The next morning, the scent of Drake was gone, replaced by the sterile smell of the cleaning service's lemon polish. Hope sat at her kitchen island, black coffee in hand, watching the pre-market numbers for Perry Group flicker across her tablet. They were down. Again.

Her personal phone buzzed against the cold marble countertop. She glanced at the screen.

Kenia Spencer.

A wave of nausea, hot and acidic, rose in her throat. She hadn't spoken to her former best friend in the year since she'd found Kenia in Arley's arms.

The message was a text.

Hope, darling. How are you? I heard Arley's back tomorrow. So happy for you both. :)

Attached was a photo. A selfie of Kenia, pouting prettily for the camera. Around her neck was a necklace Hope recognized instantly—a cascade of sapphires and diamonds Arley had boasted about winning in a remote Sotheby's auction six months ago. He'd called it an "investment" while showing Hope the press release, a casual cruelty she hadn't understood until now.

It was a declaration of war. A reminder of who held Arley's affection, even if Hope held the title.

The old Hope would have deleted the message. Her hands would have shaken. She would have swallowed the pain, letting it curdle into a familiar, silent misery.

But the old Hope was dead.

Her finger, steady and cold, bypassed the reply button and pressed "Call."

The phone rang. And rang. Kenia was panicking, Hope knew. She hadn't expected this. She'd expected silence.

Finally, she picked up. "Hope?" Her voice was a nervous squeak.

Hope didn't waste time on pleasantries. Her tone was like ice water. "The necklace is beautiful, Kenia."

A beat of silence. Then, a sharp intake of breath on the other end.

"But on a mistress's neck," Hope continued, her voice dropping to a silky, venomous whisper, "even the most expensive gems look cheap."

"What—how dare you! Arley loves me!" Kenia's voice rose, shrill and defensive.

Hope let out a small, humorless laugh. "Love? He loves you, yet I'm the one with the Simmons name attached to mine. I'm the one the world sees as his future wife. Does that feel like love to you, Kenia? Or does it feel like humiliation?"

Kenia was speechless, making small, choking sounds.

Hope pressed her advantage, her words precise and cruel. "A woman who has to hide in the shadows, who proves her existence with jewelry a man buys her... you want to talk to me about love?"

She let that sink in.

"Know your place," Hope said, her voice now flat and commanding. "In front of the cameras, I am Arley Simmons's fiancée. You are nothing."

She could hear Kenia's ragged, angry sobs.

"Oh, and one more thing," Hope added, twisting the knife. "Arley and I will be very... busy when he gets back. The families are so eager for an heir. So do try to control yourself. It would be terribly inconvenient if you called while he was otherwise occupied."

Without waiting for a response, she ended the call.

She blocked the number.

A profound sense of release washed over her. A breath she'd been holding for a year finally escaped her lungs. It was the first time she had fought back. It felt good.

Her phone vibrated again. This time, an email from her lawyer.

Subject: Regarding Mr. Simmons's Requests.

The email was a list of commands, dictated by Arley. She was to be present at the airport. She was to smile for the cameras. She was to attend the Simmons family dinner in the Hamptons tonight and perform the role of the loving, devoted fiancée.

The phone rang again. Her father.

"Hope, I just spoke with Sterling Simmons," Harrison Perry's voice boomed, devoid of any fatherly warmth. "Don't cause any trouble tonight. The family's reputation is on the line. Our reputation."

My reputation, he meant.

Hope stared out the window at the gray Manhattan sky. They all still thought she was their puppet.

She replied to the lawyer's email with a single word.

Received.

Then she walked to her closet and pushed past the muted beiges and pale pinks she used to wear. Her fingers closed around the hanger of a dress she'd bought on impulse months ago but had never dared to wear.

It was the color of blood. The color of fire.

She was going to the Hamptons.

And she was going to burn it all down.

In an office overlooking Central Park, an assistant placed a slim file on a vast mahogany desk.

"Mr. McCarthy. The background on Kenia Spencer is complete. We also flagged a 37-second call made to her from Ms. Perry's number, just this morning."

Algernon McCarthy leaned back in his leather chair, his ice-blue eyes fixed on the file. He tapped a single finger on the desk.

"Interesting," he said softly.

The red Ferrari cut through the manicured green grounds of the Hamptons like a bloody slash. When Hope stepped out of the car at the entrance to the Simmons estate, a hush fell over the pastel-clad guests sipping champagne on the veranda.

The dress was a weapon. A sheath of crimson silk that clung to every curve, with a neckline that plunged daringly low. It wasn't the dress of a demure, respectable fiancée. It was the dress of a woman who had come to start a fire.

Arley Simmons, fresh off his private jet and looking tan and smug, saw her. His eyes widened with a flicker of raw appreciation, quickly followed by a scowl. He strode toward her, his jaw tight.

"What the hell are you wearing?" he hissed, grabbing her arm.

Hope ignored him. She pulled her arm free and glided past him, her eyes fixed on his father, Sterling Simmons Sr., the patriarch of the family, holding court by the fountain.

She offered the old man a perfect, graceful curtsy. "Good evening, Mr. Simmons. I hope I'm not late."

Sterling, a man who valued appearances above all else, nodded his approval of her manners, though his eyes lingered on her dress with a hint of disapproval.

Arley caught up to her, yanking her behind a large marble statue. "Hope, don't play games," he warned, his voice a low growl. "You got my lawyer's email."

