The movers were downstairs with the last of her boxes. Cristina ran back into the apartment, her heels clicking on the marble.

She reached the study and grabbed the black sketchbook from the desk. She clutched it to her chest, relief washing over her.

Then, the front door beeped.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Click.

The code was entered.

Cristina's eyes widened. She looked around frantically. There was no way to the exit without passing the foyer.

She dove behind the heavy velvet curtains that covered the French windows in the study. She pressed herself against the cold glass, making herself as flat as possible.

"I don't care what she took!" Jackson's voice was booming. He sounded stressed. He walked into the living room, followed by the heavy tread of another man. Harrison Wells, the family lawyer.

"The press is going to eat us alive if the stock drops," Harrison said. His voice was calm, pragmatic. "Davida needs a narrative, Jackson. 'Sick heiress' isn't enough anymore. People are calling her a homewrecker."

"She's not a homewrecker," Jackson growled. "She's a victim."

"The public sees a trophy wife kicked out for a stepsister," Harrison said. "We need to show Davida brings value to the company. Tangible value."

Jackson sighed. Cristina heard the rustle of fabric as he sat on the leather sofa. "Put her on speaker."

The phone rang. Davida picked up. She was crying.

"Jack? They're laughing at me on Twitter. They're saying I'm just a leech."

"Shh, baby, calm down," Jackson's voice was gentle. "We have a plan."

"I want the brand," Davida sniffled. "I want Sunny."

Cristina stopped breathing. She pressed her hand over her mouth.

"Davida," Harrison interjected. "The Sunny designs are anonymous. We don't hold the copyright directly; it's through a shell company."

"Cristina is gone," Jackson said. His voice was ice cold. "She left everything. She signed the NDA. She signed the exit papers. She has no claim."

"But she designed them," Harrison said softly.

"No one knows that," Jackson said. "As far as the world knows, Sunny is a ghost. We just need to give the ghost a face."

"My face," Davida said. Her crying stopped instantly.

"We transfer the IP rights to Davida," Jackson explained. "We announce at Fashion Week that Davida has been 'Sunny' all along. That she was designing from her hospital bed. It's the perfect comeback story. The genius invalid."

"It's fraud, Jackson," Harrison warned.

"It's business," Jackson countered. "Cristina is out. She's probably halfway to Ohio by now. She'll never know."

Cristina felt a rage so hot it almost burned her skin. They weren't just taking her husband and her home. They were stealing her mind. Her identity.

"The sketches?" Davida asked. "Do you have the new book? The Spring Collection?"

"It should be in the study," Jackson said. "She left everything else."

Footsteps. They were coming toward the study.

Cristina squeezed her eyes shut. She held the sketchbook so tight her knuckles turned white.

The door to the study creaked open.

"I don't see it on the desk," Harrison said.

"Check the drawers," Jackson ordered.

Cristina heard drawers sliding open and slamming shut. They were feet away from her.

Buzz. Buzz.

The intercom on the wall rang loudly.

"Mr. Floyd?" The doorman's voice. "The movers are asking if they can clear the loading dock. They're waiting for Mrs. Floyd... uh, Ms. Powell."

Jackson groaned. "Get rid of them. Tell them she's gone."

"I'll handle it," Harrison said. "I need to get the paperwork for the transfer anyway."

"Fine," Jackson said. "I'll get some water."

The footsteps retreated. The study door was left ajar.

Cristina waited five seconds. Ten. She heard the refrigerator door open in the kitchen down the hall.

She slipped out from behind the curtain. She kicked off her heels, holding them in one hand and the sketchbook in the other.

She ran.

She moved like a ghost across the carpet. She reached the front door. She opened it slowly, praying the hinges wouldn't squeak.

She slipped into the hallway and let the door click shut.

She didn't wait for the elevator. She ran for the stairs. She sprinted down three flights before collapsing against the railing, gasping for air.

She looked at the sketchbook in her hand.

"You want a war?" she whispered to the empty stairwell. "I'll give you a war."

The diner smelled of stale coffee and bleach. It was 2:00 AM. Cristina sat in a booth in the back, the sketchbook on the table in front of her.

On the small TV mounted in the corner, a news anchor was talking about New York Fashion Week.

...and rumors are swirling that Floyd Enterprises will finally reveal the face behind the mysterious brand 'Sunny'.

Cristina took a sip of water. Her hand was trembling. She couldn't do this alone. Jackson had the lawyers, the money, the security. She had a book and a frozen bank account.

She reached into her wallet. Hidden behind her ID was a card. It was thick, matte black, with no name. Just a number and an embossed symbol of a scalpel.

The Surgeon.

Five years ago, Jackson needed a kidney. He was dying. They were on a waitlist that was too long. Cristina had gone to the underground. She had met a man who said he could fix anything for a price. She had offered her own kidney, but she wasn't a match. The man-Columbus Mcleod-had found one anyway. He hadn't asked for money. He had asked for something far more personal. A genetic sample. A part of her future. She remembered the cold clinic, the procedure she had hidden from Jackson, the ache in her lower abdomen that lasted for weeks.

She had never called him since. Until now.

She walked to the payphone near the restrooms. She dialed the number.

It rang once.

"Speak," a deep, distorted voice answered.

"This is Origami," Cristina said. It was the code name he gave her because she was folding paper cranes in the waiting room that night.

