A low, guttural roar echoed off the limestone facades of the Upper East Side buildings. It wasn't the polite purr of the town cars that usually lined the curb. It was the scream of a predator.

A McLaren 720S, painted a violent, unapologetic purple, screeched to a halt in front of the building. The valet stepped back, looking terrified.

The passenger window rolled down. Sienna Vance pushed her oversized sunglasses down the bridge of her nose. Her red hair was a chaotic halo around her face.

"Get in, loser," she yelled, grinning. "We're going shopping."

Iris tossed her duffel bag into the small trunk-barely fitting it in-and slid into the passenger seat. The car smelled of leather and expensive perfume.

Sienna handed her a Starbucks cup. "Tequila latte. Extra shot. And by shot, I mean Don Julio."

Iris took a sip. The burn of the alcohol mixed with the caffeine was exactly what she needed.

"Go," she said.

Sienna slammed her foot on the gas. The car lurched forward, pinning Iris to the seat. They wove through traffic, cutting off a taxi and ignoring the angry honk.

"I saw him looking out the window," Sienna shouted over the engine noise. "Your ex. He looked like someone just kicked his puppy."

"He looked like someone just broke his three-million-dollar vase," Iris corrected.

Sienna whooped, slapping the steering wheel. "You didn't! Oh my god, Iris. That is legendary. Please tell me you got a picture."

"I was busy leaving."

Iris leaned her head back against the headrest. The city blurred past the window. For four years, she had moved through this city in the back of a silent sedan, watching the world through tinted glass. Now, the vibration of the engine under her seat felt like a heartbeat.

"So," Sienna said, glancing at her. "Where to? My place?"

"Your place," Iris said. "I need... I need to burn these clothes."

"Way ahead of you. I already called the squad. But first..." She paused, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "There's a thing tonight. At Velvet."

"I'm not in the mood for a club, Sienna."

"Nightwing might be there."

The name hit Iris like a physical blow. She sat up straighter.

Nightwing. The ghost of the underground racing circuit. The only driver on the East Coast Iris hadn't beaten. The only driver she hadn't raced.

"He doesn't do clubs," she said.

"Rumor has it he's in town for business. And he likes Velvet. It's owned by the Lindsey group, isn't it?"

"I don't care," Iris lied. Her fingers twitched, itching for a steering wheel. Not this steering wheel-a racing wheel.

"You've been a nun for four years, Iris," Sienna said, her voice softening. "Tequila has been dead. Buried under bridge nights and charity galas. Don't you miss her?"

"Tequila was reckless," Iris said.

"Tequila was alive," Sienna countered.

They pulled into the underground garage of Sienna's building in Tribeca. She parked crookedly across two spots because she could.

Her apartment was a chaotic explosion of wealth. Designer shoes were kicked off in the hallway, art books were stacked on the floor, and a half-empty bottle of champagne sat on the kitchen island.

Sienna grabbed Iris's shoulders and marched her to the full-length mirror in the hallway.

"Look at yourself," she commanded.

Iris looked. She saw a woman in a beige cardigan and sensible slacks. Her hair was pulled back in a severe bun. Her face was pale, devoid of makeup. She looked like a ghost. She looked like Mrs. Hunter Rutledge.

"Take it off," Sienna said.

Iris's phone rang. The screen lit up on the counter. Hunter.

She stared at it. The vibration buzzed against the marble.

"Are you going to answer that?" Sienna asked.

Iris reached out. She didn't answer. She pressed the red button, then held down the power button until the screen went black.

"No," she said.

She reached up and pulled the pins out of her hair. It fell around her shoulders, heavy and dark. She unbuttoned the beige cardigan and let it drop to the floor.

Sienna kicked the cardigan aside. She walked to her closet-a room larger than Iris's first apartment-and pulled out a garment bag.

"I've been saving this," she said. "For the day you finally woke up."

She unzipped the bag. Inside was a dress. It was deep crimson silk, barely there, held together by thin straps and engineering.

"It's called 'The Ex-Wife's Revenge'," Sienna said. She tossed Iris a set of car keys. Not the McLaren. These were for her Porsche 911 GT3.

