Chapter 1 1

Air.

She needed air.

Gina Vincent's eyes snapped open, her lungs seizing as if an invisible hand were still crushing her windpipe. She gasped, a ragged, desperate sound that tore through the silence of the room. Her hands flew to her throat, fingers clawing at smooth, unblemished skin, expecting to feel the cold steel of a wire or the bruising grip of a murderer.

But there was nothing. Just the frantic pulse of her own carotid artery, hammering against her fingertips like a trapped bird.

Above her, a crystal chandelier glittered under the warm glow of recessed lighting. It was intricate, expensive, and terrifyingly familiar.

"Gina, darling? Are you alright?"

The voice was like oil slicking over water-smooth, viscous, and nauseating.

Gina froze. Her heart slammed against her ribs, a physical blow with every beat. She turned her head, the movement stiff, mechanical.

Hansford Burris stood there.

He was wearing the navy Armani suit she had picked out for him. The silk tie was perfectly knotted. His face, handsome in that polished, politician way that played so well on camera, was arranged in a mask of concern. But his eyes... his eyes were filled with a carefully constructed anguish. A flicker of something cold-true impatience-was there, but so deeply buried beneath the performance that only someone who had been killed by him could ever hope to see it.

Gina's gaze darted past him to the digital clock on the bedside table.

October 14, 9:30 PM.

The numbers burned into her retinas. The room spun. This wasn't hell. This wasn't the afterlife. This was the St. Regis Hotel in Washington D.C. This was five years ago.

This was the night her husband sold her.

"You look pale," Hansford said, stepping closer. He held two flutes of champagne, the bubbles rising in a cheerful, mocking dance. "Here. Drink this. It will help you relax. Tonight is important for me. For us."

Gina stared at the glass he extended toward her.

Her stomach lurched. She knew exactly what was in that golden liquid. A muscle relaxant strong enough to drop a horse, mixed with a hallucinogen to make her compliant, to make her memory fuzzy. In her past life-her dead life-she had drunk it. She had smiled, trusted him, and woken up broken.

She gripped the sheet beneath her, her fingernails digging into the high-thread-count cotton until she felt one of them snap. The sharp, stinging pain was a gift. It was real.

"Gina?" Hansford's tone hardened just a fraction.

She forced her lungs to expand. She forced the terror down, burying it deep in her gut where it turned into a cold, hard stone.

"I'm fine," she whispered. Her voice was raspy, unused. She cleared her throat and looked up at him. She didn't blink. "Just... nervous."

Hansford smiled, relieved. "Don't be. You know how much this means for the campaign. The Majority Leader is on board, but Director Charles is his gatekeeper. The man is a kingmaker. He needs to see that we are... cooperative."

He pressed the glass into her hand. His fingers brushed hers. His skin was warm. It made her want to vomit.

"If I do this for you, Hansford," she said, testing the weight of the glass, "will you love me forever?"

It was the question of a naive, pathetic woman. The woman she used to be.

Hansford's smile widened, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Of course, Gina. You are the greatest asset the Burris family has."

Asset. Not wife. Not partner. Asset.

Gina closed her eyes, feigning a moment of deep emotion. She brought the glass to her lips. As she tilted her head back, she rotated her wrist. The wide, bell-sleeve of her silk robe created a perfect curtain. Behind it, she poured the champagne not onto the soil, but directly into the ceramic pot's deep, decorative water reservoir at the base, where the excess liquid would be hidden from view. The cloying sweetness of the gardenias on the dresser easily masked the faint scent of alcohol.

She swallowed nothing but air, yet she convulsed, coughing violently.

"Easy, easy," Hansford said, patting her shoulder with patronizing rhythm. He didn't look at the plant. He checked his watch. "Good girl. Mr. Charles will be here any minute. Remember, Gina... just let it happen. Don't fight him."

He stood up, buttoning his jacket. He looked at her one last time, not with regret, but with the appraisal of a merchant ensuring his goods were displayed correctly.

"I'll be right outside," he said.

Then he turned and walked out.

The heavy click of the door latch echoed like a gunshot.

Gina's eyes snapped open. The feigned drowsiness vanished instantly, replaced by a clarity so sharp it felt like ice water in her veins.

She scrambled off the bed, her legs trembling not from fear, but from adrenaline. She ran to the bathroom, splashing freezing water onto her face. She stared at her reflection. Young. Unscarred. Alive.

She bared her teeth at the mirror. It wasn't a smile. It was a promise.

Thump. Clank. Thump.

The sound came from the hallway. Heavy footsteps accompanied by the rhythmic strike of metal against the floor. A cane? No.

The door handle turned.

Gina rushed back to the bedroom. She threw herself onto the chaise lounge, arranging her limbs in a pose of drug-induced lethargy. She loosened the collar of her robe, exposing the hollow of her throat.

The door swung open with aggressive force.

Brandon Charles did not walk in. He rolled in.

He was in a wheelchair, his legs covered by a thick, charcoal wool blanket. The Director of the NSA. The "Shadow King" of D.C. The man rumors said was a crippled, impotent sadist who collected other men's wives because he couldn't get one of his own.

He spun the wheelchair around and locked the door with a decisive snap.

When he turned back to face her, Gina felt the air in the room drop ten degrees. He was devastatingly handsome in a brutal, sharp-edged way. His eyes were dark, intelligent, and devoid of any warmth. They swept over her body like a laser scanner.

"Burris said you were a compliant little rabbit," Brandon said. His voice was low, vibrating with a metallic timbre that scraped against her nerves.

Gina didn't whimper. She didn't beg.

She sat up.

The movement was fluid, controlled. She swung her legs off the chaise and planted her bare feet on the carpet.

Brandon's eyes narrowed. He stopped his wheelchair a few feet from her.

"He was wrong," Gina said.

She stood up. She walked toward him, her chin high, her gaze locking with his. She saw the flicker of surprise in his dark pupils. He wasn't used to the prey walking toward the predator.

Gina stopped directly in front of him. She leaned down, placing her hands on the armrests of his wheelchair, trapping him. She was close enough to smell him-sandalwood, gun oil, and danger.

"I know the champagne was drugged," she said softly. "I didn't drink it."

Brandon's hand twitched toward his waist. "Is that so?"

"And I know something else, Director Charles." Gina leaned closer, her lips inches from his ear. "I know your legs aren't atrophied. I know you can walk. And I know you're using this 'meeting' as a cover to investigate the Sterling money laundering scheme."

Silence. Absolute, suffocating silence.

Then, violence.

Brandon's hand shot out with the speed of a striking cobra. His fingers wrapped around her throat, squeezing hard.