Chapter 2

Alyson POV:

As the tactical alarm pulsed in the hallway, I tossed the signed Renunciation folder off my fingertips. It slapped against the marble floor right at Blake's Italian leather shoes.

Blood drained from Blake's face, then rushed back in an ugly blotch of red. For two years I had kept my head down in the boardroom to avoid drawing attention to my borderland past, and he clearly had no idea how to handle me when I stopped playing the quiet wife.

"Stop embarrassing yourself with this tantrum, Alyson," Blake snapped, pressing two fingers against his throbbing temple to hide his panic. "Once you walk out that door without the Hatfield name, how do you think you're going to survive in high society?"

"Survive?" I paused by the sofa and looked back at him. "You seem to be confusing two very different things. I agreed to sign The Renunciation, not to donate my property."

I held up four fingers.

"Two years ago, when short-sellers were gutting Hatfield Enterprises, your grandfather begged me to wire five hundred million dollars from my offshore trust to save the company. That bailout bought me four percent of Hatfield's core voting common stock. After last quarter's Nasdaq restructuring, that four percent is worth fifteen billion dollars."

My voice dropped an octave, clear and unhurried.

"Keep your pathetic one-percent charity. I am taking my fifteen billion dollars out of your family, down to the last cent."

Blake sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes widening as if I had struck him across the jaw. A second later, his lip curled into a mocking sneer.

"Fifteen billion? Are you out of your mind?" Blake barked a laugh. "You grew up an orphan in the slums near The Margin, and you think you own four percent of my family? That five-hundred-million bailout came from Federal Reserve connections that Camelia's father pulled for us!"

Beside him, Camelia pressed a hand to her chest, her eyes filling with instant tears.

"Alyson, I understand you want a bigger settlement, but how could you steal credit for what my father did?" Camelia choked out, her fingers twisting the fabric of her white skirt. "The Stephens family never bragged about helping Blake because we value family loyalty, yet you're trying to claim it as yours! Besides, have you ever even seen fifteen billion dollars? Making up numbers like that will only make the judges laugh at you."

Opening her Hermes handbag, Camelia pulled out a slim Citibank checkbook holder and slid a pre-signed cashier's check across the edge of the glass table.

"Here is ten million dollars from my personal account," Camelia said, her chin lifting as the heavy floral fixative on the paper drifted up. "Consider it a tip for keeping Blake's house clean these past two years. Take it, go back to your border district, and buy yourself a nice little apartment."

I did not even glance at the slip of paper. Turning on my heel, I walked straight into the master suite's walk-in closet and pulled down two military-grade carbon-fiber suitcases.

Every diamond necklace and emerald watch in the glass display cases had been issued by the Hatfield family trust for public galas; I locked every single piece inside the wall safe and left the key on the velvet tray. Into my cases went only my biomedical patent certificates, my encrypted offshore hardware keys, and four tailored pant suits.

Ten minutes later, I wheeled the two cases back into the living room.

Blake stared at the open closet door behind me, his chest rising and falling fast as his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

"You're walking out tonight?" Blake demanded, his voice rising. "The street downstairs is crawling with paparazzi waiting for news about my return! If you drag suitcases out at midnight, you'll drag the Hatfield name through the mud!"

"Your family's name was already in the mud two years ago when your board tried to embezzle veterans' gland-injury pensions," I replied, walking past him toward the private elevator.

Camelia hurried forward and reached out to grab the telescopic handle of my suitcase.

"Alyson, don't be so dramatic, just sleep in the guest room tonight—"

Before her manicured nails could touch the metal bar, I stopped dead and turned my head. I raised my left hand and pressed the dial on the back of my black titanium neck cuff.

Click.

The indicator light flashed solid matte-black for Level VII full isolation, cutting off every trace of thermal and scent emission around my skin, while the cold killing intent honed in the bloodbaths of The Margin locked onto her throat.

"Keep your hands off my things, Miss Stephens," I said. "The cheap industrial alcohol in your peach perfume makes my stomach turn."

Camelia gasped, her face turning chalk-white as she stumbled backward and crashed into Blake's chest.

"Alyson, that's enough!" Blake lunged forward, his right hand shooting out to clamp around my wrist.

Pure combat reflex took over. I pivoted half a step to the left and drove the reinforced corner of my carbon-fiber suitcase straight into the radial nerve cluster on his wrist bone.

Blake let out a sharp grunt of pain, his fingers flying open as he cradled his numb arm. Without looking back, I stepped into the private glass elevator and watched the steel doors slide shut, cutting off his furious shouting. Pulling out my phone, I dialed my driver.

"Bring the car to the side entrance and take me to the Central Park West penthouse," I said into the receiver. "And wake up the Wall Street legal team. Full liquidation starts at dawn."