Chapter 3

At eight o'clock the next morning, Isla stepped off the crowded subway train. She wore a dull gray knit sweater and carried a cheap canvas tote bag.

She pushed through the glass doors of Apex, a painfully average midtown PR firm. The receptionist barely glanced up, offering a lazy wave.

Isla kept her head down. She walked through the open bullpen like a ghost.

"Hey, Isla, grab me a vanilla latte," a junior account manager yelled out without looking at her.

Isla nodded submissively. She walked toward the breakroom with an empty mug. But the second she stepped into the camera's blind spot, she slipped through the fire exit door at the back of the hallway. She hurried down the concrete stairs and out into a narrow, unassuming alleyway behind the building. Walking briskly for half a block, making sure she wasn't followed, she approached a nondescript brick building that looked like an abandoned warehouse. She pressed her palm against a hidden scanner disguised as a rusted intercom box. The heavy steel door clicked open, granting her entry. The door closed behind her, sealing off the noise of the city and revealing the sprawling, minimalist headquarters of Verve.

Isla pulled the gray sweater over her head and tossed it aside. Underneath, she wore a razor-sharp, black silk blouse. Her posture shifted. The air around her turned electric.

Kristy, the public face of Verve, rushed forward with a stack of financial reports.

"Good morning, Freya," Kristy said respectfully. "London is on standby."

Isla walked straight into the central glass conference room. She sat at the head of the massive table. She flipped open the reports, her eyes scanning the numbers.

"Three errors on page four," Isla said coldly, tossing the file back. "Fix it."

Kristy broke into a cold sweat. She grabbed the file, nodding frantically.

The head of the design team stepped forward, his hands shaking. He placed a fabric sample for the autumn line on the table. Isla pulled on a pair of white cotton gloves. She ran her fingers over the weave.

She picked up the sample and dropped it into the trash can.

"The stitching ruins the drape," Isla said. Her voice was merciless. "Burn the entire batch. Start over."

The room fell dead silent. Everyone stared at the floor, terrified of the invisible empire's true ruler.

After the meeting, Kristy pulled Isla into her private office. She slid a thick document across the desk.

"It's an acquisition offer," Kristy said nervously. "From Coffey Group."

Isla looked down. Curtiss's bold signature was at the bottom of the page. Her stomach dropped. Her pulse hammered in her throat.

"Their due diligence team is aggressive," Kristy warned. "If they dig deep enough, they'll find out who Freya really is."

Isla grabbed the document and shoved it into the paper shredder. The machine whirred loudly.

"Reject all outside capital," Isla ordered. "Especially Coffey."

Suddenly, Isla's burner phone buzzed. It was Jimmie.

"Where are those documents, Isla?" Jimmie barked through the speaker.

Isla's spine curved. Her voice instantly pitched higher, shaking with fake anxiety. "I'm so sorry, Uncle Jimmie! I'm on my way right now!"

Kristy stood there, her jaw practically hitting the floor at the flawless performance.

Isla hung up. She pulled the Morales trust fund folder from her tote bag. She grabbed a micro-scanner from Kristy's desk and meticulously backed up every single page.

She pulled the ugly gray sweater back on. She messed up her hair, transforming back into the pathetic wallflower.

Isla took the secret elevator back up. She walked out of the PR firm, clutching her canvas bag to her chest.

As she stepped onto the sidewalk, the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She felt eyes on her.

She didn't turn around. Instead, she pretended to trip. She dropped her tote bag, letting her cheap pens scatter across the concrete. As she crouched down to pick them up, she glanced at the reflection in a storefront window.

A black SUV was parked at the corner. The license plate belonged to Coffey Group.

Isla smiled inwardly. Curtiss was running a background check on his new wife. She needed to give him a show.

She walked over to a dirty street cart and bought a two-dollar hotdog. She ate it while walking toward the subway, looking completely broke and utterly defenseless.

Inside the SUV, a bodyguard snapped a photo and hit send.

In the top-floor boardroom of Coffey Group, Curtiss looked at the photo on his phone. He saw his wife eating garbage on the street. A knot of intense, irrational anger tightened in his chest.

He hated seeing her look so pathetic.

Curtiss looked up at his executive assistant, K. Jennings. "Pull the surveillance off my wife. It's a waste of time."

Down in the subway station, Isla watched the black SUV drive away in the reflection of the train window. A cold, victorious smile touched her lips.