Arline reached for the brass doorknob of the master bedroom.

Before her fingers could touch the cold metal, she heard footsteps in the hallway.

She stopped. She kept her face perfectly blank.

The door pushed open from the outside. Agnes O'Shea stood in the doorway. Agnes was the head housekeeper of the Caldwell estate. She was a stern woman in her fifties who only took orders from Edgardo.

Agnes held a silver tray with a glass of water. She stopped dead when she saw Arline.

Agnes stared at the grey business suit. She stared at the heavy leather trunk in Arline's hand.

Agnes quickly forced a polite, fake smile onto her face.

"Mrs. Caldwell," Agnes said. "Mr. Caldwell asked me to tell you he will not be returning to the master bedroom tonight. Miss Kenia has a terrible fever. He must stay in the West Wing to monitor her."

Arline listened to the lie. A cold, sharp smile cut across her face.

She did not lower her eyes. She did not look sad.

Arline stepped forward, forcing Agnes to back out into the hallway.

Arline looked at the walls of the corridor. Expensive garlands of white roses hung from the wall sconces. Edgardo ordered them put up yesterday to show the staff he cared about the anniversary.

Arline turned her head to look at Agnes.

"Wake up the night shift," Arline said. Her voice was flat and hard. It sounded like a blade scraping against stone.

Agnes blinked. "Excuse me, ma'am?"

"Wake up every maid currently on shift," Arline commanded. "I want every single anniversary decoration in this house torn down and thrown in the garbage before the sun comes up."

Agnes stiffened. She lifted her chin, trying to use Edgardo's authority.

"Mr. Caldwell specifically ordered these decorations, ma'am. He will be very angry if we destroy them without his permission."

Arline took one step closer to the housekeeper. She looked down at the older woman.

"Who signs your paycheck, Agnes?" Arline asked.

Agnes opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

The Caldwell family had money, but Arline's personal trust fund paid for the estate's daily operations. Arline controlled the household budget.

"I do," Arline said, answering her own question. "If those flowers are not in the incinerator in twenty minutes, you will pack your bags and leave this property. Do you understand?"

Cold sweat broke out on Agnes's forehead. She nodded quickly. She pulled a walkie-talkie from her belt and began barking orders to the staff.

Arline carried her trunk down the grand staircase.

She walked into the main living room on the first floor. She sat down on a single silk armchair. She crossed her legs. She kept her back completely straight.

Five maids ran into the room. They wore their sleep uniforms. They looked terrified.

They saw Arline sitting there in her grey suit. They saw the dead look in her eyes. No one dared to speak.

Under Arline's silent stare, the maids dragged step-ladders into the room. They began ripping the silk ribbons and white roses off the walls and the fireplace mantle.

A young maid's hand shook. She bumped a heavy crystal vase sitting on a side table.

The vase crashed to the hardwood floor. It shattered into a hundred pieces. The loud noise echoed like a gunshot in the quiet room.

The young maid dropped to her knees. She covered her head with her arms, shaking violently. She waited for Arline to scream at her. The vase cost ten thousand dollars.

Arline looked at the broken glass. Her expression did not change.

"Sweep it into the trash," Arline said calmly. "Do not bother logging it in the inventory."

The absolute lack of emotion in Arline's voice terrified the staff more than screaming ever could. The air in the room felt heavy and suffocating.

In thirty minutes, the living room was stripped bare. The fake romance was gone. Only the cold, empty luxury of the house remained.

Arline stood up. She brushed a piece of invisible dust off her suit jacket. She picked up her trunk.

She walked toward the front entrance.

Agnes ran after her. "Ma'am, where are you going at this hour? Should I wake the driver?"

Arline stopped. She turned her head slightly.

"I am going to the Monroe estate," Arline said. "I do not need a Caldwell car."

She pulled her phone from her pocket. She dialed the number for Cora Finch. Cora was Arline's personal assistant, paid directly from the Monroe trust fund.

Cora answered on the first ring.

"Send a car to the Caldwell estate. Now," Arline ordered.

Arline hung up. She pushed open the heavy front doors.

The rain had stopped. The air smelled like wet dirt and crushed leaves.

Arline stood alone on the massive stone porch. The cold wind blew the loose strands of hair around her face. She did not shiver.

Ten minutes later, a black, bulletproof Maybach cut through the darkness. It parked at the bottom of the stone steps.

Cora jumped out of the driver's seat. She wore a black trench coat. She ran up the steps and took the heavy trunk from Arline's hand. Cora looked at Arline's pale face with deep concern.

