FIVE YEARS LATER

DAMIEN "REAPER" VOSS

"It's the sixteenth." My lighter flicks open, flame snapping bright. The guy kneeling at my feet flinches like I'm about to torch him. Pathetic. My men hold him down while he spits excuses.

"Your money's coming, Reaper, I swear-"

I sigh. Loud. "That's what you said last month." I snap the lighter shut, let the silence chew him up. "So tell me-am I stupid, or are you suicidal?"

He stammers. I don't listen. I'm already irritated I even had to show up for this. Normally, I send Bones, my Sergeant-at-Arms, to shake down debtors. But it's either this or be at my old cranker's house, listening to him lecture me about Wendy Osborne.

The heiress who keeps throwing herself at me like I'm her goddamn prize. Out of all people, she could've chased Christian-the polished twin, the safe one, the one our old man parades around. But no. She wants me.

Can't say I blame her. Exceptional taste and all. But become a pawn in a marriage to link two rich families? Hard pass.

"Jude." I call my VP. I don't need to look to know he's there. He slides up beside me like a shadow. I feel my temper rise and grit my teeth. "Where's my brother?"

"At Voss Atelier's opening, Prez."

Christian runs the public face of Voss Enterprises: suits, speeches, glossy headlines. I run the parts people prefer not to see. Aside from Princes of Sin MC, the club is all mine. Voss Atelier, the newest addition to Voss Enterprises, a fashion house, is his new obsession - funny, I thought those belonged to me.

Jude hands me a handkerchief. I wipe the blood off my cheek - nothing serious, just a debtor with a bad aim - then pull my leather jacket on. The idea of crashing my brother's parade puts a grin on my face.

"Rough him up a bit," I tell Jude. "Then let him go."

The man stammers, kneeling, "Reaper, thank you! I owe you my life-"

"Oh, you do." I lean close, smile lazy and dangerous. "And don't forget it. If I don't have my cash by month's end," I shrug, casual as breathing, "I'll kill you myself."

* * *

I park the Harley - my bike on some days, the love of my life on others - in the first open spot I see. I toss the keys to the valet and clap him on the shoulder. "Take good care of her, okay?"

He goes white. Probably heard the rumors about the "bad Voss brother." People like to pretend I'm some kind of monster. I hold back a chuckle. I prefer to think of myself as mostly chill.

If anyone's the uptight one, it's my identical twin, Christian - still sulking because Wendy once called me the hotter brother. That's the real cruelty.

But you didn't hear it from me.

What can I say? Long hair, tattoos, motorcycle, dick piercing - women dig it.

I head for the entrance, taking in the décor. Credit where it's due: my brother's taste in interiors is better than his taste in women. At least he's got that going for him. The headquarters is buzzing, packed with champagne-flute guests and fake smiles. A few "Mr. Voss" greetings trail after me, but I let them bounce off.

That's when I catch a familiar face. Vona, my brother's assistant. She flushes the second she spots me, tucking a piece of her glossy brown hair behind her ear, pretending she's not staring. Cute. She must be competent if she's survived three months with Christian, which makes her his longest-lasting assistant. But she doesn't exactly radiate professionalism when I'm in her orbit.

"Damien," she breathes, aiming me a coy little smile. "Mr. Voss wasn't expecting you tonight."

"Does this mean he won't let me see him?" I arch a brow, though we both know I don't give a damn. Christian knows it too.

"He was hoping you'd come. He's entertaining guests, but I know you're not interested in anything like that." Vona bites her bottom lip and winks, sliding closer until her fingers graze my arm. Bold. Too bold. She's never tried that before. "If you want, we can..."

I bark out a laugh, loud enough to make the couple beside us freeze mid–champagne grab. Poor Vona flinches at the sound. I peel her hand off my arm like it's gum stuck to me and pluck a flute off the passing tray.

"I'd rather not." Before she can say anything else, I walk away and wave her off.

It doesn't take long before I'm reminded exactly why I prefer beating fuckers up and running clubs to socialising with fake rich people. At some point, I've talked to half the room and still no sign of the main man. Fine. I give up on Christian for the night and head straight for the one thing that never disappoints: good alcohol.