"If Nightwing is there," she whispered, "you might need a ride home."

Iris caught the keys. The cold metal bit into her palm.

"If he's there," she said, her voice dropping, "he's going to lose."

The transformation took three hours.

Sienna's "squad"-a makeup artist named Leo (not the creep) and a hair stylist named Jinx-worked on Iris with the intensity of a pit crew. They stripped away the layers of Hunter's wife. They scrubbed off the modesty, the meekness, the fear.

When they turned the chair around, Iris didn't recognize the woman in the mirror.

Her skin glowed. Her lips were painted a dangerous, matte red. Her eyes were lined with sharp, winged kohl that made them look like weapons. Her hair fell in loose, deliberate waves that screamed effortless luxury.

She stepped into the red dress. The silk slid over her skin like water. It fit perfectly. It clung to her hips and plunged low in the back, exposing the spine she had stiffened for so long. The slit on the left leg went high, dangerously high, revealing the muscle tone she had maintained in secret gym sessions at 4 AM.

She stepped into the Jimmy Choo heels. They added four inches to her height and a lethal edge to her stride.

"Holy shit," Sienna said. She snapped a photo. "Hunter is going to have a stroke."

"Let's hope," Iris said.

They took the elevator down to the garage. Iris walked past the McLaren to the Porsche GT3. It was matte black, a shadow on wheels.

She slid into the driver's seat. The bucket seat hugged her. The steering wheel was Alcantara, soft and grippy.

She pushed the start button. The engine barked to life, a raw, mechanical sound that vibrated through the chassis and straight into her chest.

Sienna jumped into the passenger seat. "Don't kill us."

Iris reversed out of the spot and shifted into first. They rolled out of the garage and onto the street.

The moment the tires hit the asphalt, something clicked in her brain. The world slowed down. She could feel the texture of the road through the steering wheel. She could hear the intake of air into the engine.

She wasn't Iris Rutledge, the rejected wife. She was Tequila.

She floored it.

The G-force pinned them back. She wove through the Manhattan traffic with surgical precision, finding gaps that didn't exist, anticipating lane changes before the other drivers even signaled.

Sienna was laughing, clutching the door handle. "You're insane!"

"I'm focused," Iris said.

They arrived at Velvet in record time. The line outside wrapped around the block. The bouncers were turning people away by the dozen.

They pulled up to the curb. Iris killed the engine. The silence that followed was ringing.

The valet opened her door. She stepped out, the red dress flashing under the streetlights.

The crowd went quiet. Heads turned. She could feel the weight of their gazes. It wasn't the polite curiosity she was used to at charity balls. It was hunger. It was admiration.

Sienna tossed the keys to the valet. "Keep it close."

They walked toward the velvet rope. The head of security, a massive man named Tiny, looked up. He saw Sienna and nodded, unhooking the rope immediately.

Then he looked at Iris. His eyes widened slightly. He didn't recognize her. No one did.

They swept past the line, ignoring the complaints of the people waiting. They entered the club.

The bass hit Iris first. It thumped in her sternum. The air was thick with smoke and expensive cologne.

They made their way up the stairs to the VIP mezzanine. It was a balcony that overlooked the dance floor, reserved for the people who wanted to be seen but not touched.

Sienna ordered a bottle of Dom Perignon. Iris leaned against the glass railing, looking down at the writhing mass of bodies below.

She scanned the crowd, looking for a ghost. Looking for Nightwing.

Instead, her eyes landed on something else.

In the center of the dance floor, trying to look comfortable in a crowd of people ten years younger than him, was Hunter.

And clinging to his arm, wearing a white dress that looked like a virgin's costume, was Dorothea.

Iris's grip on the railing tightened.

"Well," Sienna said, appearing beside her with two glasses. "Look what the cat dragged in."

"He hates clubs," Iris said. "He says the music gives him a migraine."

"He's trying to prove he's young and fun for his new toy," Sienna said, handing Iris a glass.

Iris took a sip of the champagne. It was cold and crisp.

"He looks ridiculous," she said.

