The wail of approaching police sirens slices through the night air. The sound grows deafeningly loud.

The remaining crowd in the square scatters rapidly in all directions. People do not want to be questioned about the scam.

A large group of panicked teenagers pushes past Anissa. Shoulders slam into her ribs. The surge of bodies violently breaks her line of sight with the man in the suit.

Anissa stumbles backward from a hard shove. Her sneakers slip on the wet pavement. She loses her grip on Ashanti's sleeve in the chaotic rush.

"Ashanti!" Anissa calls out.

Her voice is completely drowned out by the blaring sirens and the shouting pedestrians. The flashing red and blue lights reflect off the storefront windows.

Realizing she is separated and exposed, Anissa ducks into the nearest narrow alleyway to avoid the incoming police cruisers. If she is caught and identified, Julian will destroy her.

The alley is pitch black. It smells of stale rain and overflowing dumpsters. It is a stark, suffocating contrast to the bright street.

Anissa pulls out her phone to text Ashanti. Her hands are shaking slightly from the adrenaline. The harsh blue screen illuminates her anxious face.

Before she can type a single letter, a heavy, gloved hand clamps down over her phone. The hand pushes her device down with terrifying force.

Anissa gasps. Her combat instincts flare instantly. She violently twists her hips and throws a sharp, brutal elbow backward toward her attacker's face.

The man effortlessly catches her elbow with his free hand. His palm absorbs the heavy impact without him making a single sound. It is like hitting a brick wall.

Anissa spins around. Her back hits the cold brick wall of the alley. The impact knocks the breath from her lungs. She finds herself trapped between the rough wall and the man in the tailored suit.

Bowen Hammond steps closer. The faint, flickering street light from the main road catches the sharp, dangerous angles of his jawline.

Anissa glares at him. Her chest heaves.

"Who the hell are you?" she demands. "Back off, or I scream for the cops right outside."

Bowen tilts his head. His dark eyes scan her face. His expression is an agonizing mix of profound relief and deep, gut-wrenching sorrow.

He completely ignores her threat. He steps half an inch closer. He invades her personal space, using his broad shoulders to block her only exit.

Bowen opens his mouth. His voice is a low, rough rumble. "The Arizona sandstorms," he says, the words hanging heavy in the damp air. "They always smelled like ozone and crushed sage right before they hit. Do you remember?"

A memory no one in Washington D. C. could possibly know.

Anissa's breath hitches. A sudden, sharp spike of pain pierces her temples. It feels like an ice pick driving into her skull at the exact sound of those specific words.

She drops her phone. She clutches her head with both hands. She squeezes her eyes shut. A blurry, fragmented image of a blinding desert sunset flashes violently through her mind.

Bowen reaches out. His hands move to steady her trembling shoulders. His voice softens into a desperate, urgent whisper.

"Look at me," he says.

Anissa violently slaps his hands away. Her survival instinct overrides the strange, blinding headache. She views his touch as an immediate attack.

"Julian sent you," she accuses, her voice shaking with rage. "He hired you to dig up my background, didn't he? To terrorize me?"

Bowen lets out a bitter, humorless laugh. The sound is hollow.

"Julian Sinclair is the last person on earth I take orders from," Bowen states.

He introduces himself clearly. "My name is Bowen Hammond." He stares deeply into her eyes. He is searching. He is waiting for a spark of recognition to light up her face.

Anissa stares back blankly. Her face registers nothing but hostility and deep, defensive confusion.

Bowen's expression hardens. The muscle in his jaw ticks. He realizes the absolute depth of the psychological damage she has endured. The amnesia is real. She truly does not know him.

He takes a slow step back, giving her physical space. But his voice remains firm.

"You do not belong in the Sinclair Estate," Bowen says.

Anissa scoffs. She lifts her chin, her pride flaring. "My miserable marriage is none of your business. Get out of my way."

Before Bowen can reply, a metal trash can at the end of the alley is violently kicked aside. The sound echoes loudly off the brick walls.

Ashanti emerges from the shadows. Her eyes are locked onto Bowen. A lethal, customized combat knife is already drawn in her hand. The blade catches the faint light.

Bowen does not even turn his head to look at Ashanti. He keeps his eyes fixed on Anissa. But his posture shifts instantly into a relaxed, deadly combat stance.