I claim a stool at the far end of the bar, signal for a glass of whatever's strongest, and lean back to watch the parade of overdressed fakes swirl past.

That's when I see her.

Not because she wants me to - hell, she's not even looking. She's hunched over her drink, fingers tracing the rim of her glass like she's thinking about breaking it. Dark curls falling over her shoulders, sharp lines to her posture, eyes I can't quite catch from here. Something about her - the way she sits too still in a room buzzing with chatter - snags at me.

The bartender sets down my drink. I pick it up and, before I know it, I'm walking over.

"Seat taken?" I nod at the empty stool beside her.

She doesn't even glance at me. "Depends. Are you planning to talk?"

A laugh slips out of me, low and surprised. "Depends. Do you plan on listening?"

That earns me her eyes - sharp hazel, with a birthmark under one that makes me stare a second too long. Cat eyes, slit-pupiled if the light hits right. She studies me like she's sizing up a threat.

"Suit yourself," she mutters, turning back to her drink.

I lean in, can't help it. "Have we met before?"

She clicks her tongue against her teeth, tosses back the last of her glass. Then she finally looks at me, really looks, with a curl to her lips that's pure challenge.

"That's your line? Disappointing. I expected more from the great Christian Voss."

DAMIEN

It's brutal, really-being mistaken for your twin by the most beautiful woman you've ever laid eyes on. Every instinct screams to set her straight, but I bite it back. Because I can see it in those hazel eyes that the only reason she hasn't brushed me off already is because she thinks I'm him.

Fucking hell.

So I give her a lazy grin, lean an inch closer. "And tell me, sweetheart... what exactly did you expect from Christian Voss?"

She narrows her eyes, then reaches out. I hold my breath through the three charged seconds it takes before her palm-burning hot-skims my cheek. My hand lifts, ready to catch hers, but she veers at the last second, fingers snagging on the scruff along my jaw.

"Your hair's longer."

My lips curve. "Dangerous observation. You planning to punish me for it?"

Her mouth tilts, not quite a smile. "No. Just unexpected. It... looks good on you." She lets go like she's already over it, dismissing me with a flick of her hand. "Didn't think you'd dress like this either. Or be... not so insufferable."

I tilt my head, drinking her in, amused at how little she realizes she's feeding the fire. Her bluntness only makes me want to press harder, to see what else she'll give away. And now that I've locked onto her eyes-those sharp, daring eyes, with that tiny beauty mark beneath one-I couldn't look away if I tried. My fingers itch to claim it, just to see how she'd react.

"You know, it's unfair."

Her brows lift. "What is?"

"That you know my name. Everyone here knows my name. But I don't know yours."

"Desperate, are we?"

She's right. And fuck if that doesn't get under my skin more than it should. I want it-the intimacy of it, the claim. My grin turns sharper. "Always. Fix it, sweetheart. What do I call you when I take you home?"

"When?" Her eyes flash, a flicker of heat across her face before she reins it in. She licks her lower lip, as if testing how far she can go. "Ash," she whispers, her lips curling at the edge. "You can call me Ash."

Ash. Short. Dangerous. Already burning its way into my head.

I lean down, close enough that my breath fans across her ear. "Ash. Reckless choice, giving me that."

Her hand ghosts over my chest, feather-light, leaving fire in its wake. "Maybe I like playing with fire."

Christ. If I don't kiss her in the next five minutes, I'll go insane.

"Careful," I murmur, voice dipped low, "you keep talking like that and I'll start thinking you like me. Tell me, beautiful-are you drunk, or just reckless?"

Her laugh is soft, but sharp-edged, like she's daring me to take it the wrong way. "Reckless? Please. If I were reckless, I wouldn't be sitting here talking to you."

My brow arches. "You think this is safe?"

She leans in, close enough that I catch the trace of smoke and citrus clinging to her skin. Her perfume isn't sweet-it's bold, intoxicating, the kind you feel in the back of your throat. "Safer than most things I could be doing right now."

I huff out a laugh, low and amused, though my blood spikes hotter with every word. "That sounds like an invitation."

"Or a warning." Her gaze flickers down my chest before snapping back up. She wants me to notice.

