I sat in the dimly lit, leather-scented cabin of a private jet idling on a hidden tarmac, the agonizing throb in my splinted right leg finally dulled by top-tier painkillers.
Propped up on the mahogany table in front of me were two glowing tablet screens.
On the first screen, the live stream of the cliffside resort gala played out. The grand ballroom was a blinding beacon of obnoxious wealth, packed wall-to-wall with the city’s elite—tech investors, board members, and a swarm of media outlets.
Carter stood at the center of the grand stage, bathed in the glow of the spotlights.
Beside him, Paula was soaking up the flashing cameras like a parched sponge. She wore a custom white silk gown that draped over her supposedly pregnant stomach.
“It has been an incredibly dark time for our family,” Carter spoke into the microphone, his voice dropping an octave to convey a masterful, fake heaviness. He looked out at the sea of investors, his eyes shining with unshed, manufactured tears.
“My wife, Winona, has been battling severe mental health struggles. Postpartum psychosis is a vicious thief. It stole the woman I loved, and it replaced her with someone violent, someone who needs constant, supervised care.”
On the screen, a collective murmur of deep sympathy rippled through the ballroom.
Cameras snapped frantically, capturing the image of the brave, heartbroken billionaire standing by his sick wife.
“But today,” Carter continued, “today is about healing. Despite her fragile state, Winona has chosen peace. She insisted on being here tonight to publicly step down from the company, and to give Paula and me her blessing.”
He turned toward the grand double doors at the back of the ballroom. He put on his most sympathetic, sorrowful face—the face of a man ready to forgive a monster.
He fully expected his broken, defeated wife to be wheeled out in a dull gray hospital gown, heavily medicated, ready to publicly surrender her dignity, her company, and her life to protect her father’s pension.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the PR director announced over the speakers. “Please welcome, Winona Hayes.”
The heavy oak doors swung open.
The blinding white spotlight immediately snapped to the entrance. The murmurs of the crowd died down, replaced by a tense, expectant silence.
Everyone waited to see the crazy, violent woman who had tried to kill her husband's pregnant mistress.
But no one stepped out.
Instead, a single, terrified-looking junior bodyguard slowly pushed a wheelchair into the center of the aisle.
The leather seat was completely empty.
The crowd erupted into confused whispers. Reporters lowered their cameras, exchanging bewildered glances.
On the stage, Carter’s award-winning smile froze.
The blood rapidly drained from his face, leaving him as pale as a corpse. He stared at the empty leather seat, his mind failing to process the image.
His eyes darted frantically around the room, searching the shadows, expecting me to jump out and ruin his night. But there was no one.
Panic, cold and sharp, finally broke through his arrogant facade. He frantically signaled to the side of the stage.
His head of security, a massive man named Marcus, was already pressing a trembling hand to his earpiece. Marcus listened to the voice on the other end of the radio, his face turning an ashen gray.
He looked up at Carter, his eyes wide with absolute, unadulterated terror, and gave a slow, helpless shake of his head.
I took a slow sip of my hot tea and shifted my gaze to the second tablet on my table.
I watched the playback as Marcus and a team of four heavily armed guards marched down the sterile, brightly lit hospital corridor.
On the silent footage, Marcus didn't even bother knocking. He shoved the heavy wooden door to my room open, his mouth moving as he prepared to bark a command.
Then, he stopped dead in his tracks.
Through the camera's lens, I watched Marcus's broad shoulders tense. The room he was staring into was completely silent.
The heart monitor was switched off. The heavy plaster cast that had encased my leg was nowhere to be seen.
The IV lines had been carefully disconnected and were neatly coiled on the medical tray.
The room was completely, entirely empty.
Marcus grabbed a passing nurse by the arm, his face twisted in rage, shaking her violently. The nurse stammered, terrified, pointing at the empty bed.
Next, the footage cut to the hospital's security control room. Marcus shoved the technician out of the chair and pulled up the feed for the VIP hallway.
He stared at the monitors, realizing the timestamp in the corner was glitching, skipping backward every ten seconds.
The cameras hadn't just been turned off; my mercenaries had professionally hacked them, wiped them clean, and replaced them with a continuous, looped feed.
Breathing heavily, a cold sweat breaking out on the back of his neck, Marcus slowly walked back into the empty VIP room on the screen.
He stood at the foot of the bed. The white sheets were perfectly made, pulled tight without a single wrinkle, as if no one had ever slept there at all.
But it wasn't entirely empty.
Resting dead center on the pristine white pillow was a single, thick white envelope.
I watched Marcus reach out with a trembling, gloved hand and pick it up.
The paper was heavy, expensive. And written across the front, in my elegant, unmistakable handwriting, was a single word.
Carter.
I reached out and tapped the screen of the first tablet, unmuting the live broadcast of the gala.
Carter was losing his mind on stage. He abandoned Paula, rushing over to Marcus, grabbing the lapels of his security chief's jacket.
Even over the murmurs of the confused crowd, the microphones picked up Carter's frantic, trembling voice.
"What do you mean she's gone?!" Carter hissed, his eyes wild with a terror I had never seen in him before. "Where is she, Marcus?! Where is my wife?!"
