I got home, my body still aching from last night, and headed straight to the bedroom. The sight of Sasha lounging on my side of the bed stopped me cold. She sat cross-legged, flipping through a magazine like she belonged there.

“What are you doing here?” My voice came out sharp and louder than I intended.

She glanced up, her lips curling into a smirk. “Oh, Jameson said I could stay for a while. Something about how I needed a place to settle back in.”

My hands clenched into fists at my sides. “In our house?”

“His house,” she corrected, tilting her head as if it were obvious.

Before I could say anything else, Jameson walked in. His eyes scanned my face, pausing at the bruise on my cheek.

“What happened to you?” he asked, his tone flat. “Did you tell them anything?”

I frowned. “What?”

“The men who hurt you,” he said, crossing his arms. “Did you mention Sasha? Did you say anything about the Silver Bullets?”

My jaw tightened. Of all the questions he could have asked—about how I was feeling, about what happened—this was what he cared about. Protecting Sasha. Protecting himself.

I lost our baby because of that. But it’s not like I was going to tell him. What was the point? He wouldn’t care. I thought the baby could save our marriage, but I was wrong. At least now, I could leave without anything holding me back from Jameson.

“No,” I said through gritted teeth. “I didn’t mention her.”

“Good,” he said, as if that was the only thing that mattered.

Sasha snorted softly.

I looked between the two of them, something inside me breaking all over again. “You know what? Do whatever you want. Both of you.”

Jameson frowned, like he couldn’t understand why I was upset. Sasha just shrugged, looking perfectly comfortable in the bed that was supposed to be mine.

I turned and walked out, slamming the door behind me. I spent the rest of the night on the couch, staring at the ceiling and wondering how my life had come to this.

The next morning, I woke up with a stiff neck and an even heavier heart. I couldn’t stay here—not like this.

By midday, I found myself in a small office on the outskirts of the city, sitting across from a woman in a sharp suit.

“You want to cancel all your identities?” she repeated, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes,” I said firmly.

“That’s not an easy process, especially for someone like you.”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

She leaned forward, folding her hands on the desk. “You’re married to Jameson Cross, leader of the Silver Bullets. That name comes with a lot of baggage. People don’t just disappear from that world.”

“I don’t care how hard it is,” I said, pleading. “I’ll pay whatever it takes. Just make it happen. If I have to die to vanish, then do it.”

She studied me for a long moment, then nodded. “It’ll cost you. A lot.”

“Money isn’t an issue,” I said.

“Alright,” she said, pulling out a stack of paperwork. “Sign these. We’ll get started.”

I spent the next hour filling out forms, each signature feeling like a small piece of freedom. By the time I left, the weight on my chest had lifted just a little.

When I got back home, the sight of the house made my stomach turn. I parked in the driveway and sat there for a few minutes, trying to gather the energy to go inside.

I opened the door to the bedroom and stopped in my tracks. A set of lacy lingerie lay sprawled across the bed, glaringly out of place against the familiar sheets.

I picked up the lingerie with trembling hands and marched out into the hallway, where Sasha was lounging on the couch.

“You might want to be more careful,” I said, my voice cold. “Next time, don’t leave your things in my bedroom.”

Sasha looked up, a mockingly innocent expression on her face. “Oops,” she said with a shrug. “Sorry about that. Jameson and I got... caught up in the moment.”

My blood boiled. “You’re disgusting.”

She smirked. “Don’t worry, I’ll get your favorite sheets cleaned. We made quite a mess.”

I scowled at Sasha’s smug comment about cleaning the sheets. The audacity of her mocking tone made my hands itch to slap her, but I stopped myself. She wasn’t worth it. Instead, I spun around and stormed into the bedroom, slamming the door behind me.

I yanked my suitcase out of the closet, tossing it onto the bed. Clothes, shoes, and whatever I could grab landed inside, one item after another. My chest burned with anger, each piece of clothing stuffed inside feeling like another step closer to freedom.