Christ. I drag my tongue across my teeth, my smirk cutting slow. "I like warnings. Makes it more fun when I ignore them."

She rolls her eyes, but her lips twitch like she's fighting a smile. "Arrogant, after all."

"Confident," I correct, leaning in until the space between us barely exists, her knee brushing mine under the bar. "Big difference."

Her breath catches, the tiniest hitch, and I know I've got her. Still, she keeps her mask on, like she's used to winning games like this. "Tell me, Voss," she says, voice dropping, velvet-soft and dangerous, "do you always work this hard for attention?"

"Only when the prize is worth it." My gaze lingers deliberately on the beauty mark under her eye, then lower, tracing the line of her mouth until she shifts in her seat.

She stills, holding my stare like she's testing how far I'll push. Then she tips her head, slow, deliberate. "And what if I'm not interested?"

I let the silence hang, watching her lips curve when she realizes I'm not buying it. I dip closer, my voice pitched just for her. "Then you wouldn't still be sitting here."

That cracks her. A quiet laugh spills out, breathless this time, not nearly as controlled. "You think you're clever."

"I know I am." I reach past her, slow enough that her shoulders tense, and pluck her empty glass from the bar. Our fingers graze; her eyes darken. I hand it to the bartender without looking away from her. "Another?"

She shakes her head. "If I say yes, I might make a mistake."

I grin, sharp and wolfish. "If you say no, you'll regret it."

Her lips part, and for a second I think she's going to argue. Instead, she bites the corner of her mouth, studying me like she can't quite decide if I'm trouble or exactly the kind of trouble she wants tonight.

I lean back, giving her space, letting the tension stretch thin as wire. "So, which is it, beautiful? Safe... or reckless?"

She doesn't answer. She stands, smooth and decisive, tugging her clutch under her arm. When her hazel eyes lock on mine again, they're blazing. "Follow me and find out."

Fuck. My pulse stutters, then kicks hard. I toss a bill on the bar, don't bother checking the change, and fall into step behind her.

Her heels strike against the marble, each step sharp as a countdown, pulling me through the crowd, past the glitter and laughter and fake handshakes. She doesn't look back, doesn't slow down, doesn't need to-she knows I'm there.

At the front doors, the night air hits-cool, biting, electric. She lifts her chin at the waiting line of cars, not sparing me a glance. "Well, Voss? You leading, or am I?"

I smirk, sliding my hands into my pockets, though every muscle in me is wired tight. "Ladies first."

She gives me that look again-half challenge, half promise-and glides forward, a queen cutting through the night. I catch up, close enough to breathe in her perfume again, dark and citrus-sweet, the kind that'll haunt my sheets if I'm lucky.

"Where to?" I murmur, low enough only she can hear.

Her lips curve, slow and devastating. "Somewhere I won't regret until morning."

Dangerous. Fucking irresistible. I gesture to the valet, snagging my keys with a grin. "Then let's make it a night worth regretting."

* * *

"Good morning, beauti-"

My hand lands on nothing.

For the first time in a long while, I wake up alone. I should feel good about it - no sneaking out before she wakes up, no awkward goodbyes. But lying here now, I just feel... dumped.

Ash. That was her name.

The girl with the beauty mark under her left eye and the kind of smile that makes a man forget his own name.

I think about her laugh, the way she'd looked at me last night like she was memorising me. Damn. I actually want to see her again.

"Where's my phone?" I grumble, patting around until I find it on the nightstand. Something slips off and hits my face.

I look down.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Five crumpled dollar bills.

And a tiny note: Thanks. For last night.

For a second, I just stare. Then I start laughing.

"She did not-" I wheeze, shaking my head. "Five dollars? That's all I'm worth? A five-dollar whore?"

RHEA

"We're here with Elara Hale-Head Designer of the wildly popular Wardrobe and wife of CEO Victor Hale. One half of New York's favourite power couple. This week's NYFW lineup has cemented Wardrobe as the most influential fashion brand in the world. When Wardrobe began, did you ever imagine reaching this level?"

