The lawyer, a man named Sterling with a sheen of sweat on his upper lip, placed the document on the hospital tray table.

Isabella sat on the edge of the bed. She had found a tablet at the nurses' station and "borrowed" it. Her fingers were currently tapping a rhythmic, complex beat on the screen-Morse code. S-O-S-G-O-N-E.

Hamilton stood by the window, his arms crossed. He looked impatient.

"Mrs. Mckee," Sterling said, clicking his pen. "I must advise you that this settlement is highly unusual. You are waiving rights to assets valued at-"

"I can read, Mr. Sterling," Isabella interrupted. She didn't look at him. She flipped the document to the last page.

Hamilton scoffed. "Maybe you should read it. It's the most money you've ever turned down. You're going to be begging on the street in a week."

Isabella uncapped the pen. The sound was a sharp click in the quiet room.

"My time is worth more than your money, Hamilton," she said.

She signed her name. The signature was different. It wasn't the rounded, hesitant script of Isabella Oconnor. It was sharp, jagged, and confident.

Hamilton watched the pen move. A strange feeling curled in his gut. Unease.

Before he could analyze it, the door burst open.

Preston, Hamilton's personal assistant, rushed in. His face was pale.

"Sir! It's Cuba. She... she took pills."

Hamilton froze. The color drained from his face. "What?"

"The housekeeper found her," Preston stammered. "There was a note. She said she couldn't bear being the reason for your unhappiness."

Silence filled the room.

Then, a laugh cut through it.

It was Isabella. She was chuckling. A dry, cold sound.

"Classic Histrionic Personality Disorder," she said, capping the pen. "I assume she calculated the dosage perfectly? Enough to cause lethargy, not enough to cause organ failure?"

Hamilton spun around, his eyes blazing with fury. A flicker of confusion crossed his face. Where did she even learn a term like that? Had she been watching medical dramas? "How dare you? She could be dying! You heartless-"

"Sign the paper, Hamilton," Isabella said, pointing to the document. "Sign it, and you can go play hero to your damsel."

Hamilton grabbed the pen. He was shaking with rage. He scrawled his signature next to hers, tearing the paper slightly with the force of it.

"Get this processed," he barked at the lawyer. "I want the divorce decree sent to her. I never want to see her face again."

He threw the pen down and ran out of the room, Preston on his heels.

The lawyer gathered his papers, looking uncomfortable, and scurried after them.

The room was quiet again.

Isabella stood up. She walked to the door and locked it.

She reached under her pillow and pulled out a disposable burner phone she had swiped from a distracted orderly's cart earlier.

She dialed a number. It was a number that hadn't existed for three years.

It rang once.

"Who is this?" A male voice answered. Guarded. Dangerous.

Isabella leaned against the wall. "Code Black. Location: MGH, Room 304. I need extraction, Luke."

There was a pause. Then, the sound of a chair crashing to the floor.

"Boss?" The voice cracked. "Is that you? We thought... we thought you were dead."

"I'm not," Isabella said. "Bring the kit. The full kit. I have work to do."

"Five minutes," Luke said. "Meet me on the roof. I'm jamming their security feeds now."

Isabella hung up. She ripped the sticky electrodes off her chest. The monitor flatlined with a high-pitched whine, but she silenced it with a punch to the power button.

She walked to the window. Down below, she saw Hamilton's convoy speeding away toward another hospital.

She reached down and tore the hem of her hospital gown, tying her hair back tightly.

"Game on, Hamilton," she whispered.

The wind on the roof was brutal. It whipped Isabella's thin gown against her legs, but she didn't shiver.

She kicked open the maintenance door.

A black helicopter, unmarked and sleek, hovered just inches above the helipad. The rotors sliced through the night air with a deafening roar.

The side door slid open.

Luke O'Malley jumped out. He was a mountain of a man, dressed in tactical black gear. He ran toward her, his face a mixture of disbelief and relief.

He dropped to one knee in front of her. "Boss."

Isabella reached down and grabbed his tactical vest, pulling him up. "Stand up, Luke. We don't have time for reunions."

"I thought I lost you," he said, his voice thick.

"Almost," she said. "Let's go."

They sprinted to the chopper. Isabella leaped inside, buckling herself into the leather seat. Luke jumped in beside her and signaled the pilot.

The helicopter surged upward, banking sharply away from the hospital. The lights of Boston spread out below them like a grid of gold and diamonds.

Luke handed her a heavy-duty, ruggedized laptop. "It's connected. Aegis protocol is active."

Isabella opened the laptop. Her fingers flew across the keyboard. It was like breathing.

"Coffee," she said, not looking up.

Luke handed her a thermos. Black, no sugar. Just the way she used to drink it.

"I'm scrubbing the hospital records," she said. "Isabella Oconnor was never admitted. The security footage is looping."

She hit Enter. A progress bar flashed green and reached 100%.

"Now for the house," she murmured.

She accessed the smart home system of the Beacon Hill mansion. The system she had installed secretly two years ago under the guise of a 'software update.'

Command: Delete User "Isabella".

Command: Erase Voice Logs.

Command: Reset Master Bedroom Lock. Randomize Code.

"You're locking him out?" Luke asked, watching the code cascade down the screen.

"No," Isabella said. Her eyes reflected the blue light of the screen. "I'm erasing myself. When he comes home, there will be no trace that I ever lived there."

Across the city, in the waiting room of another hospital, Hamilton's phone buzzed.

System Alert: User Deleted. Smart Home Resetting.

He frowned, swiping the notification away. "Stupid glitch," he muttered, turning back to the doctor who was explaining that Cuba needed 'rest and emotional support.'

Back in the helicopter, Isabella opened a new window. It was a trading terminal.