Silence. Then, the voice cleared, the distortion gone. It was a rich, baritone voice. "It's been a long time, little bird."

"I need help," Cristina said. "I need into Fashion Week. The Floyd Gala. And I need protection."

"Jackson Floyd is a powerful man," the voice said. "Crossing him is expensive."

"I don't have money," Cristina said. "But I have the truth. He's stealing my life."

"I know," the man said. "I've been watching."

Cristina gripped the phone receiver. "Will you help me?"

"The price is high, Origami. If I step in, you belong to the organization. Your talent. Your future. You become mine."

Cristina looked at her reflection in the dirty mirror of the cigarette machine. She looked tired. Broken.

"Deal," she said.

"Go back to your booth," he said. "Wait."

The line went dead.

Ten minutes later, a man in a dark suit walked into the diner. He carried a silver box. He placed it on her table and left without a word.

Cristina opened it. Inside was a black credit card with no limit, a burner phone, and an invitation to the Gala. The name on the invite was Sunny.

Beneath the invite lay a sleek digital tablet. Cristina turned it on. It displayed a detailed dossier of the Gala's guest list. One name was highlighted in red: Marcus Thorne, Editor-in-Chief of TechDaily. A note attached read: He is incorruptible. He will verify the metadata. Use him.

A text message appeared on the phone.

8:00 PM. Don't be late. A car will collect you.

Cristina closed the box. She stood up.

She left the diner and hailed a cab. She went to a salon in Chelsea that stayed open late for VIPs. She slapped the black card on the counter.

"Cut it," she told the stylist.

"How short?"

"Short enough that I can't hide behind it anymore."

Two hours later, the long, mousy brown hair was gone. In its place was a sharp, angled bob, dyed a deep, raven black. Her eyes, usually soft, looked striking and fierce against the dark hair.

She went to a boutique she knew held private stock. She bought the dress she had designed three years ago but Jackson forbade her from releasing because it was "too provocative."

It was gold. Liquid gold. Named Nirvana.

By 7:55 PM, she was standing on the curb. A long black sedan with tinted windows pulled up. The driver opened the door.

Cristina slid into the leather seat. She smoothed the sketchbook on her lap.

"To Lincoln Center," she said.

The flashbulbs were blinding. A wall of photographers lined the red carpet leading into Lincoln Center.

A white stretch limousine pulled up. The crowd cheered. Jackson Floyd stepped out, looking dashing in a tuxedo. He turned and offered his hand to Davida.

Davida emerged. She was wearing a pink dress that looked vaguely familiar to the fashion press-a modified version of an old Sunny design. It pulled awkwardly at the waist. She smiled, waving weakly, playing the role of the fragile genius perfectly.

"Is it true?" a reporter shouted. "Are you Sunny?"

Davida giggled and hid her face in Jackson's shoulder. Jackson smiled at the cameras. "We have a big announcement inside."

They began to walk up the carpet.

Then, the atmosphere changed.

A low hum of an engine cut through the noise. A matte black car, sleek and predatory, rolled to a stop right behind the white limo. It didn't have license plates. It had a small flag on the hood with a crest no one recognized-The Surgeon's mark.

Security started to move forward to block it, but the lead guard saw the driver and froze. He signaled his men to stand down.

The back door opened.

First, a red-soled stiletto hit the red carpet. Then, a leg exposed by a high slit.

Cristina stepped out.

The silence was instantaneous.

She wore gold. The fabric clung to her body like a second skin, shimmering under the lights. The back was completely open, draped only by the finest sheer mesh. Her black bob was sharp as a knife. Her lips were painted a deep, blood red.

She didn't look like the shy, dowdy wife Jackson had hidden away. She looked like a queen.

"Who is that?" someone whispered.

"Is that... is that the ex-wife?"

Jackson turned around. His jaw literally dropped. He stared at her, blinking, as if trying to process the image.

Davida's smile vanished. Her nails dug into Jackson's arm.

Cristina began to walk. She didn't look at the cameras. She looked straight ahead, her eyes locked on the entrance.

The photographers woke up. The sound of shutters clicking became a roar, louder than it had been for Davida.

Click. Click. Click.

She walked right up to where Jackson and Davida were standing, blocking the path.

Jackson found his voice. "Tina? What are you doing here?"

He stepped toward her, trying to use his height to intimidate her. "You need to leave. Now. You're embarrassing yourself."

Cristina stopped. She turned her head slowly to look at him. She didn't blink.

"I have an invitation," she said. Her voice was low, but steady.

"You're trespassing," Davida hissed. "Security!"

A large man in a headset stepped forward, reaching for Cristina's arm.

Before he could touch her, two men in dark suits materialized from the crowd. They didn't draw weapons, but they moved with a lethal fluidity. They stepped between Cristina and the guard. The guard looked at their eyes and backed away, terrified.

Jackson saw the men. He recognized the type. Professional. Dangerous.

"Who are you with?" Jackson asked, his voice shaking slightly.

Cristina smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. "I'm with the future, Jackson. And you're in my way."

She brushed past him. The gold fabric of her dress swished against his tuxedo pants.

She walked alone up the rest of the carpet, the lights reflecting off her like armor.

Jackson watched her go, a knot of fear tightening in his stomach.