Arline walked down the steps. She got into the back seat of the Maybach.

She did not look back at the Caldwell estate. She stared straight ahead.

The windows rolled up. The Maybach drove into the night.

The black Maybach drove through the thick morning fog. It approached the massive wrought-iron gates of the Monroe estate.

The gates swung open. The tires crunched loudly over the gravel driveway.

Arline leaned her head against the cold leather seat. She closed her eyes. Her chest ached with a dull, heavy pressure. She was not thinking about Edgardo. She was thinking about her father, Gary Monroe.

Gary was a former diplomat. He suffered from a rare, degenerative nerve disease.

The car stopped in front of the brick mansion.

Alfred Hemmings, the elderly butler of the Monroe family, stood on the front steps. He wore his standard black suit. He looked surprised to see the Maybach arrive at three in the morning.

Arline stepped out of the car. She raised her index finger to her lips, telling Alfred to be quiet. She did not want to wake her father.

She handed her grey coat to Alfred.

"How are his vitals, Alfred?" Arline asked in a low whisper.

Alfred kept his voice down. "Stable for now, Miss Arline. But we have a problem. The inventory for the experimental drug is critically low. We have less than one week of supply left."

Arline stopped walking. Her foot froze on the second wooden step of the staircase. Her fingers dug into the carved wooden railing.

The experimental drug. It was the only thing keeping Gary alive. And the patent for that drug was owned by Caldwell Pharmaceuticals.

Edgardo's family controlled her father's life. It was the ultimate physical barrier to her divorce.

Arline forced her lungs to take in air. She released her grip on the railing.

"Have the research files for the drug on my desk by morning," Arline commanded.

She walked up the stairs to the second floor. She walked down the long, dark hallway. Oil paintings of her ancestors stared down at her from the walls. She headed toward her old bedroom at the end of the hall.

The door to the guest room suddenly opened.

A tall, broad-shouldered figure stepped out into the hallway, blocking the dim light from the wall sconce.

Arline was looking down, thinking about the drug supply. She walked straight into a chest that felt as hard as a brick wall.

A scent hit her nose instantly. It was a sharp mix of cold mint and the faint, metallic smell of gunpowder.

Arline gasped. She lost her balance and fell backward.

A large hand shot out. Long, strong fingers clamped around her wrist like a steel vice. The grip stopped her from hitting the floor.

Arline jerked her head up.

She looked into a pair of pitch-black, freezing eyes.

It was Kipp Sandoval.

Kipp was the Director of a classified federal intelligence agency. In Washington D. C. , politicians called him the Reaper. He was a man who destroyed lives from the shadows.

The moment Arline recognized his face, her pupils dilated.

The smell of gunpowder dragged her brain back fifteen years. A dark basement. The sound of screaming. Blood pooling on a concrete floor.

Her body reacted before her brain could stop it. Violent tremors shook her arms and legs. She pulled back hard, trying to rip her wrist out of his grip.

Kipp felt her shaking. A microscopic flicker of pain crossed his dark eyes, but his face remained completely expressionless.

He immediately let go of her wrist. He took a half-step back, putting physical distance between them.

Arline stumbled backward. Her spine hit the wall of the hallway with a hard thud. She pressed her hands flat against the wallpaper, gasping for air as if she were drowning.

Kipp looked down at her. He looked at her wrinkled grey suit. He looked at her pale, terrified face. His jaw muscle twitched.

"Why are you running around your house like a ghost at this hour, Mrs. Caldwell?" Kipp asked. His voice was a low, mechanical rumble. It held zero warmth.

Arline bit the inside of her cheek. The pain helped clear the panic from her brain.

"This is my house, Director Sandoval," Arline said. Her voice shook, but she forced herself to glare at him. "I do not need to explain myself to a guest."

Kipp's eyes dropped to her wrist. His fingers had left faint red marks on her pale skin. His jaw tightened further.

He did not argue with her.

"I just finished a confidential meeting with Gary," Kipp said flatly. "I am leaving."

Arline stayed pressed against the wall. She watched him like a cornered animal watching a predator. She did not say a word. Her silence was a demand for him to leave.

Kipp stared at her for one long second. His dark eyes seemed to scan the deepest parts of her brain.

He turned away and walked down the hall. His footsteps were completely silent.

Arline waited until she heard the front door close downstairs.

