(AURIANNA'S POV)

"YOU FUCKING WHORE!" Gio growls. "I'M GONNA FUCKING KILL YOU!"

He darts toward me but suddenly, he stops halfway, gasping for breath. His chest starts heaving as he stumbles backward, looking for anything to grab on to.

"I-" he chokes. "I can't-breathe."

A grin spreads across my face. "Sweetheart, that's the poison kicking in. It paralyzes the diaphragm first. Then it moves to the heart and cuts off blood circulation. You'll be dead in like... sixty seconds."

He drops to the floor like a puppet cut from its strings, clawing at his throat with trembling hands. I get up from the bed and crouch next to him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body, to see the tiny, terrible details.

I watch as the whites of his eye bleed into red, the veins bulging through his temples, the foam starting to come out of his mouth. I stay with him, watching the last of the fight drain from his face until his body twitches, then goes completely still.

I get up, scanning the room. "Now... where did I drop my purse?"

I spot it near the lamp. I cross over to it and pull out a pair of latex gloves, slipping them on. Then I draw out a sheathed knife from my purse before walking back to Giovanni's body.

Kneeling, I grab his hand and slice off his thumb. Then I cross the room to the painting hanging above the fireplace. I take it down, revealing the safe hidden behind it. I press the thumb against the scanner. It beeps, and the door pops open.

I gloss over the stacks of cash, expensive rings, wristwatches, and bars of gold until my eyes land on what I came here for.

A red flash drive.

I smirk to myself and grab it. I sheath the knife, fold the gloves, and tuck both back into my purse along with the drive. I find my dress in a messy heap. It's a bit torn, but I pull it on anyway.

My phone buzzes in my hand before I can pull on my heels. I answer and hold the phone to my ear.

"Agent Siren," a deep, feminine voice says from the other end. "Status?"

"Target is neutralized," I reply.

"And the drive?"

"Secured." I answer.

"And evidence?" she asks.

I look at the syringe on the carpet, step over Giovanni's dead body, pick it up then toss it in my purse.

"No evidence left behind," I tell her.

"Good work," she says. "Report back to HQ. Debrief in forty-eight."

"Copy that." I reply, hanging up after.

I step into my heels, straighten the ruined hem of my dress, sweep the painting back onto the wall so no one will notice the safe. Before leaving the room, I look down at Giovanni one last time and blow him a kiss.

"See you in hell." I say, then I walk out, closing the door behind me.

I know you might be judging me right now for killing that man, but trust me... he deserved it. Giovanni D'Amato was no saint.

He was one of the many bastards who made a living selling people, young girls mostly. Promising them better lives and shipping them off to hell instead.

The flash drive I took, that little beauty? Info on every buyer, every client, every partner-it's all there. One step closer to burning his entire operation to the fucking ground.

Oh, right. Where are my manners?

I forgot to introduce myself.

The name's Aurianna Astranova.

But in my world, real names don't mean shit. What matters is the codename.

Mine's Siren.

I work for an agency called O.A.S.I.S. It stands for Operations and Strategic Intelligence Service. We're an all-female unit that deals with domestic and foreign threats-the ones governments like to pretend don't exist.

Men like Giovanni.

I know what you're thinking. You're wondering how a woman like me ends up doing this kind of work.

Let's just say life didn't give me much of a choice.

I'm incapable of having children. Some people might call that a curse, I used to think so too. But then I realized it gave me something better.

Freedom.

No risks, no attachments, nothing to lose.

And in my line of work, that makes me untouchable.

Men look at me and see a fantasy. Full lips, a nice set of tits and a figure people would kill for. They see me as something they can buy... something they can own.

I let them believe it. I let them want me. I let them need me.

And just when they think they've got me wrapped around their finger, I pull the trigger.

That's why they call me Siren. Because when I sing, men listen. When I smile, they follow. And when they do...

They end up dead.

(ZAYNE'S POV)

Life's good when you're me. No scratch that, life's fucking great.

I'm kicked back on the red leather couch of LUXE, the most exclusive nightclub in L.A. The bass is thumping through the walls, women are laughing, glasses are clinking, and the lights are dim enough to make everyone look ten times hotter than they really are.