The door creaked open behind me.

“What the hell are you doing?” Jameson asked.

“Leaving,” I said shortly, not bothering to turn around.

“Leaving? Over what? Because Sasha made a joke?”

I zipped the suitcase halfway. “Because I’m done with this. With you.”

Jameson stepped closer. “You’re being ridiculous. Do you even know what Sasha’s been through? Her whole family was murdered, Kat. She has no one else, and here you are, acting like a spoiled brat instead of showing some compassion.”

I turned, glaring at him. “Compassion? She’s flaunting your affair in my house, mocking me at every turn. And you’re defending her?”

He scoffed, crossing his arms. “You’re overreacting. She’s trying to get through a tough time, and you’re making it harder for her.”

I stared at him, disbelief cutting deeper than any words. “You’ll defend her no matter what, won’t you? Even when she’s wrong.”

“She’s not wrong,” he shot back. “You are.”

My fists clenched. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Grow up, Kat,” he said coldly before turning and walking out, slamming the door behind him.

The next day, Jameson was stretched out on the couch, scrolling on his phone. I walked past him toward the kitchen, catching a glimpse of the screen.

“Can’t wait to see you tonight,” Sasha’s text read, complete with a winking emoji.

Jameson chuckled, his thumbs moving quickly as he typed back a response.

My stomach twisted, but I forced myself to breathe. If this was how he wanted to play, fine. I could play too.

I grabbed a stack of papers I had prepared earlier and approached him. “Jameson, I need your signature on these,” I said, holding out the documents.

He barely glanced up. “What’s this?”

“Business,” I said smoothly. “Just something to finalize a deal.”

With a sigh, he grabbed the pen I offered. “You always pick the worst times for this.”

I kept my expression neutral as he scribbled his signature on each page without reading a single line—not even knowing it was the divorce papers. When he handed the papers back, I forced a small smile. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, whatever,” he muttered, already back to texting Sasha.

I walked to the bedroom, my heart pounding as I tucked the signed divorce papers into my suitcase.

By noon, I was sitting in the agency office, finalizing my plan.

“We’ll make it look like a drowning,” the agent said, sliding a photo across the table. The dummy corpse looked eerily like me, floating face-down in dark water. “This should be convincing enough.”

I nodded, keeping my voice steady. “Make sure the rumors point back to him. I want people to think Jameson did it.”

The agent raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure about this?”

“I’m sure,” I said firmly.

Once the arrangements were made, I created a fake social media account. Using the photo of the dummy corpse, I typed out the caption: Jameson Cross and Sasha Gray killed Katerina Cross.

Before posting, I sent the image directly to Jameson’s phone with no caption, knowing it would catch him off guard. I imagined the confusion on his face, the panic that would follow as he pieced it together.

Then, with one final deep breath, I hit “post.”

The image spread like wildfire. Within minutes, the account had hundreds of views and comments. Messages flooded in, accusing Jameson and Sasha of being a monster, some even calling for justice. The sight of it going viral filled me with a twisted sense of relief.

Satisfied, I closed the account and deleted any trace of it from my phone.

I arrived at the airport a couple of hours later, my new identity papers tucked safely in my bag. My ticket was one-way, and from this moment on, Katerina Cross no longer existed.

But then, three men in dark suits stepped in front of me, blocking my path, before I could approach the boarding gate.

“Miss Smith,” they said in unison. “You have to come with us.”

“Miss Smith, you have to come with us.”

The words sent a chill down my spine, but I forced a casual smile, tilting my head like they’d made a mistake.

“Oh, I think you’ve got the wrong person,” I said with a light laugh, holding my bag closer. “People mistake me for someone else all the time. I guess I just have one of those faces.”

None of them laughed. Their stern expressions didn’t budge. One of the men, tall and broad-shouldered, took a step closer.

“We’re aware of everything, Miss Smith,” he said, “Faking your death, framing Jameson Cross… all of it.”

