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.

The study in the Hamptons house was transformed. One wall was covered in monitors displaying global stock indices, news feeds, and security camera footage.

Isabella sat behind a massive mahogany desk. It was the only piece of furniture she had kept from the old days.

She watched the shredder in the corner. It was chewing through the last remnants of her marriage documents.

"Luke," she said, spinning her chair around. "Get me Julianne Moore."

Luke paused, his fingers hovering over his keyboard. " The PR crisis manager? The 'Iron Lady' of New York?"

"Tell her the Queen is awake," Isabella said.

Luke dialed. He handed the phone to Isabella.

"Hello?" A sharp, impatient female voice answered.

"Julianne," Isabella said. "It's Isabella Mckee."

There was a silence on the other end. A long, heavy silence.

"Isabella?" Julianne's voice dropped an octave. "My god. The rumors... I thought you were dead. The social world has been a graveyard without you."

"I'm back," Isabella said. "And I need an explosion. I want the news of the Mckee heir's survival to break the internet in one hour."

"Done," Julianne said instantly. "But I need a hook. Just 'alive' isn't enough for the front page of everything."

Isabella tapped her finger on the desk. "Remember Leo?"

"Leo Rossi?" Julianne gasped. "The supermodel? The face of Versace?"

"Three years ago, I anonymously funded his rehab and his first portfolio," Isabella said. "Call him. Tell him his patron is calling in a favor. I want him as my escort for the return."

"Oh my god," Julianne whispered. "That is... that is genius. The mystery benefactor. The tragic return. It's gold."

Isabella hung up.

She opened a file on her computer. Leo Rossi.

He wasn't the skinny, drug-addicted kid she had found in an alley anymore. He was a god. Chiseled jaw, brooding eyes, famous.

"He had a crush on you," Luke warned, seeing the photo. "A big one. This might be dangerous."

"I need dangerous," Isabella said. "I need Hamilton to see what he threw away."

She glanced at the clock on the wall. 8:47 AM. The press conference was scheduled for 10 AM. Time was tight, but she had planned for this.

In a photography studio in Chelsea, a camera clicked rapidly.

Leo Rossi posed, his shirt open, staring intensely at the lens.

His agent ran onto the set, waving a phone. "Leo! Stop! It's... it's Her."

Leo froze. The brooding mask fell away. "Who?"

" The Benefactor," the agent hissed. "She's real. And she wants you."

Leo pushed the photographer aside. He grabbed the phone. "Where is she?"

In the Mckee Capital tower, Hamilton was sweating.

"The stock is down 12%!" he yelled at his traders. "Find out who is shorting us!"

Preston walked in, looking terrified. "Sir... you need to see this."

He pointed to the large TV screen on the wall.

BREAKING NEWS: MCKEE HEIRESS FOUND ALIVE.

Hamilton stopped breathing.

The screen showed a blurry photo taken from a distance. A woman in a white suit getting into a black SUV.

The caption read: Isabella Mckee to hold press conference tomorrow.

Hamilton stared at the white suit.

He had seen that suit two hours ago.

"No," he whispered. He shook his head. "That's impossible. Isabella is... she's a nobody. She's from Southie."

"Sir," Preston said softly. "The name. Isabella Oconnor... Isabella Mckee. Her mother's maiden name was Oconnor."

Hamilton felt the room spin.

He grabbed the edge of his desk.

"It's a coincidence," he said, his voice trembling. "It has to be. My wife... my ex-wife... she knits scarves. She doesn't run empires."

But deep in his gut, a cold, hard stone of dread was forming.