Chapter 1 1

Annette Adams gasped, her lungs seizing as if they were still filled with smoke. Her hands flew to her throat, clawing at skin that should have been charred, expecting the searing heat of a bullet, the crushing weight of a collapsing beam. But there was no fire. There was no blood.

There was only the scent of expensive lilies and the cool, conditioned air of the Bolton Manor guest wing.

Her chest heaved, a frantic, ragged rhythm that echoed in the silent room. She scrambled backward, her heels catching on the plush Persian rug, until her back hit the vanity table. The mirror rattled. Her eyes, wide and terrified, locked onto the reflection staring back at her.

Smooth skin. No scars. No soot. Her hair was styled in perfect, glossy waves, not singed at the ends.

She looked down at her hands. They were trembling, but they were whole. The diamond engagement ring on her left hand caught the light-a mocking sparkle that made her stomach lurch.

She grabbed the calendar sitting on the vanity. October 14th.

The date was printed in elegant black font, but to Annette, it looked like a tombstone. It was the night of the engagement gala. The night her life had originally begun its descent into hell.

The memories hit her like a physical blow-the betrayal, the public humiliation, the years of misery that followed, and finally, the coup, the fire, the darkness.

She wasn't dead. She was back.

A wave of nausea rolled through her gut. She gripped the edge of the mahogany table, her knuckles turning white, forcing herself to breathe. In. Out. The panic began to recede, replaced by a cold, sharp clarity that settled in the center of her chest like a stone.

She turned her head. Hanging on the back of the door was the dress-the emerald green silk gown she had worn that night. The night she was supposed to be the happiest woman in D.C.

Annette stood up. Her legs felt heavy, but steady. She walked to the dress, running a finger down the cool fabric. Last time, she had put this on with stars in her eyes, believing Hank Bolton was her soulmate. Last time, she had run down the hall to show him, only to find him...

She closed her eyes. The script was playing out in her head. Right now, Hank wasn't waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. He was in the Blue Room. With Elena.

Annette opened her eyes. The fear was gone. In its place was a simmering, poisonous rage that felt almost comforting.

She moved to the mirror. She picked up a tube of dark red lipstick. Her hand didn't shake this time. She applied it with precision, watching her lips turn the color of dried blood. It looked like war paint.

"Not this time," she whispered, her voice raspy but firm.

She stepped out into the hallway. The muffled sound of a string quartet drifted up from the ballroom below, a stark contrast to the silence of the corridor. The air smelled of floor wax and old money.

She didn't head for the stairs. She turned left, toward the East Guest Wing.

She slipped her high heels off, holding them in one hand, moving silently across the carpet in her stockings. Her steps were practiced, a skill she hadn't possessed as a socialite, but one she had learned in the years of hiding that followed.

A maid turned the corner, carrying a tray of champagne flutes. Annette didn't panic. She simply raised a finger to her lips, her expression imperious and cold. The maid froze, nodded nervously, and hurried away.

Annette reached the heavy oak door of the Blue Room.

She didn't need to press her ear against it. The sounds were faint, but unmistakable. The low, guttural moan of a man. The high-pitched giggle of a woman.

Hank.

Bile rose in her throat, acidic and burning. She swallowed it down. Last time, she had burst in, screaming, crying, making a scene that Bernadine had used to paint her as unstable.

Not today.

She reached into her clutch and pulled out her phone. She tapped the screen, switching to video mode, and disabled the flash. Her thumb hovered over the record button.

She gripped the cold brass handle. She turned it slowly, millimeter by millimeter, until the latch clicked silently.

She pushed the door open just a crack. A sliver of light from the hallway cut into the dim room.

Inside, on the velvet chaise lounge, two figures were tangled together. Hank's shirt was unbuttoned, his face buried in the neck of a woman with blonde, disheveled hair. Elena Vance.

"Don't worry, baby," Hank whispered, his voice thick with lust. "Once the merger is signed, the Adams fortune pays for the Senate run. I just need her signature."

Elena laughed, a sound that grated on Annette's nerves like sandpaper. "She's such a clueless cash cow, isn't she? Does she even know what a Senate seat is?"

"She thinks it's a type of chair," Hank joked.

Annette felt nothing. No heartbreak. No shock. Just a profound, icy disgust. She lifted the phone, angling the lens through the crack.

The screen captured them perfectly. Hank's face. Elena's face. The audio of their mockery.

She held it for exactly ten seconds. One. Two. Three.

Enough.

She pulled the phone back and gently pulled the door shut. The latch clicked back into place.

She leaned against the wall for a moment, reviewing the footage. The image was clear. The audio was crisp. It was a weapon, far more dangerous than a gun in this world.

She tapped a few buttons, uploading the file to a draft in a secure, encrypted email account Lucas had insisted on setting up for her years ago for emergencies-an account she'd almost forgotten about until this very moment.

She slipped the phone back into her clutch and slid her feet back into her heels. She adjusted the diamond drop earrings that hung heavy from her lobes. She smoothed the silk of her dress over her hips.

Her reflection in the hallway mirror showed a woman who looked like a queen, but her eyes were dead. They were the eyes of a soldier who had seen the end of the world.

Annette began the long walk to the main staircase.

As she reached the top of the grand marble stairs, she looked down. The ballroom was a sea of tuxedos and designer gowns. Waiters moved like ants with silver trays. The chandelier above cast a golden glow over the lies and the posturing.

She spotted them near the fountain. Edward Bolton, the patriarch, looking stern and powerful. And beside him, her brother, Lucas Adams.

Lucas looked bored, checking his watch. He had no idea that in three years, he would die in a ditch, trying to protect her.

Annette's heart squeezed, a sharp, physical pain that nearly doubled her over. She gripped the banister, the cold marble grounding her. I will save you, she promised silently. I will save us all.

She took the first step down. She didn't descend as a victim walking to her execution. She descended as a predator entering a pen of sheep.