Karson Cantrell walked toward the leather sofas with a reckless smirk playing on his lips.

Isla immediately dropped her head. She bit down on her lower lip so hard she tasted copper. Her chest heaved. The ghost of the boy who had abandoned her five years ago was suddenly standing in the same room.

Curtiss didn't hesitate. He stepped sideways, placing his massive frame directly in front of Isla, blocking her from the stranger's view. His muscles coiled like a spring ready to snap.

Karson stopped two feet away. He completely ignored Curtiss. He leaned to the side, trying to catch Isla's eye. His gaze was filled with a sickening mix of agony and desperation.

"Isla," Karson said. His voice was raw, intimate.

The temperature in the room plummeted.

Curtiss's eyes narrowed into lethal slits. "Who the hell are you, and why are you addressing my wife by her first name?"

Karson finally looked at Curtiss. He tilted his chin up defiantly. "I'm the future son-in-law of the Morales family. Jaylene's fiancé."

Isla's stomach violently rejected the words. Jaylene's fiancé. Her fingernails dug into her palms until she felt wet blood. The betrayal was a physical knife twisting in her gut.

Curtiss felt the violent trembling of the woman behind him. He reached back without looking and grabbed Isla's freezing hand, his grip crushing and absolute.

Curtiss let out a dark laugh. "You have terrible taste in women, Cantrell. Your fiancé is currently the laughingstock of the ballroom."

Karson's jaw clenched. But he didn't care about Jaylene. He took a step forward, reaching his hand out toward Isla's arm. "Isla, please. We need to talk."

Curtiss slapped Karson's hand away with brutal force.

"Touch her," Curtiss snarled, the veins in his neck bulging, "and you lose the arm."

The two men stared each other down. The air crackled with violent male aggression. A physical fight was seconds away.

Isla knew she had to kill the situation before Curtiss started digging into Karson's past. She took a deep breath and stepped out from behind Curtiss.

She looked at Karson. She forced her eyes to widen in pure, unadulterated terror.

"Mr. Cantrell," Isla said, her voice shaking violently. "I don't know you."

Karson looked like he had been shot in the chest. He stared at her blank, terrified eyes in absolute horror.

Isla turned to Curtiss. She grabbed his lapels, tears spilling down her cheeks. "Please, Curtiss. Take me home. I feel sick."

Curtiss looked down at her wet face. The tears short-circuited his rage. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her toward the balcony doors.

Karson tried to follow, but two massive Coffey bodyguards stepped out of the shadows, slamming their hands into his chest, pinning him to the doorframe.

Out on the freezing balcony, the autumn wind whipped around them.

Curtiss grabbed Isla by the shoulders and slammed her back against the cold stone pillar. He boxed her in, his arms caging her against the wall.

"Who is he?" Curtiss demanded, his voice a low, terrifying rumble. "Why are you shaking?"

Isla's brain raced. She couldn't tell him the truth.

She let out a pathetic sob, letting her shoulders tremble violently. "He... he runs in Jaylene's circle. I've seen him at their parties... People in that circle, they always look at me with those eyes, making me feel so small and dirty. I just... I don't want to be near him. Please, I just want to go home."

Curtiss stared into her eyes, searching for the lie. But Isla's terror was real-she was terrified of being exposed.

Curtiss's jaw ticked. He didn't fully believe her. But seeing her shivering in the cold wind, his chest tightened. He stripped off his tuxedo jacket and threw it over her bare shoulders.

He grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him. "Coffey women do not lie, Isla. Remember that."

Isla nodded frantically, burying her face into the warm silk of his jacket to hide her heavy breathing.

Through the glass doors, Karson watched them. He saw Curtiss's jacket draped over Isla. Karson's hands curled into fists so tight his knuckles turned white.

The silence inside the Maybach on the ride home was thick enough to choke on.

Isla stayed huddled against the passenger door, wrapped in Curtiss's jacket. She kept her eyes closed, pretending to sleep. She could feel Curtiss's heavy, burning gaze dragging across her skin every few seconds.

Curtiss stared at the tear tracks on her cheeks. He remembered the raw desperation in Karson's eyes. A dark, ugly jealousy clawed at his throat.

He pulled out his phone and texted K. Jennings: Tear into Karson Cantrell's past. I want to know exactly where he was five years ago.

The car pulled into the underground garage. Isla instantly opened her eyes. She took off the jacket and held it out to him, keeping her distance.

Curtiss ignored the jacket. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her out of the car, dragging her toward the elevator.

When they walked into the penthouse, Isla turned toward the guest hallway.

"Stop," Curtiss commanded.

Isla froze.

"You're moving into the master bedroom tonight," Curtiss said, loosening his tie. "My wife doesn't sleep in a separate wing."

Isla's eyes went wide. "But... my sleep schedule..."

Curtiss stepped into her space, his height overwhelming her. "I need to know you aren't having panic attacks over some pathetic bully. You sleep where I can see you."

Isla had no choice. She bit her lip and nodded, her chest tight with panic.

At 2:00 AM, the master bedroom was pitch black. They lay on opposite sides of the massive King Size bed.

Isla listened to Curtiss's deep, even breathing. When she was sure he was asleep, she slipped out from under the covers. She grabbed her phone and crept into the master bathroom, turning on the sink faucet to mask any noise.

