Dennie felt it before she saw it. A gaze so heavy it felt like a sniper's laser dot between her shoulder blades.

She whipped her head around, looking up at the dark glass of the VIP balcony. She couldn't see anything but her own reflection, distorted and small. But her instincts were screaming. Run.

The Uber arrived. She shoved Sarah into the backseat and dove in after her.

"Go," she told the driver.

As the car pulled away, Holmes stepped out of the shadows of the club entrance. He watched the taillights fade.

"That was your wife?" Quentin asked, handing Holmes a cigar. "The 'trophy'?"

Holmes lit the cigar. The flame illuminated the sharp angles of his face. "It appears I bought a mystery box."

"She fights like she's been trained to kill," Quentin said. "Be careful, Holmes. You don't know who is sleeping in your bed."

"Get the car," Holmes ordered. "I want the security footage."

Dennie got back to the manor. Her heart was still racing. She checked the piece of tape she'd placed on the bottom of her bedroom door. It was intact. No one had entered.

She scrubbed the makeup off her face. She put the silk nightgown back on. She tried to slow her breathing, to become Dennie Wilson again. But the adrenaline was still humming in her blood.

Thirty minutes later, she heard his footsteps in the hall.

She lay in bed, feigning sleep. The door opened.

He didn't turn on the light. He walked to the side of the bed. She could feel his presence looming over her.

He didn't speak. He reached down. His fingers, cool and dry, brushed her cheek. Then they slid down to her neck. He didn't press like a doctor; it was more predatory. His thumb and forefinger rested lightly on either side of her throat, feeling the frantic, rabbit-fast thrum of her pulse.

He knew she wasn't asleep. He knew she was terrified. He was savoring it.

"Who are you?" he whispered into the dark.

He stood there for another minute, then turned and left.

She opened her eyes. She stared at the ceiling. He knew. He didn't know what, but he knew something.

The next morning, the dining room was a tomb.

Holmes was reading the paper. He didn't look up when Dennie entered.

"About the divorce filing..." Dennie started, testing the waters.

He folded the newspaper. He looked at her. There was a new light in his eyes. Amusement. Curiosity. Malice.

"I've reconsidered," he said.

Her blood turned to ice. "What?"

"We aren't divorcing," he said smoothly. "We're going to the Hamptons this weekend. It's my mother's birthday. Pack a bag."

"But... the contract," she stammered.

"Contracts can be renegotiated," he said. He stood up and leaned over the table, bracing his hands on the wood. He looked like a predator toying with a mouse. "And I think you're worth holding onto for a little longer."

The helicopter blades chopped the air, a deafening rhythm that vibrated in her teeth. Dennie wore noise-canceling headphones, staring out at the Manhattan skyline shrinking below them.

Holmes sat opposite her. He held a tablet, but he wasn't reading. He was staring at her hands.

She instinctively pulled her sleeves down over her knuckles. There was a faint, yellowing bruise on her index finger from where she'd hit Keith's elbow.

"What happened to your hand?" His voice came through the headset, clear and intimate.

She didn't flinch. "Yoga. I lost my balance."

Holmes smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "Yoga. Dangerous sport."

The chopper touched down on the sprawling lawn of the Hamptons estate. The grass flattened under the wind.

Harrison Wilson, the patriarch, stood on the porch leaning on a cane. He looked like an old lion-scarred, mean, and still dangerous.

Holmes gripped her hand as they exited. His grip was tight. Too tight. "Play your part," he hissed in her ear.

They walked into the grand foyer. Victoria, his grandmother, was holding court in her wheelchair. Vanessa, Holmes's sister-in-law, was there with her daughter, Chloe.

Vanessa hated Dennie. She thought she was trash.

"Dennie," Vanessa announced, her voice shrill. "I heard you two were splitting up. Such a pity. I suppose the money ran out?"

The room went quiet.

Dennie opened her mouth to speak, but Holmes pulled her against his side. "Rumors. We are happier than ever."

Harrison banged his cane on the floor. "Enough. Men, in the study. Now."

Holmes left her. She was abandoned in the shark tank.

In the study, Harrison threw a file onto the desk. "The trust fund bylaws have changed. No heir, no voting rights on the board. You need a child, Holmes. Or you lose control."

Holmes's jaw tightened. They were cornering him.

In the living room, Vanessa was circling Dennie. "So, what will you do now? Go back to... whatever it is you did before?"

Chloe, the teenager, looked up from her phone. "Aunt Dennie? There's a video on TikTok. It looks like you."

Her stomach plummeted.

Holmes walked back into the room, followed by Harrison.

"What video?" Harrison asked.

Vanessa snatched the phone and cast it to the massive TV screen above the fireplace.

There it was. Grainy, shaky footage of a woman in a black dress breaking a man's arm and stabbing another with a shoe.

The room went dead silent.

She closed her eyes. This was it. The end.

"Look," Vanessa sneered. "She's a savage. A street fighter."

Harrison Wilson stared at the screen. He watched the elbow strike. He watched the takedown.

Then, he threw his head back and laughed. A booming, terrifying sound.

"Good!" he roared. "Finally! Some blood in this family!"

He looked at Dennie with newfound respect. "That's good stock, Holmes. That's the kind of mother we need for the next generation."

Harrison handed Holmes a cigar on the terrace. He pointed the glowing tip toward the garden, where Victoria was interrogating Dennie about flower arrangements.

"She's hiding something," Harrison said. "I had her vetted again. Her background is too clean. It's a ghost file."

Holmes lit his cigar. "I'll handle her."

"No," Harrison said. "You will utilize her. We need those genes. Breed her. Get me an heir."

Holmes felt a wave of revulsion, but he nodded. The vote was everything.

Inside, Dennie excused herself to the powder room. She locked the door and pulled a burner phone from her sock.

She texted Liam, her handler. Plan B required. Location: Hamptons. Compromised.

She waited. One minute. Two.

Nothing. Liam had been dark for three days.

Panic clawed at her throat. She splashed cold water on her face. You are on your own.

Lunch was an ordeal. A long table, heavy silver. Holmes sat next to Dennie. He put on a show, placing a hand on her thigh under the table.

Dennie smiled at Vanessa, and stomped on Holmes's foot with her heel. Hard.

He didn't even blink. Under the table, his hand moved, his fingers digging into her muscle. A warning.

"Dennie," Vanessa tried again. "Since you know kung fu, maybe you can perform for us?"

She set down her fork. "It's self-defense, Vanessa. It only works if someone is trying to hurt me."

The threat hung in the air. Vanessa shut up.

After lunch, Felix pulled Holmes aside. "We tracked her movements. Every week, she goes to a cyber café in Queens. She stays for ten minutes."

Holmes narrowed his eyes. "She's transmitting data. She's a corporate spy."

It made sense. The clean background. The skills. She was a plant from Knowles Energy. Or his cousin.

He decided to break her.

That evening, a storm rolled in. Rain lashed the windows.

"The east wing guest rooms are being renovated," Victoria announced. "Holmes, you and Dennie will take the master suite in the east wing."

Her blood ran cold. The east wing was isolated. No exits.

Holmes looked at Dennie. He saw the fear and mistook it for guilt. "Problem, darling? Don't want to share a bed with your husband?"

"I have my period," she lied through her teeth.

Holmes leaned down, his lips brushing her ear. "You finished last week. I see the receipts for the supplies Mrs. Higgins buys. Don't lie to me."

He gripped her arm and marched her up the stairs.

Mrs. Higgins was waiting at the door with a key. She looked like a warden.

They walked in.