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.

Hope's finger pressed the call button.

The phone barely completed a single ring before Kenia answered, her voice thick with a hopeful, tearful tremor. "Arley?"

Arley gestured with his head, a smug jerk, for Hope to start her apology.

Hope brought the phone to her ear, her eyes fixed on the dark garden beyond the terrace, not on him. She let out a soft, breathy sigh, a sound deliberately designed to sound like it came after a kiss.

"Kenia, darling..."

Her voice was a low, husky purr.

On the other end, silence. Arley's victorious smile froze on his face.

"I'm sorry," Hope continued in that same intimate, post-coital tone, "Arley's a little... preoccupied right now."

She let out another small, calculated gasp for air. "He's so impatient to have me fulfill my... wifely duties. You understand."

A strangled noise came from the phone, followed by a hysterical shriek. "ARLEY! YOU BASTARD! YOU LET HER TOUCH YOUR PHONE!"

Arley's face cycled through shades of white, red, and purple. He lunged for the phone, but Hope sidestepped him easily.

"Don't be like that, Kenia," she cooed into the receiver. "We'll be done soon. I'll have him call you back when he's... cooled down. If you can still get ahold of him, that is."

A final, gut-wrenching sob, and Kenia hung up.

Hope tossed the phone back to a stunned Arley. She smiled, an expression of pure, angelic innocence. "Well. It seems she didn't want my apology after all."

He stood there, trembling with a rage so profound he was speechless. His phone began to buzz violently in his hand, Kenia's name flashing on the screen again and again.

He had to go. He had to fix this.

"You... you just wait," he finally managed to choke out, before turning and storming off the terrace, a man running to put out a fire he had started himself.

Hope watched him go, a genuine, triumphant laugh bubbling up from her chest.

Later that evening, in Sterling Simmons Sr.'s mahogany-paneled study, the mood was grim. Sterling, Arley, Portia, and Hope were assembled.

"The single most important objective for Simmons Group this year," Sterling announced, his voice like gravel, "is securing the exclusive North American distribution rights for McCarthy Global's 'Project Skydome'."

He looked from Arley to Portia. "Whoever lands this deal will have a definitive voice on the board."

It was a trial by fire for the position of heir.

Arley, still rattled from his disastrous phone call, puffed up his chest. "I'll handle it, Father. I'll secure the meeting."

Hope listened quietly, filing the information away. McCarthy. Another weakness to exploit. Another way to trip Arley up.

She had no idea.

She had no idea that the reclusive, phantom-like president of McCarthy Global, the man her enemies were desperate to court... was the same man she had paid for a year of his time, and dismissed with a bank transfer just a few days ago.

In his office, Algernon watched the final drone footage. Arley fleeing in a panic. Hope, alone on the terrace, a victorious smile gracing her lips.

A flicker of pride, possessive and dark, went through him. His girl was a fighter.

But then his brow furrowed. She had invented a lover to provoke Arley. This imaginary man... annoyed him. Greatly.

His assistant entered. "Sir, the official partnership request from Simmons Group has arrived."

Algernon's ice-blue eyes were fixed on the image of Hope's triumphant smile.

"Let them wait," he said.