Chambers opened the door, and Serena stepped out. The dampness of the rain clung to her, a physical barrier between her and the warmth radiating from the house.

Harrison Vance was running. He was a man who usually walked with the slow dignity of old money, but now he was taking the steps two at a time, his cashmere cardigan flapping.

"Serena!"

He crashed into her. His arms were strong, shaking. He smelled of tobacco and expensive soap.

Serena's body went rigid. It was instinct-a threat response to being restrained. She forced her muscles to liquefy, forcing her arms to come up and pat his back.

"Finally," Harrison choked out, burying his face in her wet hair. "My little star. You're home."

Eleanor Vance stood in the doorway. She was holding onto the frame as if it were the only thing keeping her upright. Her face was translucent, pale as paper.

Harrison pulled back, keeping his hands on Serena's shoulders, then guided her toward the door.

Eleanor reached out. Her hand trembled. When she touched Serena's cheek, her fingers were ice.

Serena looked down. Eleanor's fingernails were a dusky, pale violet. Hypoxia. Congestive heart failure.

"I'm so sorry," Eleanor whispered, tears spilling over. "I'm so sorry we lost you."

Something twisted in Serena's chest. It wasn't the mission. It was a raw, unfamiliar ache.

"I'm okay, Mom," Serena said. The word felt foreign, sharp on her tongue.

Chambers cleared his throat gently. "The damp air, Madam."

They moved inside. The foyer was a cavern of marble and gold. Two rows of staff bowed. Harrison gestured grandly, his voice booming with pride as he claimed this space for her.

Eleanor led her up the sweeping staircase to the East Wing.

"We kept a space," Eleanor said, pointing to a gap in the line of portraits on the gallery wall. "For you."

She opened a set of double doors.

The bedroom was larger than the entire trailer Serena had lived in for a decade. It was done in soft lavenders and creams. But it was the pile in the center that drew the eye.

Boxes. Hundreds of them. Wrapped in silver paper, ribbons of every color.

"Every birthday," Eleanor said, her breath hitching. "Every Christmas. I bought them. I knew you'd come back to open them."

Serena looked at the mountain of gifts. Her throat tightened. This wasn't part of the cover. This was real.

Eleanor suddenly doubled over, a harsh, wet cough tearing through her frail body. She gasped, clutching her chest, her lips turning a shade bluer.

"Eleanor!" Harrison was there instantly, panic in his eyes. A maid rushed forward with a glass of water and a pill bottle.

Serena glanced at the label. Digoxin.

She moved. She stepped behind her mother, her hand resting on Eleanor's back, between the shoulder blades. To Harrison, it looked like a comforting, if slightly clumsy, rub.

But her thumb found the precise pressure point below the seventh cervical vertebra. She pressed, a deep, rhythmic pressure that looked like a simple massage.

Eleanor inhaled sharply. The coughing stopped. The color flooded back into her cheeks slightly as her airways relaxed.

She turned, looking at Serena with wide, confused eyes. "That... that felt warm."

"Just rubbing your back, Mom," Serena said, smiling innocently.

Harrison exhaled, his shoulders slumping. He looked from his wife's improved color to Serena's hand, a flicker of puzzlement in his eyes. The effect had been too immediate, too... perfect. But the overwhelming relief washed it away. A coincidence. A miracle. His daughter was home, that's all that mattered. "You need to rest, El. Let Serena wash up."

They left her alone.

Serena stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, watching the rain lash against the glass. The silence of the room was heavy.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. A single line of encrypted text.

Target acquired. Club Onyx. Tonight.

Serena turned away from the window. The daughter was gone. The Ghost was back.

Midnight. The Vance estate was a tomb of silence.

Serena moved through the darkness of her room. She had shed the white dress. She pulled on a black tactical bodysuit, the fabric whispering against her skin.

She sat on the edge of the bed and slid a micro-decoder into the sole of her left boot. A grapple line went into the right.

Her phone buzzed again. She opened the encrypted file. The primary target was on the screen: a Russian arms dealer. Below it was a secondary, passive file marked 'Engagement Protocol.' She tapped it. A man's face appeared-sharp jaw, gray eyes, a faint scar bisecting his left eyebrow. Julian Sterling. CEO, Sterling Industries. She committed the face to memory, a cold knot tightening in her stomach. Two missions, one night. Complicated.

She slipped out onto the balcony. The camera swept left. Serena vaulted over the railing, dropping fifteen feet to the garden lawn, absorbing the impact in a silent roll.

Jax was waiting at the service gate in a gray sedan that looked like nothing and had an engine that cost more than the house.

He handed her a mask. Half-face, silver filigree. "VIP access."

Manhattan. The skyline was a jagged jaw of light eating into the dark sky.

High above the streets, in the penthouse office of Sterling Tower, Julian Sterling loosened his tie. He stared out at the city, his reflection ghostly in the glass.

The phone on his desk buzzed. Grandmother.

He answered. "Margaret."

"The engagement," her voice was steel wrapped in velvet. "Harrison Vance found the girl. You will honor the contract."