Ashanti closes the distance in a fraction of a second. Her boots make no sound on the wet asphalt. She thrusts the combat knife directly at Bowen's neck with lethal intent.

Bowen doesn't retreat. Instead, he steps inside Ashanti's guard. He casually deflects her wrist with his forearm.

The sound of bone striking bone echoes sharply in the narrow alley. Bowen's expression remains completely bored.

Ashanti recovers instantly. She spins her body weight into a low, vicious sweep kick aimed at Bowen's knees to cripple his mobility.

Bowen leaps slightly, clearing the sweep by an inch. He uses his downward momentum to drive a heavy knee toward Ashanti's chest.

Ashanti crosses her arms to block the brutal strike. The sheer kinetic force of his knee sends her sliding backward across the wet pavement. Her boots scrape loudly against the ground.

Anissa screams Ashanti's name. Terror grips her throat. She has never seen anyone manhandle her highly trained bodyguard with such terrifying ease.

Anissa drops to her knees. She grabs a discarded, broken glass bottle from the dirty ground. She raises it as a makeshift weapon, ready to jump into the fight to save Ashanti.

Bowen notices Anissa's movement out of the corner of his eye.

He immediately drops his aggressive stance. He raises both hands in the air in a gesture of absolute surrender.

"Your footwork has gotten sloppy," Bowen says, his voice calm. "Not like our last sparring match in the Arizona desert. Three years ago."

Ashanti freezes. Her eyes widen in absolute shock. The words register in her brain. Her knife trembles slightly in her tight grip.

Anissa demands to know what Bowen is talking about. Her voice is shrill with panic.

"Ashanti has never been to Arizona with anyone but my family!" Anissa insists.

Bowen looks at Anissa. His eyes are laced with a bitter, heavy sadness.

"Do you truly not remember the sandstorms?" Bowen asks quietly. "Or the promise we made?"

Another sharp, agonizing spike of pain hits Anissa's temples. The pain is blinding. It forces her to drop the glass bottle. It shatters against the pavement. She clutches her head, her knees buckling slightly.

Bowen takes a half-step forward. His hand reaches out instinctively to comfort her. His cold facade breaks, revealing raw desperation.

Ashanti instantly snaps out of her shock. She lunges forward, slashing the air between Bowen and Anissa with her blade. She forces him back.

Ashanti positions herself entirely in front of Anissa. She uses her own body as a human shield. She glares at Bowen with pure, lethal intent.

Bowen sighs. He straightens his suit jacket. His demeanor returns to cold, calculated professionalism. He knows he pushed too hard.

"I accidentally drove you away three years ago," Bowen tells Anissa, his voice tight. "It was a mistake. I have spent every single day since trying to rectify it."

Anissa fights through the pounding headache. She glares at him from behind Ashanti's shoulder.

"You are a delusional creep," Anissa spits back. "I have no idea who you are."

Bowen's jaw clenches. A muscle ticks furiously in his cheek as he absorbs the harsh, brutal rejection from the woman he loves.

He reaches into his inner jacket pocket. He pulls out a sleek, black business card. He flick it effortlessly through the air.

The card lands perfectly at Anissa's feet.

"Call me when you finally get tired of Julian's golden cage," Bowen says.

Without waiting for a response, Bowen turns. He walks toward the opposite end of the dark alley, melting seamlessly into the shadows until he is gone.

Anissa leans heavily against the wet brick wall. Her breathing is ragged. Her chest heaves. She waits until Bowen's footsteps completely disappear.

Ashanti quickly turns around. She checks Anissa for injuries. Her hands sign frantic, urgent questions about Anissa's headache.

Anissa waves her off. "It's just stress," she lies. She refuses to acknowledge the terrifying, strange familiarity of Bowen's words.

Anissa looks down at the black business card on the wet ground. She hesitates for a fraction of a second. Her heart beats wildly.

Instead of picking it up, Anissa deliberately steps on the card. She grinds it into the dirt and grime with the heel of her sneaker.

As they turn the corner out of the alley, Anissa pulls Ashanti into the shadow of a closed storefront. "Ashanti," Anissa demands, her voice a tight, breathless whisper. "You know him. I saw your face. Why were you so shocked?"

