The first gray light of dawn filtered through the heavy curtains, slicing across the room like a blade. Jedidiah opened his eyes. He didn't grope for an alarm clock; his internal rhythm woke him at 5:00 AM, regardless of when he slept.

His arm was numb. A heavy weight pinned it to the mattress.

He turned his head. A woman was curled against his side, her face buried in the pillow, her dark hair fanned out like spilled ink.

Memory crashed into him. The intruder. The drugs. The frantic, desperate heat of the night.

He stared at her exposed shoulder. Her skin was pale in the morning light, marred by a faint, reddish bruise where his fingers had gripped her too tightly. A surge of self-loathing twisted in his gut, followed immediately by a dark, possessive satisfaction.

His phone, left on the bedside table, vibrated silently. The screen lit up with a red banner: SECURITY ALERT - LEVEL 1.

Jedidiah's eyes narrowed. He reached for the phone, his movement slow and controlled. It was a message from Quentin. Network breach detected at 0300. Source internal. Investigating.

Internal.

He looked back at the woman. Was she a plant? A corporate spy sent to seduce the cripple and steal the keys to the kingdom while he was distracted?

He needed to get to his study. He needed to check the servers.

He pushed the covers back. This was the part he hated. The humiliation of the morning routine. He grabbed the overhead bar attached to the headboard and hauled his upper body up. His biceps bulged with the effort, veins popping against his skin. He swung his lifeless legs over the edge of the bed, using his hands to position them.

The woman stirred.

Jedidiah froze, his hand reaching under his pillow for the Sig Sauer P320 he kept there.

She didn't wake up. She just shifted, murmuring something unintelligible, and pulled the duvet tighter.

He transferred himself into the wheelchair with a grunt of exertion. He wheeled over to the chair where his clothes from the previous night were draped. He picked up his bespoke suit jacket-a dark navy piece-and returned to the bedside. Carefully, so as not to wake her, he laid it over her bare back. He didn't know why. Maybe he just didn't want to see the evidence of what he had done.

He wheeled himself silently out of the bedroom, the rubber tires making no sound on the plush carpet. He headed for the hidden door that led to his study.

The moment the door clicked shut, Evita's eyes snapped open.

She hadn't been asleep. She had been awake for ten minutes, regulating her breathing, listening to the rhythm of his heart.

She sat up, gasping as a wave of dizziness hit her. Her head throbbed like it was being split open with an axe. The aftereffects of the drug were brutal.

She looked around the room. It was masculine, sterile, expensive. She looked down at herself. Naked. Bruised.

Panic clawed at her throat. She remembered the wheelchair. She remembered the man.

Jedidiah Stone.

She had slept with the enemy. No, not just the enemy-a man who could destroy her entire cover with a single phone call.

She scrambled out of bed, her legs shaking. She ran to the bathroom, splashing cold water on her face. She looked in the mirror. Her mascara was smeared down her cheeks. There was a love bite on her neck, dark and angry.

"Stupid," she whispered, her voice raspy. "Stupid, stupid."

She had to leave. Now.

She grabbed a towel and began frantically wiping down every surface she might have touched. The nightstand. The bedframe. The door handle.

She spotted her torn dress on the floor. It was ruined. She couldn't wear it. She grabbed the jacket he had thrown over her. It was heavy, smelling of sandalwood and gun oil. She shoved her arms into the sleeves, buttoning it all the way up. It hung to her mid-thighs, covering her like a dress. She had to take it. Not as a souvenir, but as a necessity. The fabric could hold trace evidence-DNA, fibers from his study-that could be useful later.

She checked the pockets. Empty.

She grabbed her heels and ran for the door. She checked the hallway. Empty.

She didn't take the elevator. Too many cameras. She sprinted for the fire exit at the end of the hall. She pushed the heavy bar, and the door opened into the cool morning air.

As she ran down the metal stairs, the heels of her shoes clanging against the grate, she felt something hard in the jacket pocket bump against her hip. She reached in. It wasn't a cufflink. It was a small, flat, metallic rectangle, cold to the touch. It looked like a custom data chip, maybe a key card for a private server. She must have scooped it up when she grabbed the jacket.

She shoved it back in. Keep moving.

Back in the suite, Jedidiah stared at the monitor in his study. The footage showed a figure in his jacket disappearing into the stairwell.

She was fast. Efficient. She cleaned the room.

He slammed his fist onto the armrest of his chair.

He wheeled back into the bedroom. The bed was messy, the sheets tangled. He moved closer, inspecting the scene.

There, in the center of the white sheet, was a small, dried stain of blood.

