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.

The doors to the 17th Precinct slid open, and Keenan strode in, his presence sucking the air out of the bustling room. His expensive shoes made sharp, angry sounds on the linoleum floor.

He slapped a photo of Aracely on the front desk. "I need to know where this woman is. Now."

A weary-looking detective in a rumpled suit approached him. "I'm Detective Fletcher. Come with me, Mr. Ross."

Fletcher led him not to an office, but to an interrogation room with a one-way mirror. He pointed inside.

A man sat at the metal table, his head in his hands. He looked exhausted and distraught. Keenan didn't recognize him.

"That man, Felix Riddle, came in two hours ago," Fletcher said, his voice flat. "Filed a missing person's report for Aracely Walter. Says he's a close friend, believes her life is in danger, and that you're the cause of it."

Close friend.

The words detonated in Keenan's brain. A red haze of fury descended. He kicked the door open, stormed in, and grabbed the man by the collar, hauling him out of his chair.

"Keenan, no!" Aracely's soul cried out, recognizing him instantly. Felix. The man from the graduation party. The source of all the poison.

Keenan's fist connected with Felix's jaw. A sickening crack echoed in the small room.

Officers swarmed in, pulling them apart. Felix staggered back, blood trickling from his lip, his eyes wide with shock.

"Who the hell are you?" Keenan roared, struggling against the officers holding him back. "She's my wife!"

"Some husband you are!" Felix spat back, wiping blood from his mouth. "She was dying, you bastard! Did you even know she was sick?"

The words were a direct hit. Keenan flinched. "She was acting! Lying, just like she always did, with men like you!"

Fletcher tossed a clear plastic evidence bag onto the table. It clattered against the metal. Inside was a woman's designer high heel and a delicate wristwatch.

Keenan's breath hitched. The watch. It was the one he'd given Aracely on their first anniversary.

"Found on the bank of the East River an hour ago," Fletcher said grimly. "No body. But it looks like she jumped."

Aracely stared at the shoe. It was hers. The one she'd worn to the hospital. How did it get to the river? Cheyenne. It had to be Cheyenne. She had thrown them there, creating a false trail.

Keenan reached for the bag, his fingers trembling as they touched the cold plastic. He saw a dark, brownish stain on the watchband. Dried blood.

His head snapped up, his eyes locking on Felix. "What did you do to her?"

"I was trying to find her!" Felix yelled, his voice cracking with grief. "I was trying to save her from you!"

"According to traffic cams, Mr. Ross," Fletcher interrupted, "a woman matching your wife's description was seen walking alone toward the river late last night."

A woman with the same build. The same long, dark hair. Cheyenne.

Keenan spun around, his face a mask of desperation. "I want to see that footage. All of it."

"There are blind spots," Fletcher said with a sigh. "We only got a shot of her back."

Keenan sagged against the wall, the feeling of control, the one thing he always had, completely gone.

Felix stepped closer, his voice dropping to a pained whisper. "She had a brain tumor, Keenan. A real one. Why wouldn't you believe her?"

Keenan squeezed his eyes shut. The image of Aracely in his study, her face pale, her hand shaking as she held out the diagnosis, flashed in his mind.

He opened his eyes, a new, terrifying resolve hardening his features. He looked at Fletcher.

"I'm going to that clinic. Right now."