Chapter 3

Five years later.

The arrival board at John F. Kennedy International Airport flipped rapidly, displaying flights from Paris.

Corrie walked out of the VIP terminal. She wore a sharp, camel-colored trench coat and oversized black sunglasses. Although five years had passed, sometimes she still woke up in the dead of night, gasping for air, haunted by the memory of that freezing night. Her life had been a series of tragedies since she was ten. That was the year her biological father brought his mistress and illegitimate daughter home, turning Corrie into a so-called "bastard." Her mother had suffered a severe mental breakdown. If it had not been for her mother's exorbitant medical bills, Corrie would never have approached Damon, nor would she have agreed to act as Kara's ghostwriter. She would never have endured three years of agonizing, soul-crushing marriage. Yet, despite all her sacrifices, her mother passed away anyway. Corrie was left completely alone. It had been a doomed path from the start, a road with no end, leaving her feet bloody and bruised.

Some people, it seemed, were destined to be out of reach. Stepping onto the bustling streets of Manhattan, Corrie looked up at a massive billboard on a commercial skyscraper. Kara Berger's face smiled down brightly, promoting a new movie adapted from her bestselling novel from five years ago. It was the exact same novel Corrie had secretly ghostwritten for her. Damon had promised Corrie that if she wrote just one more book for Kara, she could finally publish under her own name. That was why Corrie had rushed backstage to find Kara that night, leading to the "accident" where Kara faked a fall and framed her. Corrie still didn't know exactly how Kara had tumbled down the stairs, but by the time she reacted, Kara was lying in a pool of blood, followed immediately by Damon's unquestioning slap and furious roar.

The trauma from that night had left Corrie with severe, permanent lung damage. Just thinking about it made a sharp pain flare in her chest, making it difficult to breathe. Corrie shook her head with a bitter smile, mocking herself. She was just a fake, a substitute. How could she ever dare to hold her head up in front of the real savior?

"Mommy?" a soft, timid voice tugged at her coat.

The painful memories instantly vanished. Corrie looked down at her two children. A profound sense of comfort washed over her scarred heart.

She pushed a luggage cart with one hand. Sitting on top of the suitcases was a four-and-a-half-year-old boy.

Leo wore a custom-tailored miniature navy suit. His small fingers flew across the screen of an iPad, lines of complex code reflecting in his piercing, striking icy blue eyes.

Beside Corrie, a little girl clutched the hem of the trench coat. Stella had big, timid eyes. She hugged a worn-out stuffed rabbit tightly to her chest, hiding slightly behind her mother's leg.

A black Lincoln Navigator pulled up to the curb. Mael Corbin jumped out of the driver's seat. Mael was a fiercely loyal friend and a former mercenary who owed Corrie his life after she saved him on the streets of Paris. He grinned widely and pulled Corrie into a tight hug.

Leo didn't look up from his iPad. He simply raised one small, firm hand and pushed against Mael's chest. "Uncle Mael, three seconds. You're over the limit."

Mael laughed awkwardly and stepped back, rubbing the back of his neck. He quickly loaded the heavy suitcases into the trunk.

The SUV merged onto the highway, heading toward a high-end, secure art loft in Brooklyn.

As soon as they arrived and the kids were settled in the living room, Corrie walked into the master study. She shut the heavy wooden door and locked it.

She sat at the desk and opened her laptop. Her fingers typed in a complex password, logging into an offshore, encrypted bank account. She stared at the long string of zeros on the screen. Her tense shoulders finally dropped a fraction of an inch.

She opened a new tab and navigated to the billing portal of a premier nursing home in New Jersey. She paid the massive monthly invoice for her comatose mother's life support without blinking.

A third email popped up, this one from Mael, "Studio's lease is signed. The SoHo space is ours. Ready when you are, boss."

An email notification popped up. It was from Yara, the executive assistant at Nova magazine.

"Reminder, Editorial pitch meeting tomorrow at 9 AM, Aria."

A second email arrived immediately after. This one was from a top literary agent in Manhattan.

"IX, the publisher is begging for the final outline of the new thriller. Please advise."

Corrie rubbed her temples. A dull ache throbbed behind her eyes. Juggling the identities of 'Aria', the ruthless magazine editor, and 'IX', the bestselling mystery author, was exhausting. But the money and the power were the only armor she had to protect her family. The jewelry studio was her own, not a pseudonym, not a mask. A place where she could create with her hands and breathe, if only for a few stolen hours a week.

The doorknob rattled. The door pushed open slightly.

Leo walked in, balancing a warm mug of milk in his small hands. He walked to the desk, stood on his tiptoes, and placed the mug carefully next to her laptop.

He looked at the banking screen before she could minimize it.

"My stock portfolio made twenty thousand dollars today," Leo said, his voice completely serious. "I can help pay the bills, Mom."

Warmth flooded Corrie's chest. She pulled her genius boy into her lap and pressed a long kiss to his forehead.

"Adult problems are for adults to solve, baby," she whispered.

Leo rested his head against her chest. "Why did we have to come back to New York?"

Corrie's body went completely rigid.

The memory of the freezing Hudson River water rushing into her lungs hit her. The phantom sensation of Damon's hand crushing her jaw made her breath hitch.

She forced her lungs to expand. "Because New York has the best pediatric specialists in the world. We need them to help Stella talk."

Leo looked up at her. His eyes, sharp and far too observant for a child, studied her face. He knew she was lying. But he didn't push. He just slowly clenched his small hands into tight fists.

That night, Corrie tossed and turned in the large bed.

She was trapped underwater. The black glove was pulling her down. She couldn't breathe.

Corrie shot up in bed, gasping for air. Cold sweat soaked her pajamas. Her hand flew to her chest, her fingers trembling as they traced the long, raised surgical scar hidden beneath her shirt.

The next morning, Corrie stood in front of the mirror. She applied a bold red lipstick, masking the pale exhaustion on her face. She stepped into a pair of sharp stilettos.

She drove the twins to the Upper East Side. She parked in front of the wrought-iron gates of the Golden Leaf Academy.

Corrie knelt on the sidewalk. She straightened Leo's tie and smoothed Stella's hair.

"Watch out for your sister," Corrie told him.

Leo's eyes darkened with a fierce, protective glare. "I won't let anyone touch her."

Corrie smiled softly and watched them walk through the heavy security doors. She turned around, pulling her car keys from her purse, ready to head to the Nova office.

She reached for her car door handle.

A sleek, black Maybach turned the corner and rolled slowly down the street.

Corrie's peripheral vision caught the custom license plate.

Her heart literally stopped beating for a full second. The blood drained from her face, leaving her dizzy.

She ripped her car door open, threw herself into the driver's seat, and slammed the door shut. She ducked down, pressing her chest hard against the steering wheel, making herself as small as possible.

The Maybach glided past her parked car.

The rear passenger window was rolled halfway down. Through the glass, Corrie saw the sharp, cold profile of Damon Holloway's face. But it wasn't just his face that paralyzed her. A sudden gust of wind carried his scent through her open air vent. The heavy, dominant scent of Damon's expensive cologne flooded the small cabin. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Had he seen her?