The Maybach rolled to a smooth stop in the underground garage of the Coffey family's downtown Manhattan penthouse. The driver opened the door, and a blast of late autumn wind rushed into the cabin.

Isla pulled her thin coat tighter around her chest. She kept her head down, falling into her usual rhythm of walking exactly half a step behind Curtiss as they headed for the private elevator.

The elevator car was small. Curtiss's scent-sharp cedar and cold power-filled the enclosed space. Isla's lungs tightened. She had to force herself to breathe shallowly.

The doors opened to the top floor. Curtiss stepped out with long strides. Suddenly, he stopped dead in the middle of the foyer.

Isla barely managed to halt before slamming into his broad back.

Curtiss turned around. He looked down at her, his eyes hard.

"Let me remind you of our arrangement," Curtiss said, his voice cutting through the quiet apartment. "Do not expect Coffey Group to pay for your family's endless greed."

Isla nodded immediately.

"I understand," she whispered. "I won't cause you any trouble."

Curtiss stared at her submissive face. A muscle feathered in his jaw. He ripped his tie off, threw it onto the nearest sofa, and walked straight into his study.

The heavy oak door of the study clicked shut. The lock engaged.

The second Isla heard that sound, her hunched shoulders snapped back. Her spine straightened. The fear bled out of her eyes, leaving behind pure, calculated ice.

She walked quickly down the hallway to the guest bedroom. She had demanded this separate room on their wedding night, claiming she was a light sleeper.

Isla shut the door and locked it. She walked over to the closet and pulled out what looked like a standard, albeit expensive, designer makeup train case. She set it on the desk, her fingers tracing the hidden seams of the false bottom. With a subtle, practiced sequence of presses on the decorative studs, the top layer popped off, revealing a heavy, black biometric workstation running through multiple VPNs.

She pressed her thumb to the scanner and leaned in for the iris check. The case clicked open, revealing a high-end workstation.

She logged into the encrypted server. Instantly, Kristy's frantic video call request popped up.

Isla accepted it. Kristy was pacing around her office on the screen, looking terrified.

"They're going to register the leaked blueprints by morning!" Kristy panicked.

"Stop."

Isla's voice was steady, commanding, and absolute. It was the voice of a queen, completely unrecognizable from the stuttering girl at dinner.

She pulled up the leaked files on her screen. Her eyes scanned the intricate lines of the dress design.

A cold smirk touched Isla's lips.

"Let them register it," Isla said. "That's the decoy draft I threw in the trash three months ago."

Kristy froze. Her mouth fell open. "Wait. Are you serious? What do we do now?"

Isla's fingers flew across the keyboard in a blur.

"I'm sending you the real flagship designs," Isla ordered. "Contact the London production line immediately. We launch early."

Heavy footsteps suddenly echoed in the hallway outside the guest room. Then, a sharp knock hit the door.

Isla's heart slammed against her ribs. She hit the mute button and slammed the workstation shut, shoving it under the bed.

She frantically ran her hands through her hair, messing it up. She ripped off her coat, threw it on the chair, and forced her eyes to look heavy and sleepy. She dragged her feet to the door.

Isla opened the door just a crack. Curtiss stood there holding a glass of ice water. His eyes narrowed, studying the flush on her cheeks.

"I heard voices," Curtiss said. His gaze tried to push past her into the room.

"I... I was watching an old movie," Isla stammered, wrapping her arms around herself. "I get scared sleeping alone, so I turn the volume up."

Curtiss looked over her shoulder. The room was dark except for the flickering light of the muted television screen. Nothing looked out of place.

He let out a low, mocking scoff at her cowardice. He pulled a thick manila folder from under his arm and held it out.

"Take this to Jimmie tomorrow," Curtiss ordered. "It's the new terms for the Morales family trust fund. Consider it my final warning to them."

Isla reached out with both hands to take the folder. Her warm fingertips accidentally brushed against his freezing knuckles.

They both flinched.

Curtiss pulled his hand back quickly. He turned on his heel and walked away, his broad shoulders tense with an irritation he couldn't explain.

