The streets of Scotland were slick with rain, the faint glow of streetlamps reflecting off cobblestones. My footsteps echoed softly as I walked, head low, my black hood pulled tight, mask concealing half my face.

The night was cold, biting at my fingers, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. Not tonight.

Ahead, a familiar figure came into view, standing under a flickering lamppost.

Victor Salvani.

The sight of him made my stomach churn, though not in fear, never in fear. It was loathing, pure and unfiltered. He stood there, laughing into his phone, his voice a grating mix of arrogance and condescension. I slowed my pace, my pulse quickening. His words were garbled, but his tone, the tone of a man who thought himself untouchable—was unmistakable.

I didn’t think twice as I approached him, each step deliberate. He noticed me when I was a few feet away, his conversation cutting off mid-sentence.

"Who’s—" His eyes widened as I pulled something from my pocket.

"Wait," he stammered, his hands trembling as he raised them. "Please, let’s talk about this. Whatever you—"

A loud crack split the air. It echoed down the street, scattering the quiet like shards of glass.

I didn’t stay to watch him crumple, though I caught a glimpse—his body folding to the ground, lifeless. The phone slipped from his hand, its screen flickering faintly as it landed beside him.

I turned and walked away, my breath coming in steady bursts, each step taking me farther from the scene.

The funeral was a spectacle, as I’d expected. Victor Salvani, the untouchable CEO, now a man of marble and silk in his gilded casket. His family gathered around, their tears flowing freely, though I couldn’t tell if it was grief or fear for their own futures.

I stood at the back of the crowd, arms crossed, hidden behind dark sunglasses and a simple black dress. It wasn’t hard to blend in with mourners, everyone looked the same when grief clouded their features.

My gaze found Marco, my husband—or at least he was still that, for now.

He stood near the casket, his head bowed, shoulders hunched. He looked like a man who had lost not just a father, but a piece of himself.

I felt no sympathy. Marco was Victor’s son, through and through, a man who had inherited his father’s ambition and ruthlessness. Whatever love I had once felt for him had evaporated the day I learned the truth about his family. Divorce was inevitable, though I hadn’t yet told him.

As the priest droned on, I clutched the roses in my hand, their thorns pricking my palm. I stepped forward when the time came, my heels clicking softly against the marble floor.

Standing over Victor’s casket, I felt a rush of satisfaction.

"Rest in hell, Victor," I murmured, just loud enough for myself. I dropped the rose onto the polished lid and turned away.

The notification buzzed as I sat in the corner of the funeral hall, pretending to sip at a glass of champagne. My fingers trembled slightly as I unlocked my phone, the screen lighting up with a video.

I froze.

The footage was shaky, captured from a nearby building. It showed Victor on the street, laughing into his phone. A figure approached him—hooded, masked was me.

The video cut off just before the act, but not before a fleeting glimpse of my face, partially visible beneath the hood.

My chest tightened. I locked my phone, slipping it back into my pocket, and forced myself to breathe.

No one seemed to notice me. The mourners were too consumed with their grief to pay attention to someone in the corner. But the video was out there now, spreading like wildfire.

I clenched my hands into fists, nails digging into my palms.

If anyone recognized me…

"Hey, you okay?"

I flinched, turning to see one of Marco’s friends, a woman I also despise—eyeing me curiously.

"I’m fine. Just overwhelmed," I said, forcing a small smile.

She nodded sympathetically, then turned back to her group. I let out a slow breath, relief mingling with unease.

Later, the whispers reached me.

"Did you see the video?" one man murmured to his companion near the bar.

"Of course," the other replied, his tone low but excited. "Can’t say I blame them, though. Victor wasn’t exactly a saint."

"That’s an understatement," someone else chimed in. "Insurance scams, bankrupting families. The man was a devil in a suit."

I lingered nearby, pretending to look for something. My heart, which had been racing moments ago, began to slow.

The public wasn’t condemning the act—they were applauding it.

A small, involuntary smile crept onto my lips. For years, Victor Salvani had hidden behind wealth and power, immune to consequences.

Now, even in death, his sins were laid bare for the world to see. I straightened, glancing around the room. No one here suspected me. They were too wrapped up in their own dramas, their own grief, to notice the assassin among them.

For the first time since that night, I felt a flicker of peace. As the night wore on and the crowd thinned, I stepped out into the cool air, the weight on my shoulders lifting.

Victor Salvani was gone, and no one—not even Marco—would ever know the truth.

Living a normal life after taking a life wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be.

