The study in the Hamptons house was transformed. One wall was covered in monitors displaying global stock indices, news feeds, and security camera footage.
Isabella sat behind a massive mahogany desk. It was the only piece of furniture she had kept from the old days.
She watched the shredder in the corner. It was chewing through the last remnants of her marriage documents.
"Luke," she said, spinning her chair around. "Get me Julianne Moore."
Luke paused, his fingers hovering over his keyboard. " The PR crisis manager? The 'Iron Lady' of New York?"
"Tell her the Queen is awake," Isabella said.
Luke dialed. He handed the phone to Isabella.
"Hello?" A sharp, impatient female voice answered.
"Julianne," Isabella said. "It's Isabella Mckee."
There was a silence on the other end. A long, heavy silence.
"Isabella?" Julianne's voice dropped an octave. "My god. The rumors... I thought you were dead. The social world has been a graveyard without you."
"I'm back," Isabella said. "And I need an explosion. I want the news of the Mckee heir's survival to break the internet in one hour."
"Done," Julianne said instantly. "But I need a hook. Just 'alive' isn't enough for the front page of everything."
Isabella tapped her finger on the desk. "Remember Leo?"
"Leo Rossi?" Julianne gasped. "The supermodel? The face of Versace?"
"Three years ago, I anonymously funded his rehab and his first portfolio," Isabella said. "Call him. Tell him his patron is calling in a favor. I want him as my escort for the return."
"Oh my god," Julianne whispered. "That is... that is genius. The mystery benefactor. The tragic return. It's gold."
Isabella hung up.
She opened a file on her computer. Leo Rossi.
He wasn't the skinny, drug-addicted kid she had found in an alley anymore. He was a god. Chiseled jaw, brooding eyes, famous.
"He had a crush on you," Luke warned, seeing the photo. "A big one. This might be dangerous."
"I need dangerous," Isabella said. "I need Hamilton to see what he threw away."
She glanced at the clock on the wall. 8:47 AM. The press conference was scheduled for 10 AM. Time was tight, but she had planned for this.
In a photography studio in Chelsea, a camera clicked rapidly.
Leo Rossi posed, his shirt open, staring intensely at the lens.
His agent ran onto the set, waving a phone. "Leo! Stop! It's... it's Her."
Leo froze. The brooding mask fell away. "Who?"
" The Benefactor," the agent hissed. "She's real. And she wants you."
Leo pushed the photographer aside. He grabbed the phone. "Where is she?"
In the Mckee Capital tower, Hamilton was sweating.
"The stock is down 12%!" he yelled at his traders. "Find out who is shorting us!"
Preston walked in, looking terrified. "Sir... you need to see this."
He pointed to the large TV screen on the wall.
BREAKING NEWS: MCKEE HEIRESS FOUND ALIVE.
Hamilton stopped breathing.
The screen showed a blurry photo taken from a distance. A woman in a white suit getting into a black SUV.
The caption read: Isabella Mckee to hold press conference tomorrow.
Hamilton stared at the white suit.
He had seen that suit two hours ago.
"No," he whispered. He shook his head. "That's impossible. Isabella is... she's a nobody. She's from Southie."
"Sir," Preston said softly. "The name. Isabella Oconnor... Isabella Mckee. Her mother's maiden name was Oconnor."
Hamilton felt the room spin.
He grabbed the edge of his desk.
"It's a coincidence," he said, his voice trembling. "It has to be. My wife... my ex-wife... she knits scarves. She doesn't run empires."
But deep in his gut, a cold, hard stone of dread was forming.
