The roar of the helicopter blades deafened everything, but the man’s voice echoed directly inside my head.

The penthouse suite at the Grand Regency Hotel in downtown Denver was buzzing with elite high-society figures, corrupt politicians, and wall-street investors.

Michael Carter was hosting a “charity gala” in memory of his late wife and child. In reality, it was a victory celebration. The insurance company had fast-tracked the preliminary payout, and Michael was forty-eight hours away from claiming the full fifty million.

From a blacked-out SUV parked across the street, I watched the penthouses’ floor-to-ceiling windows through high-powered digital binoculars.

I looked completely transformed. My long brown hair had been cut into a sleek, dark black bob. My wardrobe was replaced with sharp, high-end Parisian couture provided by Gabriel’s vast resources. The battered, helpless girl on the cliff was dead. In her place stood a woman forged in ice.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” Gabriel asked from the driver’s seat, adjusting an earpiece connected to our surveillance team inside the hotel.

“I’ve been ready since the moment he pushed me,” I said coldly.

“Remember the plan,” Gabriel instructed. “We don’t strike directly yet. We make him paranoid. We chip away at his sanity. We make him doubt his own senses until he exposes his own crimes.”

I put on a pair of dark designer sunglasses, picked up a sleek leather folder, and stepped out into the crisp evening air.

Inside the crowded ballroom, champagne flowed freely. Michael stood near the grand stage, holding a crystal glass, laughing softly at a joke made by an investor.

“To new beginnings,” Ashley whispered, sliding her arm through his. “The board approves the takeover tomorrow. Everything is ours, Michael.”

“I told you I’d handle it,” Michael smirked, taking a sip of his scotch. “The cold takes care of everything. No evidence. No loose ends.”

Suddenly, a waiter tapped Michael on the shoulder, handing him a silver tray containing a single, sealed black envelope.

“What’s this?” Michael frowned.

“A private delivery for Mr. Carter,” the waiter said smoothly before disappearing into the crowd.

Michael scoffed and tore open the envelope. Ashley leaned in close.

Inside was a single photograph.

It was a crystal-clear, close-up shot of the icy ledge in Rocky Mountain National Park. But in the middle of the snow, written in fresh, bright red paint, were four simple words:

THE ICE REMEMBERS EVERYTHING.

Michael’s face drained of all color. He dropped his glass, the crystal shattering loudly against the marble floor.

“Michael? What is it?” Ashley gasped, picking up the fallen photo.

Michael whipped his head around frantically, his eyes scanning the sea of guests. His chest heaved as panic seized his throat.

And right across the room, leaning against a marble pillar in the shadows, stood a woman in a black dress, sipping champagne.