Before her soul was pulled back to the penthouse, Aracely was forced to follow Cheyenne's car through the dark streets. She watched, helpless, as her sister parked by the East River, walked to the edge of the black water, and tossed in a single high-heeled shoe—Aracely's shoe—and the delicate wristwatch Keenan had given her. The watch glinted once under a distant streetlight before it was swallowed by the river. Only then did Cheyenne drive home, humming softly to herself.

Aracely's soul hovered in the foyer of the penthouse, a silent, invisible wraith. She watched as Keenan walked in, his face unreadable. In his hand, he carried a small, elegant cake box from their favorite bakery. It was a sick, twisted ritual he hadn't broken in six years, a habit he performed even as he despised her. The act itself was a form of cruelty, a reminder of a love that was now just an empty, mocking tradition.

The bedroom door was slightly ajar. Inside, Cheyenne stood before the vanity mirror. She was wearing Aracely's favorite silk robe, the one the color of champagne. She was practicing Aracely's smile—the shy, hesitant one.

A wave of impotent fury washed over Aracely. She swept into the room, trying to rip the robe from her sister's body, but her hands passed through the fabric like smoke.

Cheyenne picked up Aracely's signature perfume and spritzed it onto her wrists, behind her ears. The movements were so practiced, so deliberate, it was horrifying.

The bedroom door opened. Keenan stood there, the cake box a stark white against his dark suit.

Cheyenne turned, positioning herself so the soft lamplight cast her in shadow. "You're home," she said, her voice a perfect imitation of Aracely's soft, slightly breathless tone.

Keenan placed the cake on the dresser. His voice was flat. "It's our sixth anniversary."

Cheyenne moved toward him, her steps fluid and confident in a way Aracely's never were. She wrapped her arms around his waist and buried her face in his chest.

Aracely watched, her spectral heart shattering. It was an embrace she had yearned for, begged for, for six long years.

Keenan's body went rigid for a fraction of a second. A flicker of something in his eyes. Then he relaxed, his hand coming up to pat Cheyenne's back in a stiff, awkward gesture.

He looked down at the top of her head. "You changed your perfume," he said. It wasn't a question. It was a statement. "You always said this one was too sweet."

Cheyenne's body tensed, but her voice was smooth. "I wanted a change. Don't you like it?"

He didn't answer. He gently disentangled himself and walked toward the bathroom. "I'm going to take a shower."

The door clicked shut.

Cheyenne let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Her back was damp with sweat.

Aracely drifted to the bathroom door, a silent sentinel. She could see Keenan's reflection in the mirror as he washed his face, splashing cold water onto his skin. He looked up, meeting his own gaze. His eyes were not tired or sad. They were cold, calculating. Like a predator's.

He pulled out his phone, his thumbs moving quickly across the screen.

Aracely floated closer, peering over his shoulder. It was a text message to an unsaved number.

Watch her every move.

He sent it.

Aracely's soul recoiled. He knew. He had to know. Or was this something else? Another layer to his cruelty?

The bathroom door opened. Keenan emerged, wrapped in a cloud of steam, and got into bed without a word, turning his back to the room.

Cheyenne slipped into the bed beside him, her movements cautious. She lay there, still and silent, until the sound of his deep, even breathing filled the room.

Aracely floated to the side of the bed, a ghost in her own bedroom, watching the woman who had murdered her lie next to the man who had despised her.

The text message. A sliver of impossible hope pierced through her rage. Was he trying to find her? To protect her?

Then the image of her body, cold and empty on a steel table, flooded her mind, and the hope died.

Thunder rumbled outside, and a flash of lightning illuminated the room. It lit up Cheyenne's face, a perfect, sleeping replica of her own.

Keenan, Aracely whispered into the darkness, a soundless plea. That's not me.

In the bed, Keenan's eyes snapped open. They were wide, alert, and utterly devoid of sleep.

Morning sunlight streamed into the dining room, glinting off the polished silver. Cheyenne stood at the stove, wearing one of Aracely's aprons, humming softly as she fried an egg.

Keenan sat at the head of the table, his phone held up. He took a picture.

Aracely's soul, a knot of cold fury, drifted over his shoulder to see the screen. He had opened Instagram. His official, verified account with over a million followers.

He posted the photo. The caption was simple, brutal.

My beloved wife, still trying.

It was the first time in their entire marriage he had ever posted a picture of her. A public acknowledgment that was, in reality, a trap.

Cheyenne brought a plate to the table, saw the phone, and her face paled. She understood immediately. Keenan was announcing to the world that Aracely Ross was still here, alive and well in her home. It cut off any chance of Cheyenne simply disappearing.

The private elevator doors opened, and Genevieve, Keenan's mother, swept in, holding Leo's hand.

She saw Cheyenne and sneered. "Still playing the happy homemaker, are we? It's pathetic."