One of those women-brunette, legs for days-is sitting so close I can smell her perfume. She's got her hand on my chest, tracing lazy circles like she's trying to hypnotize me. The other one, a blonde in a red dress, is feeding me sips of my own wine like I'm some kind of goddamn king, which technically, I am.

I don't even stop her. Why would I?

"Mm," I hum, licking the last drop off my lips. "You girls are spoiling me."

"That's the idea," the brunette says, giggling.

I grin, leaning back.

Yeah, Zayne Beaumont, you lucky bastard.

The blonde reaches for the bottle, tips it, and frowns when not a single drop comes out. "We're out," she pouts, batting her lashes at me. "Got any more of that expensive wine, handsome?"

I smirk, leaning in until our mouths almost touch. "Anything for you beautiful ladies."

I plant a quick kiss on her lips, just enough to make her blush and giggle, then I stand up, straightening my jacket. "Don't go anywhere, alright? I'll be back before you even miss me."

"Don't keep us waiting," the brunette teases, biting her bottom lip.

"Wouldn't dream of it," I say, flashing my most charming grin before walking off.

The music's loud, people are everywhere-dancing, grinding, making out like the world's ending tomorrow. I weave through the crowd, offering the occasional nod or smirk to people who recognize me. Perks of being Zayne Beaumont, I guess. Tech mogul. Billionaire. Man about town.

When I finally reach the bar, I raise a hand to flag the bartender but someone beats me to it.

"I'll have a Black Velvet," a woman's voice says.

I turn, and for a second, I forget how to breathe.

The woman standing beside me is drop dead gorgeous. Her platinum blonde hair, gleaming under the dark club lights, tumbling over her shoulders and resting against her... wow. Just-wow.

The neckline of the black skin-tight dress hugging her curves cut so low that I could see almost all her cleavage hanging out.

Holy shit.

I lick my lower lip without meaning to.

She doesn't look at me, just keeps her gaze fixed on the bartender.

I shift closer, casually, like I belong there. "I'll have what she's having," I tell the bartender, then turn to her with a grin. "Hey-"

"No."

Just like that. Cold, flat, and straight to the point.

I blink, then let out a small huff of amusement. "Damn, you won't even let me get a word in?"

She finally looks at me. Big mistake. Now I'm the one who can't look away. Her eyes are this sharp, icy blue that made me freeze for a moment.

"I'm not in the mood to talk," she says, her voice calm but edged. "I came here for a drink and some late-night fun. Not conversation."

I chuckle. "Late-night fun could mean a lot of things."

"Not with you," she shoots back without hesitation.

That one actually makes me laugh. "Are you always like this, or am I just unlucky tonight?"

"Neither." She sighs, visibly annoyed. "Now piss off. You're starting to get on my nerves."

The bartender slides two drinks toward us. She takes hers without another word and sips it, ignoring me completely.

I take mine, lean against the bar, and try again. "Hey, maybe you might not know who I am-"

"Oh, I know who you are."

That stops me. She turns toward me, that faint smirk curving her lips.

"You're Zayne Beaumont," she says. "The young billionaire who runs Beaumont Industries. Tech empire worth, what, over a hundred billion dollars now?"

I grin. "Oh, so you do know me."

She rolls her eyes. "Who doesn't? It's not every day someone your age makes it that far."

I run a hand through my hair and lean in a little, flashing my signature smile.

But she doesn't even blink. "Don't get excited, golden boy. That doesn't mean I'm about to swoon, take off my panties, and throw myself at you like the others do."

I tilt my head, smirking. "Can I at least get your name?"

"No."

She turns back to her drink and just like that, the conversation's over.

I chuckle quietly, more amused than offended.

She's a feisty one. I like that.

I down my drink in one go, setting the glass down with a light thud.

"Well," I mutter, "cheers to rejection."

I turn to leave, but as I push off the stool, my foot slips on something wet-spilled drink maybe-and the next thing I know, I'm stumbling forward. My hand shoots out instinctively to stop my fall...