He stared at it for a long time. His jaw tightened until his teeth ached.

She was a virgin.

The spy, the whore, the intruder-she had been untouched. And he had taken her in the dark, roughly, without asking for a name.

Quentin burst into the room, breathless. "Sir, the breach-"

"Forget the breach," Jedidiah said, his voice deadly quiet. He didn't look away from the bloodstain. "Lock down the estate. Find the woman who left this room. I want her alive."

Miles away, Evita slumped into the back of a yellow taxi. She looked at her reflection in the rearview mirror and raised a trembling middle finger to herself.

"Evita," she croaked. "You are officially insane."

The water was scalding. Evita stood under the spray in the tiny bathroom of the Brooklyn safe house, scrubbing her skin with a stiff-bristled brush until it turned raw and red. She was trying to wash him off. The scent of sandalwood, the phantom sensation of his hands on her waist-it clung to her like a second skin.

She turned off the water and leaned her forehead against the cool tiles. Tears mixed with the droplets on her face. It wasn't just fear. It was the terrifying realization that for a few hours in the dark, she hadn't been pretending. She had been real. And she had liked it.

A knock on the door made her jump.

"Cipher," a male voice called out. "You're twelve hours late. I was about to scrub the mission."

Evita wrapped a towel around her hair and pulled on a thick bathrobe. She opened the door. Harper was standing there, holding a tablet, his face pale.

She walked past him into the living room, grabbing a tube of heavy-duty concealer from her bag. She began dabbing it onto the bruise on her neck.

"Mission aborted," she signed, her hands moving sharply. "Complications."

"Complications?" Harper scoffed. He shoved the tablet at her. "Look at the news. Vanderbilt Estate is on lockdown. They're saying it's a manhunt for a corporate spy."

Evita's heart skipped a beat. She took the tablet. The headline screamed: STONE SECURITY BREACH.

"Is that you?" Harper asked.

Evita didn't answer. She walked over to the pile of clothes she had discarded on the floor. She picked up the navy jacket.

"Holy shit," Harper breathed. He reached out and touched the fabric. "Is that... Vicuña wool? That's a forty-thousand-dollar jacket."

He flipped the lapel. Embroidered in silver thread were two small letters: J.S.

"J.S.," Harper muttered. He typed furiously on his keyboard. "Jedidiah Stone? The cripple? The recluse?"

Evita sank onto the sofa. The room spun. She had slept with the Broken King.

"If it was him," Harper said, his voice dropping to a whisper, "you are in serious trouble. Stone security is Mossad-level. If he finds you..."

"He didn't see my face," Evita said. Her voice was raspy, unused to being used. "It was dark. I was careful."

Harper looked at her, surprised by the sound of her voice. He rarely heard it.

Her burner phone buzzed on the table. It was the specific ringtone assigned to the Peck family. A shrill, demanding chime.

Evita picked it up.

"Where the hell are you?" Eleanora's voice screeched through the speaker. "Cherry said you ran off last night! Do you have any idea how much damage you've caused?"

Evita didn't speak. She tapped the microphone twice with her fingernail. Tap. Tap.

"Get back to D.C. immediately," Eleanora yelled. "I have news for you. And don't you dare make me wait."

The line went dead.

Evita stared at the phone. "She wants me back."

"Don't go," Harper said. "It's a trap. Stay here. We can extract you."

Evita stood up. Her eyes were cold, the fear replaced by a steely resolve. "No. The safest place is right under their noses. Jedidiah Stone is looking for a spy. He won't be looking for the Senator's mute, broken doll."

She began to pack. She took the navy jacket, folded it carefully inside out, and placed it in the hidden bottom compartment of her suitcase.

At the Stone Estate, Quentin stood before Jedidiah's desk.

"The camera feeds weren't looped, sir. They were corrupted. A localized EM pulse fried the recorders for a ninety-second window, exactly when she would have passed the main camera bank. It's not amateur work; it's military-grade stealth tech. We only have a back profile from a distance camera." Quentin hesitated. "We did find that Evita Peck, the Senator's illegitimate daughter, left early. She fits the general build."

Jedidiah looked up from his computer. "The mute?"

"Yes, sir."

Jedidiah let out a short, derisive laugh. "A traumatized girl who can't even speak? You think she deployed an EMP, breached my security, disabled three locks, and cleaned a crime scene?" He shook his head. "Don't waste my time. Check the others."

"Yes, sir."

"But," Jedidiah added, his eyes darkening, "keep an eye on the Peck family. O'Connell was looking for someone last night. There might be a connection."