Cheyenne, trapped in her role, could only lower her head and murmur a quiet greeting, just as Aracely would have done.

Leo climbed into his chair, his eyes glued to his iPad, ignoring the woman who looked exactly like his mother. Aracely's soul ached. She reached out to touch his hair, but her hand passed right through the golden strands.

"That dress is cheap," Genevieve said, her eyes raking over Cheyenne. "It's not appropriate for a Ross."

Cheyenne gritted her teeth. "I'll keep that in mind, Mother."

"Don't call me that," Genevieve snapped. "Your bloodline doesn't afford you the privilege."

Keenan sipped his coffee, watching the exchange with a detached amusement. He was enjoying this.

"Leo," Cheyenne said, her voice overly sweet, "would you like to try some of mommy's eggs?"

Leo looked up, not at her, but at his grandmother. Genevieve gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of her head.

"I'm not hungry," Leo said, turning back to his screen.

The casual cruelty of it was a physical blow to Aracely.

Keenan placed his cup down with a soft click. "You're coming with me to the MoMA gala tonight."

Cheyenne looked up, surprised. It was an event Aracely had begged to attend for years, only to be refused every time.

Genevieve frowned. "Keenan, she'll only embarrass you."

"It's my decision," he said, his voice cutting off any further argument.

Cheyenne's face lit up with triumph. She thought she was winning.

Keenan stood, adjusting his tie. He leaned down and whispered in Cheyenne's ear, his voice too low for his mother to hear. "Wear the red dress. The one you know she hates. The one she said looked like blood."

Cheyenne froze. She remembered the dress. A stunning, scarlet gown Aracely had refused to wear, but one that Cheyenne had secretly coveted.

A jolt went through Aracely's soul. He wasn't rewarding her.

He was testing her.

The walk-in closet was a temple of couture. Cheyenne stood before the full-length mirror, the scarlet Valentino gown pooled at her feet. She ran a hand over the silk, a covetous smile on her face.

"Aracely had no taste," she murmured to her reflection. "This is a masterpiece."

Don't wear it, Aracely's soul screamed in silence. Don't fall for it.

But Cheyenne was already stepping into the dress. It fit her like a second skin, the vibrant red a stark contrast to her dark hair. It was a dress that demanded attention, a dress of power and seduction.

Aracely closed her spectral eyes in despair. The trap was sprung.

Cheyenne walked into the bedroom, striking a pose. Keenan was by the window, a thin stream of smoke curling up from a cigarette. He turned.

His eyes landed on the red dress, and the air in the room instantly turned to ice. The lazy indifference in his posture vanished, replaced by a rigid, violent stillness.

Cheyenne, oblivious, twirled. "How do I look?"

He crushed the cigarette out in a crystal ashtray. In two long strides, he was in front of her. His hand shot out and clamped onto her jaw, his fingers digging into her skin.

Pain and shock flashed in Cheyenne's eyes. "Keenan, you're hurting me-"

"Cheyenne," he snarled. The name was a gunshot in the quiet room.

Her face went slack with terror. The color drained from her cheeks, leaving her looking like a ghost in a blood-red dress.

He knows, Aracely thought, a wild, terrible surge of vindication rising within her. He knew all along.

"What are you talking about?" Cheyenne stammered, trying to wrench her face away. "I'm Aracely..."

A harsh, ugly laugh escaped him. He shoved her backward, and she stumbled, landing in a heap on the sofa. He loomed over her, his hands braced on either side of her head, trapping her.

"Aracely would rather walk through fire than wear that dress," he bit out, his voice a low, menacing growl. "I remember her screaming at the designer that it was cursed. The color of a wound."

The charade was over. Cheyenne's fear morphed into pure venom. "Fine! Yes! I'm Cheyenne! So what? Your precious wife is gone! Run off to God knows where!"

Keenan straightened up, his composure returning with chilling speed. He adjusted his cufflinks, once again the untouchable businessman. "If you want to be her so badly," he said, his voice dangerously calm, "then you can continue."

Cheyenne stared at him, confused.

He walked to his desk and opened his laptop, his fingers flying across the keyboard. He pulled up a credit card statement. "Her last charge was to a private clinic. An amount large enough for a significant surgical procedure."

Aracely's soul drifted closer. It was the down payment for her own murder.

Keenan picked up his phone, dialed the clinic, and put it on speaker.

"I'm inquiring about a patient," he said, his voice clipped. "Aracely Walter."

A nurse's hesitant voice came through the line. "Sir, I can't release patient information... but let me check. Ms. Walter... yes, she was scheduled for a critical procedure today. But... there was an incident."

Keenan's hand, holding the phone, tightened until his knuckles were white. For the first time since this nightmare began, a crack appeared in his iron control. A flicker of raw, genuine panic.

"What kind of incident?" he demanded.