Julian's grip on the phone tightened until his knuckles turned white. "I'm not marrying some trailer trash charity case just to merge our shipping lanes."

"Then say goodbye to the Asian sector assets," Margaret said. Click.

Julian threw the phone onto the desk. He rubbed his temples.

Preston, his assistant, knocked and entered. "Sir. The hacker signal. We tracked it. It's pinging at Club Onyx."

Julian stood up. His eyes, usually cold, lit up with the thrill of the hunt. "Let's go."

Club Onyx was a assault on the senses. The bass thumped in Serena's chest, a physical rhythm that matched her heartbeat. The air smelled of sweat, expensive perfume, and dry ice.

She slipped through the kitchen entrance, the silver mask obscuring her upper face. A wig of long, platinum blonde hair cascaded down her back.

She scanned the VIP balcony. Target identified. A Russian arms dealer, sloppy, drunk, a blonde on each arm. The drive was in his breast pocket. She could see the outline.

Julian entered through the front. The manager scrambled to clear a path. Julian didn't sit. He stood in the shadows of a corner booth, his eyes scanning the floor, looking for anomalies.

He saw her.

The woman in the silver mask. She didn't walk like a club girl. She walked with a center of gravity that was too controlled. She moved through the crowd like water.

Serena approached the VIP stairs. A bouncer stepped in her way. She leaned in, whispering a phrase in rapid-fire Russian. The bouncer blanched and stepped aside.

Julian frowned. Interesting.

Serena entered the booth. She held a tray of champagne. She stumbled-a calculated trip. The champagne flute tipped, soaking the Russian's shirt.

"Oh! I am so sorry!" she cried out.

While he cursed and swiped at the wet fabric, her hand moved. It was a blur. Two fingers dipped into his pocket and retracted.

She was backing out of the booth before he even stopped swearing.

Three seconds later, a roar erupted from the booth. "MY POCKET!"

Serena was at the railing of the balcony. Below her, the dance floor was a sea of bodies. Behind her, the stairs were filling with angry security guards.

She looked down. Julian Sterling was standing there, looking up. His gaze locked onto hers.

She had nowhere to go but down.

The guards were ten feet away. Serena put a hand on the velvet-roped railing and vaulted.

She fell through the air, the bass vibrating in her teeth. She landed in a crouch on top of a massive speaker stack in the center of the dance floor.

Screams of surprise rippled through the crowd.

Serena didn't hesitate. She slid down the side of the speaker and vanished into the mass of writhing bodies. She ripped the platinum wig off, stuffing it into her jacket, shaking out her natural dark hair.

"Lock the doors!" Julian's voice cut through the noise. He was moving, pushing through the crowd with terrifying purpose.

Serena saw the side exit. Blocked. Preston was standing there. The front? Wall of meat.

She needed cover. She needed a shield.

She saw him. The man from the shadows. Tall, commanding, radiating an aura that made people instinctively step away from him.

Julian. The man from the file. Her fiancé.

He was scanning the faces, his eyes narrowing. He was the hunter.

Serena ran. Not away from him, but at him.

She collided with his chest. It was like hitting a marble wall.

Julian's hands came up instinctively, gripping her waist to steady her. Her waist was impossibly thin beneath his fingers.

"Help," she gasped, pitching her voice high.

A guard pointed a flashlight beam toward them. "There! The girl in black!"

Serena looked up. Her eyes, framed by the silver mask, locked with his. They were wild, desperate, and mocking.

"Excuse me," she whispered.

She went up on her toes. She grabbed his lapels and pulled him down.

She smashed her lips against his.

Julian froze. His brain short-circuited. He expected a fight, a weapon. He didn't expect the taste of mint and adrenaline.

He didn't push her away. He couldn't. Her mouth was demanding, hot, and soft.

Serena's hand slid inside his suit jacket. The safest place is on the enemy. She slipped the cold, metallic drive into his inner pocket.

The guard stopped, lowering his flashlight. "Mr. Sterling? Uh... sorry, sir."

No one interrupted Julian Sterling when he was with a woman.

Serena broke the kiss. She lingered for a second, her forehead resting against his chin. Her breath hitched.

"Keep it safe for me," she murmured against his neck.

She spun, using his body to block the guard's line of sight, and ducked into the service corridor that Julian had just emerged from.

Julian stood there. He raised a hand to his lips. They were tingling.

He reached into his pocket. His fingers brushed against cold metal.

Preston ran up, breathless. "Sir? Are you injured? That woman..."

Julian pulled the drive out halfway, then shoved it back down. A slow, dark smile spread across his face. It wasn't a nice smile.

"No," Julian said. "I'm not injured."

"The guards are asking if they should pursue."

"Let her go," Julian said. "She's a friend."

In the alleyway, Serena leaned against the brick wall, gasping for air. Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

Jax pulled up. "Got it?"

"It's safe," Serena said. "But I have to go back for it."

She closed her eyes, the image of the man's face burning behind her lids. High cheekbones, gray eyes, a scar on his eyebrow.

She groaned, sliding down the wall.

"What?" Jax asked.

"I just French-kissed my fiancé."