Chapter 3

The red Ferrari cut through the manicured green grounds of the Hamptons like a bloody slash. When Hope stepped out of the car at the entrance to the Simmons estate, a hush fell over the pastel-clad guests sipping champagne on the veranda.

The dress was a weapon. A sheath of crimson silk that clung to every curve, with a neckline that plunged daringly low. It wasn't the dress of a demure, respectable fiancée. It was the dress of a woman who had come to start a fire.

Arley Simmons, fresh off his private jet and looking tan and smug, saw her. His eyes widened with a flicker of raw appreciation, quickly followed by a scowl. He strode toward her, his jaw tight.

"What the hell are you wearing?" he hissed, grabbing her arm.

Hope ignored him. She pulled her arm free and glided past him, her eyes fixed on his father, Sterling Simmons Sr., the patriarch of the family, holding court by the fountain.

She offered the old man a perfect, graceful curtsy. "Good evening, Mr. Simmons. I hope I'm not late."

Sterling, a man who valued appearances above all else, nodded his approval of her manners, though his eyes lingered on her dress with a hint of disapproval.

Arley caught up to her, yanking her behind a large marble statue. "Hope, don't play games," he warned, his voice a low growl. "You got my lawyer's email."

She plucked a champagne flute from a passing waiter's tray and took a slow sip, her red lips leaving a faint stain on the crystal. "Of course I did. That's why I'm here. To play the part of your perfect fiancée." The sarcasm in her voice was thick enough to taste.

At the long, candlelit dinner table, she was seated next to Arley. He kept a proprietary hand on the small of her back, a performance for the family. The pressure of his fingers felt like a brand.

His older sister, Portia, a sharp-featured woman with an equally sharp mind, smiled across the table. "Arley, welcome home. How did the expansion talks go?"

"Flawlessly," Arley said, puffing out his chest. "We're set for a preliminary meeting with McCarthy Global Holdings next week."

Hope heard the name "McCarthy" and felt nothing. It was just another faceless corporation in a world she despised.

Portia's gaze shifted to Hope. "And you, Hope. You're looking well. It seems you've been keeping yourself... occupied while Arley was away."

The insinuation was clear. The table fell silent. All eyes turned to her. Arley's face darkened, ready to defend his family's honor, not hers.

But Hope spoke first. She gave Portia a dazzling smile.

"Of course. After all, it's only when your partner is away that you have the chance to discover... new hobbies."

A collective, sharp intake of breath rippled around the table. It was as if she'd dropped a grenade in the center of the floral arrangement. Arley's face went from tan to a blotchy, furious red.

Hope ignored the shockwaves, picking up her knife and fork to address her filet mignon. She cut a small, precise piece, dabbed her lips with her napkin, and turned to Arley.

"You know, darling," she said, her voice carrying in the silent dining room. "It's been so long, I've almost forgotten some of your little... habits."

She let the word "habits" linger.

"Like your old fondness for those... secret phone calls... late at night. Don't tell me a year away has changed you that much."

It was a direct hit. Arley's knuckles turned white where he gripped his silverware. He was breathing heavily through his nose.

Sterling Simmons Sr. cleared his throat, a loud, commanding sound meant to end the discussion.

Hope acted as if she hadn't heard. She looked at Arley, her eyes wide with feigned innocence. "What's wrong? Did I say something I shouldn't have?"

Her expression was angelic. Her words were poison.

Under the table, Arley's foot shot out, his shoe connecting sharply with her shin. A jolt of pain shot up her leg, but the smile never left her face. She had drawn first blood.