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.

Curtiss threw the broken halves of the pen into the trash can. He stood up and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, staring down at the Manhattan skyline. His chest rose and fell with heavy, furious breaths.

"Repeat exactly what Collette said," Curtiss demanded.

K. Jennings swallowed hard. The air pressure in the office felt suffocating. "She threatened her parents' graves, sir."

Curtiss's eyes turned pitch black. "Cut off the credit lines to both of the Morales family's subsidiary banks. Now."

"Yes, sir."

"And," Curtiss turned around, his voice dangerously calm. "Contact Verve's PR department. Buy that unreleased dress. I don't care what it costs."

K. Jennings hesitated. "Sir, Verve's rules are absolute. They don't sell unreleased items to anyone outside their core VIP list."

Curtiss stepped forward. The sheer dominance radiating from him made K. Jennings take a step back.

"Use every resource Coffey Group has," Curtiss ordered. "Bury them in money if you have to. But that dress will be in my wife's hands by tonight."

That evening, Isla dragged her feet as she walked into the penthouse. She was exhausted, but she had to keep up the act.

She pushed the door open and froze.

Curtiss was sitting on the living room sofa. He held a glass of amber whiskey. He never came home this early.

Isla instantly dropped her gaze. She walked toward him, her steps small and hesitant.

Curtiss didn't say a word. His piercing eyes locked onto her face, studying the faint redness still lingering around her eyes.

"Did the Morales family touch you today?" Curtiss asked. His voice was blunt, leaving no room for lies.

Isla flinched. She shook her head quickly, but her eyes darted away.

She played her part perfectly. She stuttered out Collette's demand about the London executives, ending with a pathetic, "Please, Curtiss. Just this once. Help me."

Curtiss slammed his whiskey glass down on the glass coffee table. The loud crack made Isla jump backward.

He stood up. He closed the distance between them in two massive strides, stopping just inches away from her. His sheer height and the dark, overwhelming aura of his presence formed an invisible wall, suffocating her. He didn't raise his voice, nor did he pin her to the wall in a fit of unrestrained rage. Instead, he reached out, his cold, calloused fingers gripping her chin with a firm, inescapable pressure. He forced her to look up into his pitch-black eyes.

"My wife does not bow to anyone," Curtiss stated, his voice a chilling, absolute command that left no room for debate. "And you will never beg for those parasites again."

Isla looked up at him. For a second, her shock was genuine. She hadn't expected his anger to be this physical, this intense.

They were so close she could feel the heat radiating off his chest. Curtiss stared down at her lips. He smelled the faint scent of citrus on her skin. His anger suddenly warped into a strange, heavy pulse of desire in his gut.

The doorbell rang, shattering the dangerous tension.

Curtiss stepped back, clearing his throat. He adjusted his suit jacket.

The butler walked in, pushing a massive black velvet garment box. "Sir, the delivery for Mrs. Coffey."

"Open it," Curtiss ordered her.

Isla walked over. Her hands shook as she untied the silk ribbon. She lifted the lid.

Lying inside was the true, flawless, authentic Verve starry-night gown.

Isla's brain short-circuited. She knew exactly how much Curtiss had paid for this-Kristy had called her screaming about the insane wire transfer two hours ago.

She had to bite the inside of her cheek to stop herself from laughing.

Instead, Isla covered her mouth with both hands. She let a massive tear roll down her cheek. She looked at Curtiss with wide, disbelieving eyes.

"I... I can't believe it," she whispered, her voice breaking perfectly. "Thank you."

Curtiss looked at her tear-stained face. The tight knot of rage in his chest instantly dissolved, replaced by a deep, primal satisfaction.

"You will wear this tomorrow night," Curtiss commanded. "And you will stand next to Jaylene."

Isla nodded meekly. She took a step forward and rested her forehead against his chest, acting like a grateful, terrified sheep seeking shelter.

Curtiss went completely rigid. He wasn't used to being touched. But slowly, almost against his own will, he lifted his hand and stroked her hair.

Hidden against his chest, Isla's eyes were cold and sharp. The trap was set.