And lands right on her chest.

Her boob, to be exact.

I freeze, staring down at my hand, still cupping her like a fucking idiot. Then I slowly look up at her face. Her eyes are wide, her mouth hanging open in disbelief, and oh, fuck-she looks furious.

"Shit," I blurt out. "I'm sorry, that was an accide-"

Her fist connects with my jaw before I even finish the sentence.

I stumble backward, nearly knocking over the guy behind me, one hand on my face, completely stunned.

And just like that, everything goes dark for a split second.

Damn. Did she really just-

"Did you just fucking punch me?!"

(AURIANNA'S POV)

"Did you just fucking hit me?!" he yells, one hand clutching his jaw like I broke it.

I blink, still trying to process the absurdity of the whole thing. "Did I just hit you?" I stand from my barstool, crossing my arms. "You just grabbed my boobs without my consent!"

"I said it was a fucking accident!" he fires back, his voice half a shout, half a whine.

People are already turning to look. Music's still thumping, but the energy around us shifts. The DJ might as well have hit a damn spotlight. Everyone's watching with their phones out, some of them smirking, others pretending they're not recording.

Personally, I don't give a shit. But him? He definitely does. I can see it in his eyes, that flicker of embarrassment under the bravado. The mighty Zayne Beaumont, the billionaire golden boy, about to get humbled in front of an audience.

I huff, shaking my head in disbelief. "So that's your excuse? You're not even gonna apologize?"

"Apologize for what?" he says, lowering his voice now, glancing around nervously. "It was an accident, okay?"

"Wrong answer."

Before he can say another word, I grab my drink and pour it straight down his face.

The entire bar goes silent for a beat.

"Jesus Christ!" he sputters, wiping at his soaked hair. "What the fuck is your-"

He doesn't even finish before my fist connects with his face again.

The crowd gasps.

He stumbles back, clutching his nose. I swing again; he tries to dodge, but I catch him with a clean jab to the jaw. Then I grab his shoulder, twist my hips, and drive my knee right into his gut.

He wheezes, all that billionaire arrogance knocked right out of him.

I didn't stop there. I grab his wrist, twist his arm behind his back, and I sweep his legs out from under him. He hits the floor hard, the air bursting out of his lungs.

Before he can even react, I plant my knee in his back and press my elbow against his spine, pinning him there.

"Next time," I hiss, leaning close to his ear, "watch where you put your hands."

Someone in the crowd yells, "Damn!" and another voice shouts, "Yo, she just dropped him!"

Phones are flashing everywhere now. Half the club's recording. I can already see the headlines: Billionaire Tech CEO Gets His Ass Handed to Him by a Mystery Blonde at LUXE.

I push off him, standing tall. Zayne groans, still on the floor, his face red, his hair wet from the wine. And his pride?

Shattered.

I smooth down my dress, grab my purse off the bar, and sling it over my shoulder.

For a second, I glance down at him, and I don't know what makes me smirk. The sight of him completely wrecked or the fact that he's still trying to look dignified while lying face-down on the floor.

"Enjoy the rest of your night, Mr. Beaumont."

Then I turn on my heel and walk out of the club, the crowd parting for me like I'm Mo ses and they're the damn Red Sea.

The cold night air hits me the moment I step outside. My heels click against the pavement as I walk away with my head held high.

Just another night. And another man who learned the hard way not to touch me without my consent.

-

THE NEXT MORNING.

(ZAYNE'S POV)

My living room is filled with the sound of loud, obnoxious laughter. Exactly the kind of thing you hear when your best friend is five kinds of terrible.

Cameron's doubled over on the armchair with his phone in hand, his eyes watering. He can't breathe, 'cause he's laughing so hard. I'm flat on the couch with an ice pack strapped to my face, and I want to throw something. Preferably at Cam's head.

"Stop laughing," I grumble.

"But it's so fucking funny." He wipes his eyes. "You should see the comments."

"Shut up." I smack my palm against the sofa cushion. It feels like someone shoved a fist into my jaw and left it there. "It hurts."