Elara crosses her legs on-screen, polished and perfect. I button the cuffs of my shirt as I watch, sitting in an apartment that's technically a downgrade from hell, but still better than a prison cell. The ceiling leaks, rats hold nightly concerts, the heater's dead... but there's a bed, a roommate who snores instead of stabs, and most days, that's enough.

Elara smiles. "I always knew my husband was destined for success, so none of this surprises me. His vision and my designs built Wardrobe. I never doubted we'd make it."

The interviewer beams like she's been personally blessed. I glue the sole of my shoe back on and dig around for my bag.

"Of course. And do you have any advice for aspiring designers or fashion-school graduates who dream of working at Wardrobe?"

"Dream big. Work hard. Don't give up. And Wardrobe will always welcome you with open arms."

A lie so smooth it could win awards.

"You've heard it from Elara. Now, onto some circulating rumours: apparently the brand's first Head Designer-Aurora, was it?-recently passed away in prison just before her scheduled release. What-"

Elara tilts her head, perfect confusion... except for the tiny twitch in her pinky. "Who?"

I sling my bag over my shoulder and stop at the mirror on my way out. I'd tortured my afro-textured curls with my roommate's pathetic excuse for a straightener. Added a bit of blush so my brown skin didn't look as tired as I felt. Red lipstick. Clothes and a handbag I stitched myself on a second-hand sewing machine I could barely afford.

And yet. I look far more expensive than I am.

I look like a woman ready to walk out of Voss Atelier as the new Creative Director.

Shame the truth is messier.

I've always known the story Victor and Elara chose: that I never existed. That I was no one. Prison only confirmed it. That so-called "court wedding" Victor and I had? A joke. His real wife was Elara. Has always been Elara. Four kids. The eldest is eleven-older than my relationship with him. Their little fashion prodigy.

Just like the abortion Victor planned for me. The clinic? Never existed. The doctor? Fake identity. And the hysterectomy? Not a single trace.

And Camryn...

Nothing. No records. No birth certificate. No proof she ever drew breath.

Like my baby was a ghost.

It was a perfect dead end.

They played me. Used my designs. Hid me so well the world never even knew I'd been there.

But they don't know what they created. They don't know the fire they lit.

And the higher they've climbed, the sweeter it'll be when I drag everything they built straight to the ground.

And I will-because somewhere out there, Camryn exists. And I'm going to find her.

"Rhea! Grab takeout on your way back! And good luck on your interview-you look gorgeous!" Roofus leans out of his room with a grin.

"Tell that to your hookups. I'm not your free breakfast."

"Oh, don't be like tha-"

I shut the door before he can finish. He's not terrible, honestly-especially when he remembers the walls are thin and keeps it down with both the snoring and the sex.

Which, annoyingly, sends my brain straight back to him.

The memory of last night hits so hard I almost miss a step.

God. Heat coils low in my stomach, sharp and needy. My thighs press together before I can stop them. I can still feel Christian's hand wrapped around the back of my neck, his breath dragging slow and claiming against my ear right before he whispered, low and rough:

"Spread your legs for me, Dot."

Dot.

The way he said it... like he'd already decided I was his. Like he knew something about me I didn't want anyone to know.

I hadn't planned on sleeping with him. Not even close. I'd only stolen that invitation from a drunk investor to sneak into the event, to get a glimpse of the man who would run Voss Atelier. Christian Voss was supposed to be predictable-cold, polished, money-hungry.

But then he had me pinned against that marble wall, looking at me like he could read every secret I'd ever buried-

Yeah. My plan didn't just dissolve. It melted.

He kissed like he owned my mouth. Touched me like he was memorising every inch. Said my name as if he'd branded it onto his tongue.

And the worst part? My body still hasn't forgiven me for walking away.

Then guilt slams into me so fast it steals the breath right out of my chest.

I can't afford this.

Not this heat. Not this distraction. Not when I still haven't found my little girl.

Desire is a luxury. Guilt is the reality I wake up to.

I know Christian enough to know he'd never hire someone just because he slept with them. Profit is his religion. And my designs? They'd make him rich.

In return... I think of the bills and the note I left on his nightstand and can't help my snort.

Elara was right about one thing: Aurora Hale is dead. Erased. Forgotten.

But Rhea Ashford? She's the woman who'll burn the Hales to ash.

