Time didn't slow down—it accelerated. Years of muscle memory, drilled into me through grueling pre-dawn PT sessions at Parris Island and relentless hand-to-hand combat modules at Quantico, took the wheel. My conscious mind stepped back, a cold, calculating observer watching a machine do what it was built to do.

I stepped over a tactical vest, wiping a streak of soot and sweat from my forehead. My dress was ruined, my hair was wild, and my knuckles were bruised—but I had never felt more alive.

Suddenly, the encrypted tactical radio clipped to my shoulder crackled to life.

"Alpha Team, report in! What the hell is going on down there on Deck 4?"

A deep, gravelly voice echoed through the speaker. It was a voice dripping with cold, unyielding authority—a voice I recognized instantly from the wedding reception speeches.

Richard Davis. David’s father. The man pulling all the strings.

I reached up, unclipped the radio, and pressed the transmission button.

"Alpha Team is currently unavailable, Mr. Davis," I spoke clearly into the receiver, my voice steady and icy. "They're currently taking a nap."

A heavy, stunned silence hung on the other end of the line.

"Who is this?" Richard's voice barked back, dangerous and sharp. "Where is my son?"

"Your son is currently tied up in Suite 704, contemplating the error of his ways," I replied smoothly, pacing down the corridor toward the private elevator shaft that led directly to the executive penthouse suite. "And if you want to see him alive again, Mr. Davis, you're going to come down here and talk to me face-to-face."

"You..." A sharp intake of breath hissed through the speaker. "You're Sarah. David's little bride."

"The one and only," I smiled. "I'll give you ten minutes to meet me in the main observation lounge on Deck 10. Come alone. Because if you send another rent-a-cop down my hallway, I'll feed them to the sharks one piece at a time."

I clicked the radio off, tossing it onto the floor and crushing it beneath the heel of my designer shoe.

May you like

His chest tightened, a sharp, cold panic piercing through the expensive...

$The silence of the boutique hotel room was a heavy, suffocating blanket. Two weeks had passed since Lena Moretti—formerly Lena Vance—walked out of Dante’s life, leaving behind an empire of glass, steel, and golden handcuffs. Now, sitting at a small laminate table with the ultrasound printouts clutched in her trembling hands, her life had completely fractured.$