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?”