Every time I walked past a police officer, my heart raced. It was like my body betrayed me, forcing me to relive the moment when I saw Victor Salvani’s lifeless form crumpled on the cobblestones. I kept my head down, blending into the crowd, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that their eyes lingered on me a second too long.

Posters lined the city walls, stapled to every telephone pole and bulletin board. I stopped at one, the paper slightly damp from a recent drizzle. The face staring back at me wasn’t entirely clear, but it was enough. The hooded figure with a partially visible cheekbone—it was me.

"One hundred million dollars," I whispered to myself, reading the bold text beneath. "Dead or alive."

I forced myself to keep walking, my legs feeling like lead. The bounty wasn’t just a number. It was a beacon, drawing the desperate and the cunning straight to my shadow.

I returned to Edinburgh a week later, seeking solace—or maybe punishment. My mother’s hometown had always held a strange pull for me. Quiet, understated, and full of memories, both good and bad.

The cemetery was nearly empty that morning, the air heavy with the scent of rain-soaked earth. I carried a bouquet of lilies, my fingers trembling slightly as I approached her grave.

*Suzanne Gibson. Loving Mother. 1962 - 2023.*

The words etched into the granite felt heavier than usual today. I knelt and placed the flowers at the base, my hands lingering on the cool stone.

"I miss you," I whispered.

The memory hit me like a tidal wave. I was sixteen, standing in a sterile hospital room, my mother’s frail body hooked up to machines that beeped rhythmically. She had begged for help, her voice weak, but the doctor barely glanced at her. He had been too busy checking his clipboard, more concerned with protocol than a dying woman.

"Insurance doesn’t cover this treatment," he’d said, his tone clinical, almost bored.

The helplessness, the anger, the injustice—it had stayed with me. Something inside me snapped.

I closed my eyes, breathing deeply to push the memory away. "I’m sorry, Mom," I murmured, my voice breaking. "I’ve become something you wouldn’t recognize."

The walk back to my rented apartment felt longer than usual. It was as if every shadow held a threat, every footstep behind me a warning.

I glanced over my shoulder, but the street was empty. Still, the uneasy feeling persisted. I quickened my pace, turning corners abruptly to see if anyone was following.

When I finally reached my door, I fumbled with the key, my hands slick with sweat. Once inside, I locked the door and pressed my back against it, taking a shaky breath.

Paranoia? Maybe. But I couldn’t afford to ignore the thought that someone might be investigating Victor Salvani’s death.

I dropped my bag on the couch and headed to the kitchen, grabbing a tub of ice cream from the freezer. Eating straight from the container, I turned on the TV, flipping through channels until I landed on the news.

The anchor’s somber voice filled the room. "Authorities are intensifying their search for the individual responsible for the murder of CEO Victor Salvani. The suspect, whose face was partially captured on surveillance, remains at large. The reward has now increased to one hundred million dollars."

I swallowed hard, the ice cream turning to a lump in my throat. They showed a clip of the grainy footage, I was standing in the shadow of the lamppost, my hood partially covering my face.

"Perfect," I muttered, tossing the spoon back into the tub and setting it aside.

The call came just as I was considering turning off the TV. My phone buzzed on the coffee table, and I didn’t need to check the screen to know who it was.

"Marco," I said, keeping my voice neutral.

"Daphne, what the hell is this?" His voice was sharp, laced with anger. "You’re filing for divorce? Out of nowhere?"

I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. "It’s not out of nowhere, Marco. You know that."

"No, I don’t," he snapped. "I deserve an explanation!"

"Check your messages."

There was a pause as he did. The silence on the other end was deafening, and I could almost see his face as he opened the photos. Marco, wrapped around another woman in a dimly lit bar.

"Daphne, this isn’t—"

"Don’t," I cut him off. "Don’t insult me by pretending. I’ve known for months, Marco. This is just the cleanest way to end things."

"That’s what this is about?” His voice was incredulous. "You’re blowing up our marriage because of a few meaningless nights?"

"You don’t get it, do you?" My voice rose, anger bubbling to the surface. "This isn’t just about just about you."

"What the hell is going on with you?" he demanded.

I laughed bitterly, though there was no humor in it. "If you don’t know by now, Marco, you never will."

His breathing was heavy on the other end, the silence between us thick and suffocating.

Finally, he said, "You’re not making sense, Daphne. Are you in some kind of trouble?"

The question hit too close to home, and I felt my grip on the phone tighten.

"Goodbye, Marco," I said, ending the call before he could respond.