"He looks like a man who made a mistake," Sienna corrected.

Iris watched them. Hunter whispered something to Dorothea. She laughed, throwing her head back in a gesture that looked rehearsed.

Iris felt a strange sensation in her chest. It wasn't jealousy. It wasn't pain.

It was pity.

"I'm going to the ladies' room," she said.

"Want backup?"

"No. I can handle it."

She set her glass down and turned toward the stairs. She had to walk past the VIP entrance to get to the restrooms.

She descended the stairs, the red dress flowing behind her like a trail of blood.

The lighting in the hallway leading to the restrooms was dim, bathed in red and purple neons. The music was muffled here, a dull throb in the background.

Iris checked her makeup in the mirror. Perfect. Not a smudge.

She pushed open the door and stepped back into the hallway.

A man was blocking her path.

He was young, maybe twenty-five, wearing a suit that was too shiny and a watch that was too big. He had the glazed look of someone who had consumed too much alcohol and too much of his father's money.

Leo Leone. The son of a shipping magnate. A notorious pest.

"Whoa," he said, leaning against the wall. "Where have you been hiding?"

Iris tried to step around him. "Excuse me."

He moved to block her again. "Don't be like that. I'm Leo. You look... expensive."

"I'm out of your budget," Iris said, her voice ice cold.

She tried to push past him, but he reached out and grabbed her wrist. His hand was clammy.

"Let go," she said.

"Just one drink," he slurred. "Come on, Red."

"Hey!"

A voice boomed from the end of the hallway.

Iris looked up. Hunter was standing there. He must have been coming to the VIP bar. He looked furious.

"Get your hands off her," Hunter shouted, striding toward them.

Leo looked at Hunter, then sneered. "Relax, grandpa. She's fair game."

Hunter reached them and shoved Leo's chest. "She said let go."

Leo stumbled back, releasing Iris's wrist. He looked at Hunter, recognizing him. "Rutledge? What is this, your escort?"

Hunter ignored him. He turned to Iris, his eyes filled with a mix of adrenaline and white-knight complex.

"Are you okay, miss? I..."

He stopped.

The red neon light flickered, illuminating Iris's face.

Hunter froze. His eyes widened, his pupils dilating. He blinked, once, twice. He looked at the red dress, the cleavage, the dark lipstick.

"Iris?" he whispered. It was a sound of pure disbelief.

Iris smoothed her wrist where Leo had touched her. "Hello, Hunter."

He shook his head, as if trying to clear a hallucination. "What... what are you doing here? You look..."

"Different?" she suggested.

"You look like a..." He didn't finish the sentence, but his eyes raked over her body with a hunger he hadn't shown in years.

Dorothea appeared behind him, breathless from chasing him in her heels.

"Hunter, what's wrong? Who is..."

She saw Iris. Her jaw dropped.

"Iris?" she squeaked.

She looked Iris up and down, her eyes narrowing instantly. She took in the dress, the setting, the man (Leo) lurking nearby.

She let out a small, theatrical gasp to cover her mouth.

"Oh my god," she said loudly. "Iris, are you... working here?"

The implication hung in the air. Prostitute.

Leo snickered. "How much, then?"

Hunter's face turned a deep shade of crimson. He looked at Iris with horror. Not because she was being insulted, but because he thought she was embarrassing him.

"Iris," he hissed. "Tell me you're not doing this. We haven't even filed the papers yet. Think of the family reputation."

Iris laughed. It was a dark, rich sound that bubbled up from her chest.

She stepped closer to Hunter. She was close enough to smell the scotch on his breath. She leaned in, her lips inches from his ear.

"I'm not working, Hunter," she whispered. "I'm celebrating."

"Celebrating what?" he asked, stiffening.

"My widowhood," she said.

She pulled back and winked at him.

Hunter looked like she had slapped him.

Leo, emboldened by the confusion, stepped forward again. "So, if you're not with him..."

He reached out and placed a hand on Iris's lower back, his fingers sliding toward her hip.

"I said, I'm fair game, right?" Leo grinned.

Hunter opened his mouth to shout again, but he was too slow.