My laughter died instantly, my heart slamming against my ribs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said calmly but deep down I was already panicking.

“If you won’t come willingly,” another man said flatly, “we’ll make you.”

My pulse raced as I glanced around. The airport was bustling with travelers, security guards stationed nearby. I could scream or cause a scene, but I knew it wouldn’t end well. They were professionals—clean, calculated, and clearly not bluffing.

“Fine,” I said sharply, straightening my back. “Who sent you?”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” the third man said.

Gritting my teeth, I nodded. “Alright, let’s go.”

They flanked me on either side, their presence towering and menacing as we walked toward the exit. My mind raced, searching for an opening, a distraction—anything to escape. But I played it cool, keeping my steps steady and my expression blank.

As we moved through the terminal, my eyes flicked to a TV screen mounted on the wall. The words Breaking News flashed in bold red, followed by an image of Jameson’s face.

“…authorities are now investigating Jameson Cross and his alleged mistress, Sasha Gray, in connection to the suspicious death of Katerina Cross. Sources report that a body resembling Katerina was recovered from the river late last night…”

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. My plan had worked perfectly. The dummy body, the fake photos—it was all falling into place.

“…Jameson Cross, visibly emotional, has denied all allegations. In an exclusive interview earlier today, he said…”

The screen cut to Jameson sitting on a couch, his face pale and eyes red-rimmed. “I would never hurt Kat,” he said, his voice breaking. “I loved her more than anything. Whoever did this—” He paused, wiping at his tears. “Whoever did this will pay.”

The camera zoomed in on his trembling hands as he clutched a framed photo of us.

I rolled my eyes, disgust curling in my stomach. Loved me? What a joke. Just days ago, he was laughing with Sasha about how clueless I was. Now he wanted the world to believe he was heartbroken?

The men escorting me noticed me watching but said nothing. I tore my eyes from the screen and kept walking.

We stepped outside, the humid air wrapping around me like a second skin. A black SUV was parked at the curb, its engine humming. One of the men opened the back door and gestured for me to get in.

“Where are we going?” I demanded.

“Get in,” the tall one repeated.

I hesitated, scanning the busy streets for any chance to slip away. But I knew it wasn’t the right time. Reluctantly, I climbed into the SUV, and the door slammed shut behind me.

As the car pulled away, I stared out the window, my mind churning. Who had sent them? Jameson was too busy cleaning up his image. Sasha wouldn’t care enough to track me down. Is it Jameson's rival mafia group?

“So,” I said, breaking the tense silence. “Are you going to tell me where we’re going, or do I have to guess?”

The man in the passenger seat glanced back at me. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

I crossed my arms, leaning back against the seat. “Great. Love a good mystery. Are you going to kill me?”

They ignored me after that, speaking to each other in low tones I couldn’t make out. My fingers itched to grab my phone, but I knew they’d never let me get away with it.

About twenty minutes into the ride, I leaned forward, forcing a casual tone. “I need to stop.”

The driver glanced at me through the rearview mirror. “For what?”

“The bathroom,” I said firmly. “Or do you expect me to hold it?”

The tall man sitting beside me grunted. “Fine. Make it quick.”

The SUV pulled into a gas station, and I stepped out. The men watched me like hawks, but I pretended not to notice.

Inside the restroom, I splashed cold water on my face, my heart racing. This was it—my chance.

Taking a deep breath, I pushed open the door and bolted. My legs burned as I sprinted across the parking lot, weaving between parked cars. I didn’t know where I was going, but I didn’t care. I just needed to get away.

I rounded the corner of the building and slammed into someone—a solid wall of muscle. Staggering back, I looked up and froze.

The man I’d run into had a sleeve tattoo of an eagle on his forearm, its wings spread wide. He stared down at me, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Do you really think you can run away from me, Katerina?”

My breath caught as I took a step back, realizing who it was, “Karlos?”