She plucked a champagne flute from a passing waiter's tray and took a slow sip, her red lips leaving a faint stain on the crystal. "Of course I did. That's why I'm here. To play the part of your perfect fiancée." The sarcasm in her voice was thick enough to taste.

At the long, candlelit dinner table, she was seated next to Arley. He kept a proprietary hand on the small of her back, a performance for the family. The pressure of his fingers felt like a brand.

His older sister, Portia, a sharp-featured woman with an equally sharp mind, smiled across the table. "Arley, welcome home. How did the expansion talks go?"

"Flawlessly," Arley said, puffing out his chest. "We're set for a preliminary meeting with McCarthy Global Holdings next week."

Hope heard the name "McCarthy" and felt nothing. It was just another faceless corporation in a world she despised.

Portia's gaze shifted to Hope. "And you, Hope. You're looking well. It seems you've been keeping yourself... occupied while Arley was away."

The insinuation was clear. The table fell silent. All eyes turned to her. Arley's face darkened, ready to defend his family's honor, not hers.

But Hope spoke first. She gave Portia a dazzling smile.

"Of course. After all, it's only when your partner is away that you have the chance to discover... new hobbies."

A collective, sharp intake of breath rippled around the table. It was as if she'd dropped a grenade in the center of the floral arrangement. Arley's face went from tan to a blotchy, furious red.

Hope ignored the shockwaves, picking up her knife and fork to address her filet mignon. She cut a small, precise piece, dabbed her lips with her napkin, and turned to Arley.

"You know, darling," she said, her voice carrying in the silent dining room. "It's been so long, I've almost forgotten some of your little... habits."

She let the word "habits" linger.

"Like your old fondness for those... secret phone calls... late at night. Don't tell me a year away has changed you that much."

It was a direct hit. Arley's knuckles turned white where he gripped his silverware. He was breathing heavily through his nose.

Sterling Simmons Sr. cleared his throat, a loud, commanding sound meant to end the discussion.

Hope acted as if she hadn't heard. She looked at Arley, her eyes wide with feigned innocence. "What's wrong? Did I say something I shouldn't have?"

Her expression was angelic. Her words were poison.

Under the table, Arley's foot shot out, his shoe connecting sharply with her shin. A jolt of pain shot up her leg, but the smile never left her face. She had drawn first blood.

The moment the main course was cleared, Arley's hand clamped around her wrist like a manacle. He dragged her from the dining room, through a set of French doors, and onto a deserted stone terrace.

He shoved her away from him. She stumbled, catching herself on the cold stone balustrade.

"What is your problem, Hope?" he snarled, his face inches from hers. "Are you trying to humiliate me in front of my entire family?"

She rubbed her wrist, a red mark already forming on her skin. "I was just telling the truth," she said, her voice a cool counterpoint to his heat. "Don't you enjoy your calls with Kenia?"

The directness of the question threw him. He took a step back, his expression shifting from rage to a kind of arrogant pity. He laughed, a short, ugly sound.

"I get it now. You're jealous."

He stalked toward her, backing her against the balustrade. He cupped her chin, his grip unpleasantly tight. "Is this what this is all about? Acting out to get my attention?"

The sheer, unadulterated ego of the man was almost impressive. A real laugh escaped her this time, genuine and mocking. She slapped his hand away.

"Get over yourself, Arley. I'm not interested."

She decided to pour gasoline on the fire. She let her gaze drift, a wistful, reminiscent look on her face. "And honestly, compared to the man I've been seeing... you're not even in the same league in bed."

His face went slack with shock, then contorted with a primal, masculine fury. His eyes were bloodshot.

"What did you say?" He slammed her back against the wall, his hands trapping her on either side of her head. The stone was cold and rough against her bare back.

She met his furious gaze without flinching. "I have a lover," she lied, the words tasting like victory. "He's stronger than you, better looking than you, and he actually knows what to do with a woman."

Jealousy and rage blinded him. He couldn't conceive that she was telling the truth; he saw it as a desperate tactic, a lie to wound him.

"Fine," he sneered. "You want to play games? Let's play."

He pulled out his phone, his thumb jabbing at the screen. Kenia's contact photo appeared. He shoved the phone into Hope's hand.

"Call her. Right now."

His voice was a low command. "Apologize. For what you said at dinner. For being a jealous bitch. For everything."

He thought he was backing her into a corner. He thought her "confession" would prove she was bluffing, that she still cared. A smug, triumphant smile spread across his face. He had won.

Hope looked at the glowing screen, at Kenia's smiling face. She took the phone.

Arley's smile widened. She was caving.

Her finger hovered over the call icon. She looked up at him, a cold, secret smile in her own eyes.

You think this is your trap, Arley? It's my stage.

Across the city, Algernon McCarthy looked at a proposal from Simmons Group. His assistant stood beside him.

"Sir, Arley Simmons seems to be having an unstable evening at his family's event."

A live feed from a micro-drone played on a monitor. The image was silent, but crystal clear. He watched Arley shove Hope against the wall on the terrace.

The pen in Algernon's hand bent under the pressure of his grip.

A cold, possessive rage, unfamiliar and terrifying, coiled in his gut.

He picked up his encrypted phone, the one she didn't know about, and sent a text to the number he had used as Drake.

Need help?

He stared at the screen. No response.

The air in the room dropped ten degrees.