. But he never touched her. He only watched.

Her phone buzzed.

Text from Unknown: Did you eat?

Text from Unknown: Was it good?

Text from Unknown: I'm watching you.

Avery blocked the number.

She stood up and walked to her laptop. She needed to focus. She had business to do. She typed "Clarke Shepard" into the search bar.

The doorbell rang.

Avery walked to the door and looked through the peephole. A delivery man.

She opened the door. He handed her a small box.

Inside was a brand new iPhone.

There was a note taped to the screen.

Don't block me.

Avery stared at the phone. He was rich, resourceful, and completely insane.

Avery was setting up her workspace when Charles arrived. He was carrying three boxes from the estate.

He looked pale. He wouldn't meet her eyes.

"Where is Onyx?" Avery asked immediately. The panic was instant. Onyx was a black Persian cat, the only living thing she loved.

Charles hesitated. "Master Brandon… he intercepted me at the estate. He was already there, waiting. He said Augustus had given him permission to take Onyx for safekeeping. I couldn't stop him, ma'am."

Avery saw red. The world narrowed to a pinprick of rage. "He kidnapped my cat?"

The new phone-the one Brandon had sent-rang. It was a video call.

Avery answered it, shoving the screen close to her face. "Where is he?"

Brandon appeared on the screen. He was lying on a couch. Onyx was sitting on his chest, purring loudly as Brandon scratched him behind the ears.

"Traitor," Avery muttered at the cat.

"He misses his dad," Brandon teased, grinning.

"You are not his dad!" Avery yelled. "Give him back!"

"I don't know," Brandon mused. "He seems happy. Maybe we can work out a custody arrangement. Dinner? Tonight? You and me?"

"I am not negotiating with terrorists," Avery snapped.

She ended the call abruptly. She didn't open a banking app. Instead, she spoke to Charles, her voice cold as ice.

"Charles, take fifty thousand dollars in cash from the safe. Arrange for a drop. An anonymous courier. Leave it at the front desk of his building, addressed to his security chief. The memo should read: 'For services rendered.' Make it untraceable."

She hung up on him.

On the other side of the city, Brandon waited for a text, a call, a sign of her breaking. When his security chief called an hour later to report a cash delivery, he threw his phone across the room. It shattered against the wall.

Avery turned to Charles. Her face was set in stone.

"Forget the cat for tonight. He's safe. Brandon won't hurt him."

"What are we doing, ma'am?"

"Get the dress ready," Avery said. "The charcoal silk. And call the event organizers for the Shepard Gala. I need to confirm the attendance of a representative from Citrus Ventures."

The Shepard Charity Gala was held at the Met. The ballroom was a sea of tuxedos and designer gowns, the air thick with the scent of money and ambition.

Avery Preston entered the room.

Heads turned, but the conversations only dipped to a whisper. She was wearing a severe, charcoal-grey silk sheath that clung to her form but offered no warmth. It was the dress of a wealthy widow, not a liberated divorcée. Her face was pale, her expression subdued. She looked fragile, haunted, exactly as they expected.

She held her head high, but her eyes scanned the floor, avoiding contact. She spotted him near a secluded alcove by the bar.

Clarke Shepard. The Shark of Wall Street. He was tall, blonde, and looked like he would sell his own mother for a profit margin.

Sloane Shepard, Clarke's sister, waved at Avery from a nearby table. Avery offered a weak, grateful smile and made her way over, using Sloane as a social shield. After a few minutes of feigned social anxiety, Avery excused herself, claiming she needed air.

She moved toward the alcove, pretending to stumble slightly. Clarke Shepard, turning with his drink, caught her elbow to steady her.

"Mr. Shepard," she said, her voice soft, a little breathless. "My apologies."

Clarke looked her up and down. He raised an eyebrow. "Mrs. Garrison. I heard you were... indisposed."

"Ms. Preston," she corrected him gently. "And I'm... managing."

He was about to offer a condescending platitude when she looked up, and for a fraction of a second, the fragility in her eyes was replaced by cold, hard steel.

"Actually, Mr. Shepard," she said, her voice dropping so only he could hear, "I'm not here as Avery Preston. I'm here on behalf of Citrus Ventures. We have something you want."

Clarke's boredom vanished. His eyes sharpened. "Citrus Ventures? The new holding company that just acquired a block of Garrison Biotech?"

"The very same," she murmured, pulling her arm away. "Five percent of the voting shares. We understand you've been trying to acquire a controlling stake for two years."

Clarke smiled. It was the smile of a wolf seeing a fellow predator. "An alliance?"

"A mutually beneficial demolition," Avery whispered, before her mask of the grieving divorcée slipped back into place. "My representative will be in touch."

She nodded politely and drifted away, leaving Clarke Shepard staring after her, a look of profound and dangerous curiosity on his face.