"It'll pass." He cackles. "But the internet? Gold. You're trending, man. TikTok, Twitter, Instagram-all of it."

He holds the phone up like a trophy. "Here, listen to this headline. Young Tech Billionaire KO'd by Mystery Blonde at LUXE."

He laughs again, harder.

I groan. It's not the pain so much as the sound of Cam enjoying my humiliation.

"Cam, stop. I'm serious," I mutter under my breath.

The ice is cold enough to blur the world into slow motion. I press it harder against the swelling under my eye. My lip stings every time I move.

Cam scrolls, snorts, reads another headline. "Oh, get this. Beaumont's CEO Gets a Dose of Reality-and a Black Eye." He howls. "That's gonna be the clip they play on morning breakfast shows, dude."

I hurl a throw pillow at him. It sails across the room and bonks him square in the chest.

"Either shut the fuck up about it, or get the hell out of my house," I snap, more irritated than I should be.

He just sits back, unbothered. "You need to calm down, Z. It's not that deep."

"It is that deep." I yank the ice pack off my face and stare at him. "Do you know how many calls I've gotten since morning? PR, the board, my mom-they've all been blowing up my phone for hours. This is going to be a disaster."

Cam waves a hand. "Maybe. But dude, you literally grabbed her tits. How mad can you be at the world when you-"

"Shut the hell up!" I cut him off, then soften, because I'm trying to be honest with myself and the truth tastes bitter. "Okay-okay, I did grab her. But it was an accident. I slipped."

"Accident or not," Cam says, putting the phone down and folding his long legs across the chair, "it's already causing serious damage."

His voice goes quiet for a second, the kind of quiet that makes me sit up. "Beaumont Industries' stock tickers are wobbling. People are talking. Investors don't love viral scandals."

I stare at the ceiling. Images from last night keep replaying-the club lights, the way that blonde moved, the coldness in her eyes when she said no, the fist, my face exploding in pain. My jaw thuds with every memory.

"Fuck," I groan. More for my company than for my face.

Cam shrugs like it's nothing, but his gaze is sharp. "You really fucked up, man."

"You think I don't know what?" I snap, more to myself than to him. I pick up my phone from the coffee table and thumb through a dozen missed calls and texts. Prayers, panic, some asking if I was okay. My PR guy's name lights up the screen like a neon warning.

I press the ice against my face again, feeling the sting turn into numbness. It helps. Numbness is a good thing right now.

"But Z, to be honest that chick really fucked up your face." Cam says, the look on his face morphing into something almost sympathetic.

"Really?" I sit up. "How do I look?"

"Like you got your ass handed to you." he replies, bursting into laughter all over again.

"Fuck you," I say, grabbing my phone. I flip the camera to selfie mode and raise it toward my face.

The screen doesn't lie. There's purple blossom around my left eye, my nose is swollen and already starting to bruise, a busted lip, and my jaw looks like someone beat the hell out of it with a hammer.

Now there's another feeling, a hot, ugly one that sits under the swelling.

Anger.

She hit me, sure, but she also humiliated me in front of half the city. My pride's on the floor with my jaw. And the part that makes it worse is-I don't even know who she is.

I close my hand around that thought like a fist.

I'll find her. I will find the girl who decked me in a club and made my face look like a crime scene, and I will make sure she pays for making my life a headline.

The house is quiet except for Cam's faint chuckle as he scrolls some more. I lift my head and lock eyes with him. "Get me everything you can on last night. Videos, posts, comments-everything. And call my assistant. Tell her to dig. I want names. I want locations. I want every frame of that clip."

Cam's smile is maddeningly calm. "Already on it. Relax, Z. We'll handle this."

I let the ice sit against the bruise and exhale. My jaw aches and my pride bleeds, but I'm not helpless. Not anymore.

When I stand, the room tilts for a second. I steady myself on the sofa, and the anger sharpens into something colder.

I didn't plan on getting punched by a stranger and becoming a meme. But if this is the game, I'll play it. And when I find her? She won't just be trending.

She'll be sorry she ever swung at Zayne fucking Beaumont.