"Mckee Capital is acquiring that tech startup, OmniCorp, tomorrow," she said. "I read the due diligence report on his desk last week. It's flawed. The IP is stolen."

"He doesn't know?" Luke asked.

"He didn't look," Isabella said. "He was too busy buying jewelry for Cuba."

She typed in a series of commands.

Entity: Aegis Ventures.

Action: Short Sell.

Target: Mckee Capital.

Volume: Maximum Leverage.

"Execute," she whispered. She hit the key. "Now," she said, opening a secure messaging app. "Luke, send the OmniCorp IP theft file to our contact at the Wall Street Journal. Anonymous tip. Let's give the market a reason to panic."

"That's going to bleed him dry by morning," Luke said, a grin spreading across his face.

Isabella closed the laptop. She leaned back, closing her eyes for a second.

"Good."

She opened her eyes and looked at the bag Luke had brought. She pulled out a trench coat-Burberry, tailored, expensive. She pulled it on over her hospital gown.

"How is Cuba really?" she asked.

"Vitamins," Luke scoffed. "She bribed an intern in the ER to fake the stomach pump report. We have the audio."

"Keep it," Isabella said. "We don't use it yet. Let her climb higher."

The helicopter began to descend. Below them, the dark ocean crashed against the shore. A large, solitary house sat on a cliff, dark and imposing. From the air, it looked exactly as Hamilton had described it: a ruin. But Isabella knew the decaying facade was a shell. Inside was a fortress.

The Hamptons safe house.

"We're home, Boss," Luke said.

Isabella looked at the house. It was where Isabella Mckee had planned her future. It was where Isabella Oconnor would bury her past.

"Yes," she said. "We are."

The morning sun reflected off the white marble steps of the New York City Clerk's Office.

A black SUV pulled up to the curb.

Luke stepped out first. He was no longer in tactical gear. He wore a tight black t-shirt that strained against his biceps and dark sunglasses. He looked like a weapon.

He opened the rear door.

Isabella stepped out.

She was wearing a white power suit. The tailoring was impeccable, sharp enough to cut glass. She wore oversized sunglasses and four-inch stilettos that clicked rhythmically on the pavement.

Hamilton was already there, standing near the entrance with Preston. He looked exhausted. Dark circles rimmed his eyes.

He looked up as the car door closed. He saw the stilettos first, then the white power suit. His breath caught in his throat. He recognized her instantly, but it was like seeing a ghost wearing a stranger's skin.

She took off her sunglasses, and his last shred of doubt vanished.

"Isabella?" he asked, his voice cracking with disbelief.

He looked at the suit. He looked at Luke standing protectively beside her.

His face darkened. "So this is it? This is why you wanted the divorce so fast? You found a sugar daddy?"

He gestured at Luke.

Isabella didn't even look at Luke. She looked straight at Hamilton.

"This is strictly business, Mr. Mckee. We have an appointment."

Luke stepped between them, his hand held up in a stopping motion. "Back up, sir."

Hamilton bristled. "Excuse me? I'm her husband."

"Not for long," Luke said. His voice was a low rumble.

Hamilton felt a surge of anger he couldn't explain. It wasn't just annoyance. It was possession. She was his mouse. His charity case.

They walked inside. The fluorescent lights of the clerk's office buzzed overhead.

The clerk, a bored woman with reading glasses, looked at the papers.

"Sign here. And here."

The sound of the stamp hitting the paper echoed like a gavel. Thud. Thud.

"Divorce granted," the clerk droned.

Isabella picked up her copy. She folded it neatly and slid it into an orange Hermès Birkin bag that Luke was holding for her.

Hamilton's eyes widened. He recognized the bag. It cost more than a car.

"Where did you get that?" he demanded. "Did you max out my supplementary card before I cut it off?"

Isabella stopped. She turned to him, a small, pitying smile playing on her lips.

"Check your statements, Hamilton. I haven't spent a dime of your money in three years. Not for clothes. Not for food. Not for anything."

Hamilton froze. He tried to remember the last time he saw a bill from her. He couldn't.

"Then who..." He looked at Luke again. "Him?"

Isabella laughed. It was a light, airy sound that didn't reach her eyes.

"Goodbye, Hamilton."

She turned to leave.

Hamilton reached out. He grabbed her wrist. "Wait. We need to talk about-"

Luke moved faster than Hamilton could process. In a blur of motion, he had seized Hamilton's wrist and twisted it, forcing him to let go.

"Do not touch her," Luke snarled.

Hamilton stumbled back, rubbing his wrist. He stared at the bodyguard, shocked by the speed and the strength.

His phone rang. Cuba.

Isabella didn't look back. She walked out the door, her heels clicking a victory march.

Hamilton stared after her. The phone kept ringing.

"What?" he snapped into the receiver, his eyes still fixed on the closing door.

"Hamilton?" Cuba's voice was whiny. "My leg hurts. The doctor says I might have nerve damage from the... the stress."

Hamilton watched Isabella get into the SUV. The door closed.

"I'm coming," he said, but his voice was hollow.

"Sir," Preston whispered, looking at his tablet. "The market just opened. The Journal just published a story about OmniCorp's stolen IP. Mckee Capital stock is down 8%. Someone is shorting us heavily."

Hamilton tore his eyes away from the street. "What? Who?"

"We don't know," Preston said. "It's a shell company. Aegis Ventures."

Hamilton felt a cold shiver run down his spine.

Isabella sat in the back of the SUV. She watched the City Clerk's office disappear in the rearview mirror.

"Luke," she said. "Give me the copy of the marriage certificate."

Luke handed her the paper.

She held it up. With calm, deliberate movements, she tore it in half. Then in quarters. Then into confetti.

She dropped the pieces into the small trash bin in the door panel.

"Goodbye, Isabella Mckee," she whispered.