Chapter 1

Abigail pushed through the heavy glass doors of Vance Media headquarters. Her heels clicked sharply against the pristine marble floor.

She gripped the leather folder in her right hand. Inside was the finalized investment contract. It was a lifeline for the company, and she couldn't wait to see the look on Preston's face.

The receptionist at the front desk jerked upright. Her eyes widened in a sudden, frantic panic.

She opened her mouth, her hand reaching for the desk phone.

Abigail noticed the erratic movement. She offered a warm smile and waved her hand, signaling that no announcement was necessary.

She bypassed the desk and walked straight to the executive elevator. The receptionist found her voice, half-standing. "Ms. Bruce, wait, you can't-!"

Abigail stopped dead. She slowly turned her head. She locked eyes with the terrified girl and delivered a single, ice-cold glare that promised absolute professional destruction if she spoke another word. The receptionist swallowed hard, her hand dropping away from the phone, paralyzed by the sheer authority radiating from Abigail.

Abigail swiped her keycard. The doors slid shut, cutting off the receptionist's pale, defeated face.

The elevator chimed at the top floor. The doors parted.

The hallway was dead silent. The heavy blinds of the CEO's office were pulled tight, blocking out the California sun.

Abigail walked over the thick carpet. She stopped in front of Preston's solid mahogany door.

She raised her knuckles to knock.

A sound leaked through the narrow crack of the door.

It was a wet, breathless moan.

Abigail's knuckles froze in the air. Her lungs stopped expanding.

"Preston..."

The voice was sweet. Too sweet. It belonged to Lorelai Thorne, the agency's top-tier actress. The woman Preston publicly claimed as his stepsister.

Abigail's stomach dropped. A cold sweat broke out across her neck.

She leaned forward. Her body moved without her permission. She pressed her ear near the cold wood.

"Someone will see us," Lorelai giggled, her tone dripping with raw invitation.

"Let them," Preston's voice rumbled. It was the same voice that whispered he loved Abigail every night. "As long as I have that scarred, ugly bitch playing the perfect shield, no one will ever suspect a thing."

The words hit Abigail like a physical blow to the chest.

A sharp, violent spike of pain erupted in her left cheek. The thick, jagged scar tissue burned as if someone had pressed a lit match against her skin.

She bit down on her lower lip. Hard.

The metallic taste of blood flooded her mouth. It forced her to swallow her own scream.

The crushing weight of sadness vanished. It was instantly replaced by a cold, clinical numbness. Her brain shifted into a terrifying state of absolute clarity.

She placed her palm flat against the wood. She pushed the door open just a fraction of an inch.

Her eyes adjusted to the dim light.

A custom-made couture gown lay discarded on the Persian rug. Preston's silk tie was tangled in the tulle.

On the leather sofa, Preston was pinning Lorelai down. Their bodies moved together in a frantic, disgusting rhythm.

Abigail didn't blink. Her chest rose and fell in slow, measured breaths.

She pulled her hand back. She let the door settle back into its frame without making a single sound.

She turned away from the office. Her steps were lighter now. More calculated.

She walked down the corridor toward the security and monitoring room.

She typed her co-founder master passcode into the keypad. The heavy metal door clicked open.

The security guard on duty immediately sat up, his hand hovering over his radio. "Ms. Bruce? What are you doing down here?"

Abigail didn't miss a beat. She channeled every ounce of her executive authority, her voice slicing through the quiet room. "We have a potential data breach in the executive suite network. I need you to go physically check the server room on floor three. Right now. I'll monitor the floor feeds from here."

The guard hesitated for a fraction of a second, but her co-founder status carried absolute weight. "Yes, ma'am." He grabbed his flashlight and hurried out the door.

The moment the heavy metal door clicked shut behind him, Abigail stepped past the empty desk. She slid into the main console chair.

Her fingers flew across the keyboard. She pulled up the hidden camera feed for the CEO's office.

The screen flickered to life. It displayed a crystal-clear, high-definition view of the sofa.

She stared at the monitor. She watched the man she was supposed to marry. She felt absolutely nothing. They looked like two dead bodies to her.

She reached into her designer bag and pulled out a silver, encrypted USB drive.

She shoved it into the server port.

The progress bar appeared on the screen. It crawled forward.

Abigail kept her eyes locked on the door. Her palms were slick with cold sweat. The nerve endings in her face throbbed with a dull, rhythmic ache.

A sharp beep signaled the download was complete. The sound was deafening in the quiet room.

She yanked the USB drive out.

Her fingers danced over the keys one last time. She wiped her access logs clean. She erased every digital footprint of her presence in the system.

Abigail slipped out of the security room. She bypassed the main lobby entirely, taking the service elevator down to the basement garage.

She walked out into the blinding Los Angeles sunlight.

She squinted. She turned around and stared up at the massive Vance Media logo bolted to the side of the glass building.

Her fingers curled tightly around the silver USB drive in her pocket. The sharp metal edges bit into her skin.

She had just signed their death warrants.