Evita stepped out of the safe house, wearing an oversized gray sweater and thick-rimmed glasses. Her posture slumped, her gaze vacant. She was Evita Peck again.

A black SUV rolled slowly past the corner. The tinted window lowered an inch, just enough for a pair of eyes to watch her get into a cab.

The Peck mansion in D.C. smelled of lilies and old polish. Evita dragged her suitcase across the marble foyer, the wheels clicking loudly in the silence. Two maids dusted a vase nearby, watching her with open contempt.

In the drawing room, Eleanora was lounging on a velvet chaise, a martini glass dangling from her fingers. Cherry sat on the floor, scrolling through her phone, looking bored.

"Look who decided to grace us with her presence," Eleanora said, her voice slurring slightly. "Who was he? Some waiter? A busboy?"

Evita lowered her head, clasping her hands in front of her. She twisted her fingers together, mimicking anxiety.

"Mom, stop asking," Cherry giggled without looking up. "She probably just got lost in the garden. She's too damaged to hook up with anyone. O'Connell definitely didn't want her."

Eleanora set her glass down with a sharp clink. She stood up and walked over to Evita. The smell of gin was overpowering.

Without warning, Eleanora's hand lashed out.

Crack.

The slap echoed in the high-ceilinged room. Evita saw it coming. She could have blocked it, could have broken Eleanora's wrist in two moves. Instead, she turned her head into the blow, letting it snap her neck to the side.

She tasted copper. Her lip was cut.

"Because of you," Eleanora hissed, "O'Connell pulled his donation! You useless little parasite!"

Evita touched her lip, staring at the blood on her finger. She kept her face blank.

"But it doesn't matter," Eleanora said, smoothing her skirt. "I found a new use for you. You're getting married next week."

Evita's head snapped up. Her eyes widened. This wasn't acting.

"It's the Stones," Cherry said, finally looking up with a malicious grin. "Grandma says they need a 'clean' wife. Someone quiet."

Evita's blood ran cold. Stone. Jedidiah.

"Not Jedidiah," Eleanora waved her hand dismissively. "Who would want that cripple? It's his cousin. Simon."

Evita let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. Simon Stone. The playboy. The one with the rumors about hurting women. It was bad, but it wasn't Jedidiah.

"Go unpack," Eleanora commanded. "The attic."

Evita grabbed her suitcase and hurried up the stairs.

Meanwhile, in the Stone Estate conservatory, Victoria Stone sat in a wicker chair, listening to the rain hit the glass roof.

"The report, ma'am," Ursula, the head housekeeper, whispered, handing over a file.

Victoria opened it. It was the lab analysis of the bedsheet.

"Unidentified female DNA," Victoria murmured, reading the summary. "No match in any criminal, civil, or medical database. A ghost. And the blood itself... high concentrations of Flunitrazepam mixed with a military-grade stimulant. She was drugged, but she was also fighting it." A slow, terrifying smile spread across her face. "Jedidiah finally broke his fast."

"Master Jedidiah is looking for her, but he doesn't know who she is," Ursula said.

Victoria tapped her cane on the floor. "Help him. I want to meet the woman who managed to climb into his bed and walk out alive."

Back in the Peck attic, Evita opened her suitcase. She reached for the hidden compartment. The jacket was there, safe.

If she married Simon, she would be in the Stone family. She would be inside their perimeter. It was dangerous, yes. But it was also the closest she had ever been to the truth about her mother's death. The clues all pointed to the Stone patriarch.

She pulled out her burner phone. Text to Harper: Get me dirt on Simon Stone. Everything.

The door to the attic burst open.

Evita jumped, shoving the phone under her thigh.

Cherry stood there, eyes gleaming. "Mom said I should check your bag. Make sure you didn't steal any silver."

"No," Evita signed.

Cherry ignored her. She grabbed the suitcase and dumped it upside down. Clothes spilled everywhere. She kicked through the pile.

"Ugly. Ugly. Trash," Cherry muttered. Then she saw the zippered lining at the bottom of the case. "What's this?"

Evita lunged.

She couldn't help it. If Cherry found the jacket with the J.S. monogram, it was over.

She grabbed the suitcase, her fingers digging into the fabric. For a split second, the mask slipped. Evita glared at Cherry with the eyes of a killer-cold, dead, and promising violence.

Cherry gasped, recoiling as if she'd been burned. She stumbled back.

"You... you freak!" Cherry shrieked. "Get away from me!"

She kicked the suitcase one last time and ran out of the room, slamming the door.

Evita collapsed onto the floor, clutching the bag to her chest. Her heart was hammering. That was too close.