She sat on the cold tile floor and logged into the dark web. She messaged 'Ghost', a top-tier hacker.

Alter the relationship descriptions in my school records regarding Karson Cantrell. Delete any mutual photos, event logs, or shared project files to create the absolute illusion that we never crossed paths.

She transferred a massive sum of cryptocurrency. Ghost replied: Give me two hours. It'll look like you two didn't even breathe the same air.

Suddenly, the bathroom doorknob rattled.

Isla's blood ran cold. She shoved the phone deep into her bathrobe pocket.

"Are you crying again?" Curtiss's rough voice came through the wood.

Isla splashed cold water on her face, making her skin look pale and clammy. She opened the door. "I had a nightmare," she whispered.

Curtiss looked at her wet face. He let out a heavy sigh. He reached out, grabbed her waist, and pulled her hard against his bare chest.

Isla gasped. She was pressed against his hot skin, listening to his strong, steady heartbeat. The sheer physical dominance of his embrace made her head spin.

The next morning, while Curtiss was in the gym, Isla checked her phone. Ghost had confirmed the wipe.

At the Coffey Group headquarters, K. Jennings stood in front of Curtiss's desk. He looked nervous.

"Sir, Cantrell's file from five years ago... it's completely empty," K. Jennings said. "Someone professionally scrubbed it last night."

Curtiss stared at the blank paper. A slow, predatory smile spread across his face.

"A clean file means a dirty secret," Curtiss whispered. "Call the ex-military contractors. Dig up the graves if you have to."

Across town, Isla walked into the hidden Verve headquarters. Kristy handed her a black envelope.

"The European buyers want a secret meeting tonight," Kristy said. "At the underground VIP club in SOHO."

Isla took the envelope. Her eyes burned with ambition. She had to secure the European market before Curtiss tore her past wide open.

The heavy bass from the underground SOHO club vibrated through the soles of Isla's stilettos.

She wore a sharp, blood-red velvet suit. Her lips were painted a matching crimson. She walked past the bouncers, flashing a black metal card. They bowed instantly, leading her away from the chaotic dance floor and down a dark hallway toward the soundproof VIP rooms.

Kristy and three arrogant Parisian fashion buyers were already sitting inside the room.

Isla walked in. She didn't greet them. She walked straight to the head of the table, sat down, and crossed her legs. She radiated absolute, terrifying authority.

She picked up a martini glass, taking a slow sip.

The lead Parisian buyer leaned forward. "We want a thirty percent cut of the European distribution, Freya. Or we block your entry."

Isla let out a cold, mocking laugh. She slammed a thick dossier onto the glass table.

"Your supply chain in Milan is bankrupt," Isla said in flawless, razor-sharp French. "You need my brand to survive the quarter. You get ten percent, or I crush your company by Friday."

The Parisian buyers went pale. The air in the room grew suffocating under her dominance.

Directly above them, on the second floor of the club, Curtiss walked out of a private lounge. He had just finished a brutal negotiation with Wall Street bankers.

He felt a massive headache coming on. His mind kept flashing back to Isla's pale, terrified face in the bathroom last night. He just wanted to go home and check on her.

"Bring the car around," Curtiss told K. Jennings as they walked down the private VIP stairs to the first floor.

As they walked down the dark hallway, a drunk patron stumbled out of a side door, violently crashing into the door of Isla's VIP room.

The heavy door cracked open just a few inches. The blinding light from inside spilled out into the dark hallway.

Curtiss stopped walking. He frowned at the noise and casually glanced through the crack in the door.

His expensive leather shoes rooted to the floor. His lungs stopped working.

Through the narrow gap, he saw her.

Sitting at the head of the table, wearing a blood-red suit, holding a martini glass, was his pathetic, stuttering, terrified wife.

But she wasn't stuttering. Isla's chin was tilted up. Her eyes were lethal. She was looking at the men across the table with the exact same ruthless arrogance Curtiss used to destroy his enemies.

He watched her lips move, delivering a command that made the grown men across from her sweat.

Curtiss's brain flatlined for one agonizing second. Then, the truth hit him like a freight train.

The perfectly tailored dress. The lack of fear in her eyes when she thought no one was looking. The scrubbed files.

A violent wave of fury crashed into him, instantly followed by a twisted, burning surge of adrenaline. He had been played.

The bouncers grabbed the drunk man and pulled him away. The heavy door began to swing shut.

Just before the door clicked closed, Isla's survival instinct flared. She felt a presence. She snapped her head toward the door.

Through the two-inch gap, her eyes slammed directly into Curtiss's pitch-black stare.

Isla's blood turned to liquid nitrogen. The martini glass in her hand shook violently, spilling red liquor over her fingers.

Bang. The door shut completely.

Inside the room, Isla shot up from her chair. She couldn't breathe. Her chest heaved as pure panic ripped through her body. She was caught.

Out in the hallway, K. Jennings looked confused. "Sir? Should I handle that?"

Curtiss stared at the closed door. His face went completely expressionless, a mask of pure, impenetrable ice, but his eyes darkened into a bottomless, dangerous abyss. The air around him dropped to freezing, heavy with a terrifying, calculated stillness.

"Lock down every exit in this club," Curtiss ordered, his voice perfectly calm, yet every single word was coated in frost. "I want to know exactly who she is. No one leaves."