Isla closed the door and locked it again. She leaned her back against the solid wood, clutching the folder to her chest. She took a deep, shaky breath. A dangerous light flickered in her eyes. The real game was just beginning.

At eight o'clock the next morning, Isla stepped off the crowded subway train. She wore a dull gray knit sweater and carried a cheap canvas tote bag.

She pushed through the glass doors of Apex, a painfully average midtown PR firm. The receptionist barely glanced up, offering a lazy wave.

Isla kept her head down. She walked through the open bullpen like a ghost.

"Hey, Isla, grab me a vanilla latte," a junior account manager yelled out without looking at her.

Isla nodded submissively. She walked toward the breakroom with an empty mug. But the second she stepped into the camera's blind spot, she slipped through the fire exit door at the back of the hallway. She hurried down the concrete stairs and out into a narrow, unassuming alleyway behind the building. Walking briskly for half a block, making sure she wasn't followed, she approached a nondescript brick building that looked like an abandoned warehouse. She pressed her palm against a hidden scanner disguised as a rusted intercom box. The heavy steel door clicked open, granting her entry. The door closed behind her, sealing off the noise of the city and revealing the sprawling, minimalist headquarters of Verve.

Isla pulled the gray sweater over her head and tossed it aside. Underneath, she wore a razor-sharp, black silk blouse. Her posture shifted. The air around her turned electric.

Kristy, the public face of Verve, rushed forward with a stack of financial reports.

"Good morning, Freya," Kristy said respectfully. "London is on standby."

Isla walked straight into the central glass conference room. She sat at the head of the massive table. She flipped open the reports, her eyes scanning the numbers.

"Three errors on page four," Isla said coldly, tossing the file back. "Fix it."

Kristy broke into a cold sweat. She grabbed the file, nodding frantically.

The head of the design team stepped forward, his hands shaking. He placed a fabric sample for the autumn line on the table. Isla pulled on a pair of white cotton gloves. She ran her fingers over the weave.

She picked up the sample and dropped it into the trash can.

"The stitching ruins the drape," Isla said. Her voice was merciless. "Burn the entire batch. Start over."

The room fell dead silent. Everyone stared at the floor, terrified of the invisible empire's true ruler.

After the meeting, Kristy pulled Isla into her private office. She slid a thick document across the desk.

"It's an acquisition offer," Kristy said nervously. "From Coffey Group."

Isla looked down. Curtiss's bold signature was at the bottom of the page. Her stomach dropped. Her pulse hammered in her throat.

"Their due diligence team is aggressive," Kristy warned. "If they dig deep enough, they'll find out who Freya really is."

Isla grabbed the document and shoved it into the paper shredder. The machine whirred loudly.

"Reject all outside capital," Isla ordered. "Especially Coffey."

Suddenly, Isla's burner phone buzzed. It was Jimmie.

"Where are those documents, Isla?" Jimmie barked through the speaker.

Isla's spine curved. Her voice instantly pitched higher, shaking with fake anxiety. "I'm so sorry, Uncle Jimmie! I'm on my way right now!"

Kristy stood there, her jaw practically hitting the floor at the flawless performance.

Isla hung up. She pulled the Morales trust fund folder from her tote bag. She grabbed a micro-scanner from Kristy's desk and meticulously backed up every single page.

She pulled the ugly gray sweater back on. She messed up her hair, transforming back into the pathetic wallflower.

Isla took the secret elevator back up. She walked out of the PR firm, clutching her canvas bag to her chest.

As she stepped onto the sidewalk, the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She felt eyes on her.

She didn't turn around. Instead, she pretended to trip. She dropped her tote bag, letting her cheap pens scatter across the concrete. As she crouched down to pick them up, she glanced at the reflection in a storefront window.

A black SUV was parked at the corner. The license plate belonged to Coffey Group.

Isla smiled inwardly. Curtiss was running a background check on his new wife. She needed to give him a show.

She walked over to a dirty street cart and bought a two-dollar hotdog. She ate it while walking toward the subway, looking completely broke and utterly defenseless.

Inside the SUV, a bodyguard snapped a photo and hit send.

In the top-floor boardroom of Coffey Group, Curtiss looked at the photo on his phone. He saw his wife eating garbage on the street. A knot of intense, irrational anger tightened in his chest.

