Sloane stood in the doorway. The cold radiating from Donavan was a physical force, but she didn't take a single step back.
Donavan walked over to the mahogany desk. He picked up a thick stack of papers and threw them onto the floor at Sloane's feet.
"This bedroom is a stage for my grandmother," Donavan said, his voice devoid of any human emotion. "Your existence is confined to the guest room downstairs and the nursing wing."
Sloane bent down. She picked up the supplementary agreement. Her eyes scanned the brutal clauses. No entering his study. No asking about his schedule.
She grabbed the heavy fountain pen from the desk and signed her name in quick, sharp strokes.
"Don't worry," Sloane said, tossing the pen down. "I have zero interest in a glacier."
Donavan's eyes narrowed. The muscle in his jaw ticked. He grabbed his suit jacket and walked straight past her toward the door.
He stopped in the frame. "Know your place. The Masons don't keep useless, clever pets."
He slammed the door shut.
Sloane let out a breath. Her shoulders dropped. This dead, loveless marriage was the perfect shield for her revenge.
She locked the bedroom door. She pulled the heavy velvet curtains shut.
From the false bottom of her cheap suitcase, she pulled out a heavily encrypted micro-laptop.
She booted it up. Lines of code reflected in her dark eyes. She put in a wireless earpiece and dialed Alex Thorne, her underground intel broker.
"Well, well," Alex's voice crackled. "Calling me on your wedding night? The ice king must be a disappointment in bed."
"Shut up, Alex," Sloane snapped. "Give me the update on Haden's shell company."
Alex's tone turned serious. "Haden is at the Hellfire Club in Manhattan right now. He's having a secret sit-down with Eugene Carrillo."
Sloane's fingers froze on the keyboard.
Eugene Carrillo. The name was whispered in Wall Street like a curse. A bloodthirsty, ruthless predator.
"Haden is trying to use a core Mason project as collateral to get a massive bridge loan from Eugene," Alex continued.
If Haden got that money, he would completely swallow Beauvais Fashion. Her father's legacy would be erased forever.
Sloane's heart hammered a violent rhythm against her ribs. She had to kill this deal tonight.
"Hack the club's security," Sloane ordered. "Find me a blind spot in their cameras."
She stripped off the suffocating gray dress. She pulled on a skin-tight black leather motorcycle suit. She slid a military-grade stun pen into her leather boot.
She opened the balcony doors. The rain was still pouring. She checked her watch, timing the security patrol.
She swung her leg over the stone balustrade and shimmied down the thick ivy vines. The rough bark scraped her palms.
She slipped through the shadows of the garden, dodging the sweeping security lights.
She reached the abandoned rear garage. "I owe you for this, Alex," she whispered into her comms. "Don't thank me yet," Alex replied, his voice crackling. "I had to bribe a fired groundskeeper to use the old smuggler's trail on the back hill just to get it past Mason security. It's parked in a blind spot behind the old hunter's shed." She pulled the tarp off the heavy Ducati motorcycle Alex had stashed there yesterday.
She pulled on a black helmet, kicked the engine to life, and shot down the hidden service road into the storm.
At the exact same time, a black Rolls Royce glided down the highway toward Manhattan.
In the backseat, Donavan Mason reached up and ripped his silk tie off. The dead, cold look in his eyes vanished. It was replaced by a raw, predatory hunger.
His assistant in the passenger seat handed him a silver half-mask.
"Mr. Eugene," the assistant said respectfully. "Haden is waiting at the club."
Donavan took the mask. A cruel, bloodthirsty smile twisted his lips. "Good. Let's make him bleed."
Sloane's Ducati tore through the neon-lit streets of Manhattan. She killed the engine in the dark alley behind the Hellfire Club.
She took a deep breath, letting the cold air fill her lungs. She pushed the heavy steel service door open. The thumping bass of electronic music hit her chest like a physical blow.
The hunt was on.