***

"Rhea Ashford?" A striking woman in a sleek pencil skirt calls out, clipboard in hand, her smile warm and assessing. "They're ready for you. I'll lead you to the boardroom... and can I say, I love your outfit!"

"Thank you," I reply, letting a small, polite smile slip past my nerves. I give my binder one last reassuring squeeze and follow her.

She leads me into a glass-walled conference room. Five board members I vaguely recognise sit around a long marble table, each with a polished tablet and a carefully neutral expression like they've already made up their minds.

I walk in anyway.

I pretend not to notice their impressed gazes track the lines of my outfit from the structured blazer, the hand-finished seams, to the bag I constructed stitch by stitch, though warmth slips into my chest. 

"Miss Ashford," the man at the centre says, motioning me to sit. "We've reviewed your portfolio. Your craftsmanship is... impressive."

"Thank you," I say quietly as I sit. "That means a lot."

Another board member clears her throat. "As you know, we're searching for a Creative Director. Someone fresh, with formal training and strong industry ties. Wardrobe's team is young, connected, constantly tapped into trends - we need someone who can compete with that."

I nod. Makes sense. Wardrobe is dominating fashion worldwide. Any new house would want to follow their lead. That wouldn't be an issue, except... 

The woman continues, listing off prestigious fashion schools: "Several applicants studied at IFA, Studio Haute, the New York Institute of Design and Sty-"

I clench my fists. I can't tell the truth. Faking my death in prison, taking on a new identity-it had cost me everything. Saying that all those schools paled in comparison to Maison Lumière in Paris would blow my cover. Maison Lumière, the best fashion school in the world, accepts only fifty students a year, and just five receive financial aid. I'd been nineteen-and on a full scholarship.

Not to mention, that's where I met Victor. He was thirty-one. I married him at twenty and dropped out in my second year when I got pregnant with Camryn. That part of my past? Never spoken of here.

I nod, folding my hands in my lap. "I understand. I wasn't able to afford schools like that. I trained locally, and even that ended early when the head professor passed away. Most of what I know, I learned on my own."

She instantly turns dismissive.

The man with glasses leans forward. "And your connections? Mentors, sponsors, anyone we'd know?"

"Not really," I admit. "I don't come from that world." I take a breath. "But I do understand design. And I understand people. Trends change fast, but what people want - what makes them feel something - that's deeper. That's what I focus on."

They exchange bored looks.

I glance at my portfolio on the table. "Wardrobe works because they're always ahead. Whoever you hire will need the freedom to create, not just imitate. If you only follow their formula... you'll always be two steps behind."

My voice is calm, not sharp. Honest, not defensive.

For a moment, no one speaks. I know I've hit a nerve.

I smooth my skirt, bite back a smile, and stand. "Thank you for the opportunity. Truly. I appreciate you taking the time to meet me."

"Miss Ashford-" one of them begins, hesitant.

"It's okay," I say gently. "I know I'm not what you expected."

I turn toward the door. Three... two-

"Wai-"

The door swings open, and I freeze.

He's standing there. Christian. Piercing grey eyes locked on mine, every inch of him radiating control. His hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. Stubble along his jaw-rough, tantalizing-and I remember exactly how it felt against my skin last night. Leather jacket sleeves rolled up, showing tattooed arms, a silver pendant at his collarbone. Rings glint on his fingers, his hands shoved into his pockets.

A faint, amused lift curves his mouth as he steps inside, briefly acknowledging a board member with a tilt of his finger.

The board scrambles to their feet, murmuring, flustered.

"Mr. Voss-we didn't expect-"

He doesn't look at them. Only at me.

My pulse hammers in my chest. His presence is electric. Every nerve in my body is alive, every memory of last night dragging me closer to a dangerous edge.

He slides into the chair at the head of the table, arms crossed, eyes still on me.

"Please," he says, slow, deliberate, and every word lands like fire. "Don't stop on my account, Rhea Ashford."

That voice. The same deep, commanding drawl from last night. The one that whispered in my ear: Hands on the headboard, arch your back for me, Dot."

Heat curls low in my stomach. My thighs press together. My mouth goes dry.

Well, shit.