Her legs gave out. She slid down the wall and hit the floor. She wrapped her arms around her knees, her heart slamming against her ribs. She closed her eyes, forcing herself to count her breaths. One, two, three. The phantom smell of blood and gunpowder lingered in her nostrils, threatening to drag her back into the darkest memory of her life. She dug her fingernails into her own arms, using the physical sting to anchor herself to the present. "I am not that helpless girl anymore," she whispered into the dark, her voice trembling but resolute. "I survived then, and I will survive now." She stayed on the cold floor for five long minutes, methodically burying the terror Kipp had unearthed, locking it back into its iron box until her heartbeat finally returned to a steady, normal rhythm.

Arline sat on the cold floor for two minutes. She forced her brain to lock the fear of Kipp Sandoval away in a dark box.

She grabbed the wall and pushed herself up. She smoothed the wrinkles out of her grey skirt. She took a deep breath.

She walked to the bathroom at the end of the hall. She turned on the sink and splashed freezing water onto her face. She slapped her cheeks hard, forcing the blood to rise to the surface. The sharp, stinging pain was a necessary shock to her system. It forced her brain to snap out of the paralyzing terror Kipp Sandoval had triggered. She could not walk into her dying father's room looking like a shattered, frightened victim; he needed her strength, not her trauma.

She looked in the mirror. She still looked exhausted. She bit her lower lip hard until she tasted copper. She forced the corners of her mouth up into a gentle, fake smile.

Arline walked to the south side of the second floor. She stopped in front of the glass doors of the sunroom.

This was where Gary Monroe spent his days.

She pushed the glass door open. The early morning sun cut through the trees outside and filled the room with bright light.

Gary sat in a motorized wheelchair facing the window. A thick, grey cashmere blanket covered his legs.

He heard the door open. He turned his head.

When he saw Arline, the dull, tired look in his eyes vanished. A bright spark of joy lit up his face.

Arline walked fast across the room. She dropped to her knees beside the wheelchair. She rested her head gently on his thin knee.

Gary reached out. His hand trembled. The back of his hand was covered in dark purple bruises from constant IV needles. He stroked Arline's hair.

"You came home in the middle of the night," Gary said. His voice was weak and raspy. "Did Edgardo do something to you?"

Arline's spine went rigid at the sound of Edgardo's name. She quickly buried her face deeper into the blanket so Gary could not see her eyes.

She lifted her head and kept the fake smile on her face.

"No, Dad," Arline lied. Her voice was perfectly smooth. "Edgardo is just very busy with a new defense contract. He is sleeping at the office. Honestly, I just felt incredibly homesick. I wanted to sleep in my own bed and wake up in the house where I actually feel like myself. Plus, Cora needed me to review some urgent trust fund documents early this morning, and it was easier to do it from here."

Gary looked at the red veins in the whites of her eyes. He knew she was lying. He was a diplomat; he read people for a living. But he saw how desperately she was trying to protect him. He chose not to break her cover.

Gary sighed. A heavy look of guilt settled on his wrinkled face.

"My illness is a burden on you," Gary said. "It forces you to swallow your pride in that house."

Arline grabbed his bruised hand. Tears burned the back of her eyes.

"You are my father," Arline said fiercely. "You are the only family I have left. You are never a burden."

Gary reached toward a small table next to his wheelchair. He picked up a thick manila folder. He handed it to Arline.

"These are the authorization documents for the last three trust funds under my name," Gary said. "If the day comes when you cannot tolerate the Caldwells anymore, take this money. It is enough for you to leave with your head held high."

Arline stared at the folder. A sharp pain stabbed her chest. Her father was dying, and he was still secretly building an escape route for her.

She swallowed the lump in her throat. She took the folder and forced a laugh.

"I am going to inherit the whole Monroe empire anyway, Dad," she joked.

Gary smiled. The smile turned into a wet, rattling cough. His chest he heave.

Arline panicked. She grabbed a glass of warm water from the table and held it to his lips.

She watched his pale, shaking lips sip the water. Her mind flashed to what Alfred said. One week of the experimental drug left.

She ground her teeth together. She would burn Washington D. C. to the ground before she let her father run out of medicine.

A nurse walked into the sunroom carrying a tray of medical equipment. It was time for Gary's morning treatment.

Arline tucked the cashmere blanket tightly around Gary's legs. She stood up.

She watched the nurse wheel Gary out of the room. The fake smile dropped from her face instantly.

Her eyes turned cold and calculating. She pulled her phone from her pocket. She opened a financial app and pulled up the stock data for Caldwell Pharmaceuticals.

She stared at the green numbers moving on the screen. She needed to steal the formula for the drug, or she needed to find a lab that could reverse-engineer it.

She turned around and walked out of the sunroom. She headed straight for the private study. It was time to start the war.