A billionaire’s glamorous fiancée raised her hand to slap him in front of 300 elite guests—but a quiet maid stepped between them, and what his lawyer revealed seconds later threatened to destroy her entire life…

Rain lashed against the penthouse glass at two in the morning, streaking the dark skyline of Manhattan with jagged silver tears.

I couldn't sleep. The guest suite Adrian had given me was larger than my entire childhood apartment, filled with Egyptian cotton sheets and scented candles, but my mind was racing. Every rustle of the wind sounded like a camera shutter; every shadow looked like a reporter waiting to twist my life into scandal.

Deciding a glass of warm water might calm my nerves, I slipped into a robe and walked quietly down the dimly lit hallway toward the kitchen.

As I passed the executive study, a faint sound caught my ear.

*Click.*

It wasn't the sound of the house settling. It was the distinct metallic sound of a desk drawer being jimmied open.

I froze. Adrian’s bedroom was at the opposite end of the penthouse. The security guard was stationed downstairs in the lobby, while the penthouse floor was supposed to be restricted by biometric elevator access.

Heart hammering against my ribs, I crept toward the partially open mahogany door.

Inside the dark study, a figure dressed in an all-black trench coat was kneeling beside the floor safe hidden behind Adrian’s bookshelf. A small flashlight was clamped between the intruder's teeth as gloved hands rapidly sorted through legal folders.

The light caught a cascade of blonde hair falling from beneath a knit cap.

Victoria.

How had she gotten up here? The service stairs? A cloned keycard from before her arrest?

"Looking for the Swiss account ledgers?" I asked from the doorway, flipping the wall switch.

Bright recessed lights flooded the study.

Victoria jumped, dropping a stack of documents onto the rug. She whipped around, her eyes wild, dark circles bruising the skin beneath her makeup. She looked nothing like the polished socialite from the gala; she looked feral, desperate, and dangerous.

"You," Victoria hissed, scrambling to her feet. "You roach. You think you won? You think because Adrian gave you a title, you belong in this world?"

"The police are already tracking your ankle monitor, Victoria," I said, keeping my voice steady, though my pulse roared in my ears. "Coming here violates your bail conditions. If you run now, you might buy yourself twenty minutes before Vance puts you in handcuffs again."

Victoria let out a frantic, high-pitched laugh. "Ankle monitor? That piece of junk is currently strapped to a stray dog running through an alley in Brooklyn. Julian knows how to beat the system. By sunrise, I’ll be on a private charter to Brazil. But I’m not leaving without the encrypted drives."

She reached into her coat pocket.

My blood ran cold as she pulled out a sleek, silver pocket revolver.

"Where are the hardware keys, Maya?" Victoria took two stalking steps toward me, pointing the barrel straight at my chest. "The drives with Adrian’s corporate cryptographic signatures. He keeps them in this room. Tell me, or I swear to God I will splatter your cheap brains across this Persian rug and tell the press you broke in to rob him."

I raised my hands slowly. "Victoria, put the gun down. You’re making this a murder charge."

"My life is already over if I don't get those drives!" she screamed, her finger tightening on the trigger. "Where are they?!"

"They aren't in the desk, Victoria," a deep, chilling voice echoed from behind me.

Victoria’s eyes darted past my shoulder.

Adrian was there, sitting upright in his chair, his face carved from cold stone. But he wasn't alone. In his right hand rested a heavy black Beretta, raised in a steady, two-handed military grip.