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.

Iris didn't think. She didn't hesitate.

Her hand shot out to the small service table next to them. There was a half-empty bottle of Grey Goose vodka sitting there, abandoned by a waiter.

She grabbed it by the neck.

In one fluid motion, she swung it.

Smash.

The heavy glass bottle connected with Leo's forehead. The sound was sickening-a wet thud followed by the shatter of glass.

Vodka sprayed everywhere, drenching Leo, Iris, and Hunter's suit.

Leo didn't even scream at first. He just dropped. He crumbled to the floor like a puppet with cut strings, clutching his head. Blood began to seep through his fingers, mixing with the alcohol on the carpet.

"My eye! My eye!" Leo started to wail, rolling on the ground.

Silence rippled outward from them. The music seemed to fade away. A circle formed instantly.

Hunter jumped back, brushing glass shards off his lapel. He stared at Leo, then at Iris, his eyes bulging.

"Iris!" he screamed. "What did you do? That's Leo Leone! His father is..."

"I don't care who his father is," Iris said. Her voice was calm. Her pulse hadn't even quickened.

She was still holding the jagged neck of the bottle.

A massive security guard-not Tiny, but someone new-pushed through the crowd. "What the hell is going on here?"

He saw Iris with the weapon. He reached for his radio.

Dorothea was screaming now, a high-pitched sound that grated on Iris's nerves. "She's crazy! She tried to kill him! Get her away from us!"

Hunter looked at Iris. He looked at the security guard. Iris saw the calculation in his eyes. He was wondering if he should step in, use the Rutledge name to protect her.

Then he looked at the blood. He looked at the crowd filming with their phones. He stepped back. He chose distance. He chose to save himself.

Iris dropped the bottle neck. It clattered on the floor.

She reached into her clutch. She pulled out the stack of cash she had taken from the black duffel bag earlier. It was about five thousand dollars, wrapped in a rubber band.

She snapped the rubber band off.

She walked over to where Leo was writhing on the floor. She stood over him.

"You touched me," she said. "I told you not to."

She let the bills fall from her hand. They fluttered down, covering his bloody face, sticking to the wet carpet.

"That's for the stitches," she said loud enough for the crowd to hear. "Keep the change for a therapy session."

Leo sputtered, spitting blood and money.

Hunter grabbed Iris's arm. His grip was hard, painful.

"Have you lost your mind?" he hissed. "You just assaulted him. The police are going to come. You're going back to jail, Iris. And I can't help you this time."

Iris looked at his hand on her arm. Then she looked at his face.

"Get your hand off me," she said.

"I'm trying to talk sense into you!"

"Sir, step away from the woman," the security guard barked, stepping closer.

Hunter let go, looking offended. "I'm her husband! Well, almost ex-husband."

"I don't care who you are," the guard said. He looked at Iris. "Ma'am, you need to come with me."

Iris squared her shoulders. She was ready to walk out. She was ready to fight if she had to.

"She's not going anywhere with you," a voice cut through the tension.

Sienna pushed through the crowd. She looked furious.