WARNING!!! , SOME CHAPTERS IN THIS NOVEL CONTAINS EXPLICIT SCENES 

"Sign it, Aria. Don’t make this more pathetic than it already is."

The smell of his expensive cologne mixed sickeningly with the scent of her stepsister’s perfume on the damp hotel sheets. Julian didn’t look like the man who had whispered promises of forever an hour ago; he looked like a predator closing a trap. Beside him, Elena smirked, pulling the silk duvet higher over her shoulder—a silent, triumphant taunt.

"You were having sex with her," Aria whispered, her voice cracking as the roar of the fashion show’s bass thumped through the walls of the dressing suite. "On my runway night. In our bed."

"Technically, it’s my bed now," Elena chirped, her eyes gleaming with malice. "Just like it’s my lead spot in the show. You’re trending, sister. But not for the fashion."

Julian shoved the fountain pen into Aria’s trembling hand. "The scandal hits the press in ten minutes. Your career is dead, your reputation is ashes, and this divorce is your only way out before the sponsors sue you for every cent you own. Sign the papers, take your shame, and disappear."

With a numb heart and a hand that felt like ice, Aria scribbled her name, severing her life.

An hour later, rain lashed against the neon lights of the city as she stumbled into a darkened bar, a ghost in a couture gown. She didn't want comfort; she wanted to feel something other than the knife in her back. When the man in the corner—shadowed, lethal, and radiating a terrifying power—offered her his hand and a night of forgetting, she took it.

She didn't know his name. She didn't know he was the most dangerous man in the financial world. She only knew that as she walked away from the wreckage of her life the next morning, she was carrying a secret that would one day bring the world to its knees.

I do not sleep when I get back to the safehouse.


I sit at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee I never drink, replaying every word Dominic said, every careful gap where he stopped himself from naming the person he suspects, and I run through the small circle of people who fit the description he gave. Someone close enough to hurt deeply. Someone inside my immediate circle. Someone I see every day.


The list is short. That is the part that frightens me most. A short list means every face on it belongs to someone I love.


"You look like you haven't slept," Ariana says, walking into the kitchen at six, her own face carrying the particular exhaustion of someone who didn't sleep much either, though for entirely different reasons.


Chapter 80 - 080 THE TRAITOR