Kevan Sanders didn't move from the doorway. His gaze locked onto Iona, dissecting her. He didn't offer a smile, a nod, or a single word of comfort.

"What do you want from the Vance family?" His voice was low, flat. It wasn't a question from a potential husband; it was an interrogation.

Iona met his stare. She didn't flinch. "A name. A safe place to live." She paused, her thumb pressing hard into her index finger. "In return, I will play the role of Mrs. Sanders perfectly. I will make Eleanor happy, and I will stay out of your way. Completely."

Kevan's eyebrow lifted a fraction of an inch. He had expected tears, demands, or a sob story. He hadn't expected a business pitch.

"Kevan!" Eleanor scolded. "Don't be rude."

Kevan ignored his grandmother. "My lawyers will draft the agreement. The terms will be strict."

"I accept," Iona said instantly.

The silence stretched for three seconds. Kevan nodded once. "Fine. When you're discharged, we go to City Hall." He turned and walked out, his footsteps fading down the hall.

Eleanor sighed, squeezing Iona's hand again. "He's not as cold as he seems. Give him time." She promised to handle the legal details and hurried after him.

The door closed. Iona let out a long, slow breath. Step one was complete.

She picked up the phone again. This time, she dialed Eric's number. It rang twice.

"Iona?" Eric sounded annoyed. "Look, I'm busy, can we-"

"We're done, Eric."

There was a beat of silence. Then a condescending laugh. "Baby, don't be dramatic. I know you're upset about the river thing. I'll come by later."

"You don't seem to understand," Iona said, her voice deadpan. "The engagement is off. My lawyer will contact you tomorrow regarding the five hundred thousand dollars you took from me for your 'investment'."

The amusement vanished from Eric's voice. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? That was a joint venture!"

"I'm pulling out. Have the money ready." She hung up. She didn't slam the phone down; she placed it gently on the receiver.

She dialed the Harmon estate. Martha answered.

"Martha. Pack my things. Send them to the Hollis house. Tell Preston and Miranda I'm moving out."

Before the housekeeper could respond, Iona disconnected the call.

A nurse walked in, holding Iona's personal cell phone. "Your former family's assistant brought this."

As soon as the screen lit up, it exploded with notifications. Texts from Eric, ranging from wheedling to threats. Voicemails from Veronica, sickly sweet and probing.

Iona's thumb moved methodically across the screen. Block. Block. Block. Delete all.

She leaned back against the pillows, closing her eyes. The girl who had craved their love was dead. She was Silas now. And she had work to do.

One week later, Iona stood on the curb outside the hospital. A black Bentley idled at the curb. Kevan Sanders sat in the back seat, reading a document. He didn't look up as she approached.

Arthur Finch held the door open for her. She slid into the leather seat. The air inside the car was cold, smelling of expensive cologne and ozone. Kevan didn't say a word. He just continued reading.

Iona glanced at the front seat. Arthur was typing on his phone, his left hand resting on the steering wheel. The Roman signet ring caught the sunlight.

A cold finger traced down Iona's spine. She saw flashes of it-blood, smuggling routes, a body falling from a cliff. The ring was a beacon of bad luck. A cursed object that attracted disaster, specifically falls from heights.

She looked away, staring out the window. She would warn him. For Eleanor.

At City Hall, Kevan's lawyer handed her a thick stack of papers. The prenuptial agreement. It stated clearly: no claim on Vance assets, separate residences, a generous payout if they divorced.

Iona didn't read the details. She grabbed the pen and signed her name at the bottom. Iona Crane became Iona Sanders in less than ten minutes.

Outside the steps, Kevan stopped. "My apartment is on Central Park West. Arthur will take you. I have a meeting."

"Mr. Sanders," Iona called out.

He turned, his expression impatient.

Iona looked past him, focusing on Arthur. "Mr. Finch, take that ring off. Don't wear it anymore."

Arthur blinked, his hand instinctively touching the ring. "Excuse me?"

Kevan stepped closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous chill. "What did you say?"

"I recognize the motif from my mentor's historical archives," Iona said evenly. "It was the sigil of a secret society. According to the records, several key members died in falls from great heights. From a historical and statistical perspective, the correlation is unusually high. I'd advise against wearing it, for safety's sake."

Arthur laughed nervously. "Mrs. Sanders, that's impossible. I bought this from a dealer-"

"Mind your own business," Kevan snapped. "I don't have time for your superstitions." He turned and got into a waiting town car, the door slamming shut.

Arthur gave her an awkward smile. "Shall we, Mrs. Sanders?"

Iona got into the car. She had delivered the warning. It was out of her hands.

Halfway to the apartment, Arthur's phone rang. He answered, his face draining of color. "What? The server room elevator dropped? Is the data compromised?"

Iona stared out the window, her face blank.

Arthur hung up, his hand trembling slightly. He glanced in the rearview mirror at Iona, then down at the ring on his finger. He looked terrified. He quickly typed out a text to Kevan.

Miles away in a boardroom, Kevan glanced at his phone. He read the message, his eyes narrowing. Coincidence, he told himself. He tossed the phone onto the table.

The penthouse was a mausoleum of glass and steel. Minimalist furniture, sharp edges, and absolutely no warmth. It looked exactly like Kevan Sanders.

The housekeeper, a stern woman in a crisp uniform, showed Iona to her room on the second floor. "Mr. Sanders's bedroom is on the first floor. He prefers not to be disturbed."

"Understood," Iona said.

The room was enormous, but the only things waiting for her were two cheap suitcases. Harmon House had sent her belongings. No jewelry, no designer clothes. Just the rags of her old life.

She unzipped the largest bag and pulled out a battered cardboard tube. Inside was a 17th-century Dutch landscape painting she had bought at a flea market for fifty dollars. The canvas was cracked, the paint peeling. But she knew what was underneath.

Her phone buzzed. It was Brenda Hollis. Her adoptive mother.

"Iona!" Brenda's voice was a lifeline. "Are you okay? I'm going to kill those Harmon bastards! Where are you?"

"I'm safe, Mom. I moved out."

"Come home! Your room is ready. Nathan and Sean are furious. Kyle wants to go over there and punch Eric in the face."

Iona smiled, a real smile that hurt her cheeks. "I'll visit soon. I promise."

After hanging up, she opened her laptop. She logged into an encrypted email server. One new message.

It was from an anonymous address, a contact known only as 'Mr. Collier,' her liaison to the hidden world of high-stakes art restoration.

"Silas," the email read. "Heard you got into trouble. Need me to bury someone? I have favors owed all over Europe."

Iona typed back: "I can handle it. But I need to work. Keep an ear out for jobs in New York."

She needed money. Real money. The kind that couldn't be frozen by Preston Harmon.

She called the housekeeper. "Is there an empty room I can use as a studio? Somewhere with good light."

Ten minutes later, her phone buzzed. A text from Kevan.

Approved.

Iona set up her workspace in a spare room overlooking the park. She laid out her tools-the scalpels, the solvents, the magnifying glasses. She carefully unrolled the Dutch landscape.

She was going to strip away the lies, layer by layer. Starting with this painting.