Five years later.
The tires of the Gulfstream private jet screech against the tarmac of JFK International Airport.
Katerina steps down the stairs, the sharp click of her black stilettos echoing in the crisp morning air. She wears a tailored black suit that hugs her slender frame. Her hair is pulled back into a severe, flawless bun.
She is no longer the pathetic, discarded wife. She is Astrid. The ghost. The medical fixer for the global elite.
Elie Mcdonald stands by a waiting armored SUV. He hands her an encrypted tablet as she slides into the leather backseat.
"Your VIP patient," Elie says, closing the door.
Katerina swipes through the medical file. The name is redacted. The symptoms are severe: chronic migraines, insomnia, violent mood swings. The patient has fired-and physically thrown out-five neurologists in the past month.
The SUV pulls into the underground garage of a highly discreet private clinic on the Upper East Side.
Alistair Crombie, the clinic director, is sweating through his suit as he waits by the private elevator.
Katerina steps out. She reaches into her bag and pulls out a sleek, silver half-mask. She secures it over her face, leaving only her eyes and lips exposed.
"Dr. Astrid," Alistair stammers, pressing the button for the penthouse floor. "Please be careful. He is in a terrible mood today."
The elevator doors open. The hallway is lined with men in dark suits.
Katerina's eyes narrow behind the mask. The cut of the suits, the specific way the men stand with their hands clasped in front of them-it tugs at a dark corner of her memory.
She ignores the rising dread in her stomach and walks to the heavy mahogany double doors at the end of the hall. Alistair pushes them open for her and quickly steps back.
The VIP suite is suffocatingly dark. Heavy blackout curtains block out the Manhattan skyline.
A tall, broad-shouldered man stands by the window, his back to the door. Smoke from a cigar curls around his dark hair.
Katerina steps onto the thick carpet, her medical case heavy in her hand.
Hearing her heels, the man turns around.
The dim light from a wall sconce catches the sharp angles of his jaw, the straight line of his nose, and those amber eyes.
Katerina's lungs seize. Her heart slams against her ribs so hard she feels it in her throat.
Cayden Merritt.
He looks older. Harsher. The lines around his mouth are carved deeper, and there is a dark, dangerous exhaustion in his eyes.
Cayden crushes the cigar into an ashtray. His gaze sweeps over her, sharp as a scalpel.
"You're the miracle worker everyone is terrified of?" His voice is a low, gravelly rasp.
Katerina grips the handle of her medical case until her knuckles turn white. The leather digs into her palm. She forces her breathing to slow. She cannot panic.
"Yes," she says. She alters the placement of her tongue, producing a clipped, cold, faintly European accent.
Cayden takes a step toward her. Then another. The sheer physical dominance of the man fills the room, pressing down on her chest.
He stops less than two feet away. He looks down at her, his eyes locking onto hers through the eyeholes of the silver mask.
A slight frown creases his forehead. His amber eyes darken with a sudden, restless confusion. Something in her gaze is scratching at his subconscious.
Without a word of warning, Cayden raises his hand, his long fingers reaching straight for the edge of her silver mask.