He hated seeing her look so pathetic.

Curtiss looked up at his executive assistant, K. Jennings. "Pull the surveillance off my wife. It's a waste of time."

Down in the subway station, Isla watched the black SUV drive away in the reflection of the train window. A cold, victorious smile touched her lips.

The private dining room at the Upper East Side club smelled of expensive perfume and old money.

Isla walked in exactly on time. The moment she crossed the threshold, the loud, piercing laughter of the socialites abruptly stopped.

Collette sat at the center of the table. She looked Isla up and down with absolute disgust.

Isla stood frozen near the door. She looked like an ugly duckling that had wandered into a swan enclosure. "Good afternoon," she whispered.

Jaylene pointed a manicured finger at the smallest chair in the darkest corner. "Sit there. Don't block the waiters."

Isla walked over and sat down. She kept her hands folded tightly in her lap. She pulled the trust fund documents from her bag and slid them across the table to Collette.

Collette ripped the folder open. Her eyes scanned the new asset-freezing clauses Curtiss had added. All the color drained from Collette's face.

Collette slammed the folder onto the table. The silverware rattled.

"You useless piece of trash!" Collette hissed. "You can't even control your own husband in bed to protect your family!"

Isla's eyes immediately filled with tears. Her bottom lip trembled. "I... I can't tell him what to do. I'm scared of him."

The other wealthy women at the table raised their napkins to hide their cruel smiles. They loved watching the fake Coffey wife get humiliated.

To change the subject and show off, Jaylene snapped her fingers. A waiter pushed a black velvet mannequin into the room.

Draped over the mannequin was a shimmering, silver starry-night gown.

"This," Jaylene announced proudly, "is the unreleased autumn haute couture from Verve."

The room erupted in gasps. The women crowded around, praising Jaylene's incredible connections and flawless taste.

Isla looked up. The moment her eyes locked onto the dress, her heart stopped.

It was the leaked design. The trash she had discarded.

Isla's trained eyes immediately caught the flaws. The stitching on the hem was jagged. The fabric lacked the true weight of Verve silk. It was a cheap, pathetic knockoff.

Jaylene strutted over to Isla. She sneered, looking down at Isla's gray sweater. "Don't stare too hard. People who wear rags will never touch Verve fabric in their lifetime."

Isla ducked her head. She forced a look of pure awe onto her face. "It's... it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

Collette leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. "There is a charity gala tomorrow night. You will make Curtiss introduce Jaylene to the London fashion executives."

Isla shook her head frantically. "Curtiss never takes me to those events. He won't listen to me."

Collette's voice dropped to a lethal whisper. "If you don't make it happen, I will stop paying the maintenance fees for your parents' graves."

Isla's breath hitched. Her fingernails dug so hard into her palms that the skin broke. A violent, murderous rage flared in her chest.

She forced the rage down, burying it deep. She looked up, letting a tear spill over her lashes. "Okay. I'll beg him."

When the lunch ended, Isla practically ran out of the room. The second she turned the corner into the empty hallway, she pulled out her phone. She snapped a high-resolution photo of the fake dress through the cracked door.

She sent the photo to Kristy with one text: Prepare the PR kill squad.

Just as she hit send, K. Jennings walked around the opposite corner, escorting a client.

Isla shoved her phone into her pocket. She aggressively wiped at her eyes, making sure they looked red and swollen. She hunched her shoulders, letting out a soft, pathetic sniffle.

K. Jennings stopped. He frowned, watching the boss's wife crying in the hallway of a private club. It was his job to report everything.

Isla kept her head down and hurried past him. As soon as she was behind him, the corners of her mouth curled up into a dark, calculating smile.

She knew Curtiss. He didn't love her, but his ego was massive. He would never allow anyone to publicly humiliate a woman who carried his last name.

Isla got into a yellow cab. She stared out the window, already planning Jaylene's execution at the gala.

Meanwhile, inside the top-floor office of Coffey Group, Curtiss listened to K. Jennings's phone report.

The gold-plated fountain pen in Curtiss's hand snapped completely in half. Ink bled across his fingers.