I set the phone down, my hands trembling. The air in the room felt heavier, pressing down on me.

Berwickshire was nothing like Edinburgh. It was quieter, the streets narrower, and the people less hurried. The town felt like it had been frozen in time, it's cobblestone roads lined with small shops and cozy cottages. It was the perfect place to disappear, or at least I hoped so.

The manhunt in Scotland had moved to Edinburgh, and every news report hinted that investigators were closing in. My escape from the city had been calculated, every step carefully planned. Using one of my many fake IDs, I became Ashley Burton, a nobody with no past. My computer science degree wasn’t just a framed piece of paper—it was my lifeline. Hacking systems, covering my digital tracks, creating new identities—it was second nature to me now.

Berwickshire was a place where strangers stood out, but I had chosen it for its remoteness. As I stood at the edge of town, my suitcase in hand, I rehearsed my story in my head.

I knocked on the door of a weathered stone house with a crooked sign that read *Rooms for Rent.*

The woman who answered, a stout figure with graying hair and a sharp gaze, looked me up and down.

"Help you?" she asked, her tone curt but not unkind.

"Yes, I’m Ashley Burton," I said with a polite smile. "I’m looking to rent a place, just for a few months. I’m new in town and need somewhere quiet to stay."

She considered me for a moment before nodding. "I’ve got a room upstairs. Small, but clean. Cash only."

"That’s perfect," I said, handing over the first month’s rent. She didn’t ask too many questions, which suited me fine.

The next morning, I walked through the village, the crisp air biting at my cheeks. It was a peaceful place, with little shops opening their doors and a few locals going about their day. For the first time in weeks, I felt a faint sense of safety.

But that safety came with a price—I was running out of cash. I’d planned meticulously, but my escape from Edinburgh had drained more of my resources than I anticipated. By noon, I was scanning bulletin boards and peeking into shop windows for help-wanted signs.

That’s when I saw it. A small diner on the corner of the main street had a handwritten note in the window: *Waitress Needed: Night Shift.*

The place smelled of coffee and fresh bread when I stepped inside. The manager, a wiry man with salt-and-pepper hair, sized me up quickly.

"Got experience?" he asked, his hands on his hips.

"Yes," I lied. "I worked at a café in Glasgow before moving here."

He didn’t press further, and by the end of the day, I had a job. It wasn’t glamorous, but it would keep me afloat.

The diner became my new reality. At night, I served locals who came in for coffee and late dinners, blending into the town’s rhythm. The customers were friendly, most of them too preoccupied with their own lives to notice much about me.

Until she walked in.

I was carrying a tray of steaming plates when I saw her—a familiar woman seated by the window. My pulse quickened. It was the same woman who had approached me at Victor Salvani’s funeral, asking if I was okay.

Her eyes scanned the room, and for a moment, they locked on mine. I froze. The tray wobbled in my hands, and I nearly dropped it.

She tilted her head slightly, her brow furrowing as if she recognized me.

Panic clawed at my chest. I forced myself to move, placing the plates on a nearby table before slipping into the back.

I rushed to the restroom, locking the door behind me. My hands shook as I pulled out my phone, my fingers tapping rapidly to open the news.

There it was—my face, staring back at me. The grainy photo from the surveillance footage had been enhanced and spread across every major outlet. The headline read: *Prime Suspect Identified in CEO Victor Salvani’s Murder; Daphne Rodriguez*

"No way," I whispered, my voice trembling.

My face was no longer just a shadowy figure in a hood. The image was clear enough for anyone to recognize me.

I couldn’t stay here.

I splashed cold water on my face, trying to calm the rising tide of panic. As I exited the restroom, I avoided looking at the woman by the window. Instead, I headed straight for the back door, my heart pounding with every step.

But before I could reach it, a firm hand gripped my shoulder.

"Miss Daphne Rodriguez?"

I turned slowly, my stomach twisting into knots. A police officer stood behind me, his expression unreadable.

"You’re under arrest," he said, his voice steady.

The world tilted around me. The other diners were staring now, their murmurs blending into a dull roar in my ears.

"No, you're mistaken," I said, my voice barely audible.

The officer began to recite my rights, his hand moving to his belt. My mind raced, searching for a way out, a plan, anything. Then the officer tightened his grip, and I realized with chilling certainty that my time was up.

And then I saw her—the woman from the funeral—watching me from her seat. A small, knowing smile played on her lips.

She had done this. She was my husband's mistress—Amanda Banes.