Ashanti hesitates, her hands moving in rapid, tense signs. 'I am not sure. He moves like someone from my past, a dangerous ghost. But it is impossible.'

Anissa's stomach twists, the headache throbbing fiercely against her skull. She grabs Ashanti's arm. Her fingers dig into the fabric.

"We need a drink," Anissa declares. "And a safe place to sit down before we head back to that nightmare estate."

Anissa pushes open the heavy glass doors of the upscale D. C. bistro. The warm air and the rich smell of roasted garlic wash over her cold face.

The hostess eyes their damp, casual hoodies with obvious disdain. But after Anissa drops a crisp hundred-dollar bill onto the podium, the woman wordlessly seats them in a dimly lit corner booth.

Anissa slumps into the deep leather booth. She rubs her throbbing temples. She desperately tries to push the haunting sound of Bowen's voice out of her mind.

Ashanti sits opposite her. Ashanti's posture is rigid. Her hyper-vigilant eyes scan the room. Her right hand rests casually near the hidden knife at her waist.

A waiter approaches nervously. Anissa orders two rare steaks and the strongest black coffee they have. She needs the grounding, heavy reality of food to stop her hands from shaking.

While waiting, Anissa looks around the dining room. She notices a large circular table in the center. It is occupied by six loud, heavily built men.

The men are wearing civilian clothes, but their identical tactical boots, thick necks, and military haircuts scream private security.

One of the men laughs uproariously. He slams his empty beer glass onto the wooden table with brutal force. A nearby couple flinches and quickly asks for their check.

Anissa frowns. Her headache flares again. The obnoxious, aggressive noise grates against her already frayed nerves.

The waiter arrives with their coffee. His hands shake slightly as he sets the mugs down. He carefully avoids making eye contact with the loud table in the center.

Anissa takes a sip of the bitter, scalding coffee. The heat burns her tongue, but it helps settle the lingering adrenaline from the alleyway.

At the center table, a man with a jagged, ugly scar across his cheek stands up. He sways slightly from the alcohol.

He spots Anissa in the dim corner booth. His bloodshot eyes linger uncomfortably on her exotic features and sharp jawline.

The scarred man nudges his buddy. He points a thick, calloused finger toward Anissa. He mutters something filthy that makes the whole table erupt into laughter.

Ashanti's posture instantly stiffens. Her eyes lock onto the scarred man with dead, shark-like intensity.

Anissa places a calming hand on Ashanti's wrist under the table. "Stand down," Anissa whispers. "Ignore the drunks."

The scarred man grabs a fresh, unopened bottle of wine from his table. He staggers over to Anissa's booth. A predatory, arrogant smirk stretches across his face.

He slams the heavy bottle onto Anissa's table. He leans his thick body heavily against the edge of the booth, invading their space completely.

"Hey, sweethearts," he slurs, his crude pickup line dripping with entitlement. "I'll pour you a real drink if you come sit on my lap over there."

Anissa looks up at him. Her face shows absolute zero emotion.

"Walk away," Anissa says. Her voice drips with pure ice.

The man's smirk falters. His fragile ego is instantly bruised by her immediate, fearless rejection in front of his laughing friends.

He leans closer. His foul, alcohol-soaked breath washes over Anissa's face.

"You don't know who you're messing with in this city, little girl," he threatens.

He reaches out with his thick hand. He attempts to grab the hood of Anissa's sweatshirt to physically pull her out of the booth.

Before his dirty fingers can even brush the fabric, Ashanti moves with terrifying, explosive speed.

Ashanti grabs the man's extended wrist with her left hand. She twists it sharply, forcing the back of his hand flat against the hard wooden table.

With her right hand, Ashanti grabs the heavy, serrated steak knife the waiter had just set down.

She drives the steak knife downward with brutal, calculated force. She buries the steel blade halfway into the thick oak table. She traps the man's hand perfectly between the sharp blade and his own fingers.

The scarred man lets out a blood-curdling scream of pure terror. He drops to his knees, realizing how close he came to being impaled.

The entire bistro falls dead silent. The sound of dropping silverware echoes sharply in the tense air.

The five other men at the center table instantly kick their chairs back. They reach beneath their jackets for concealed weapons.