From Trophy Wife to Scientific Queen
My husband Julian celebrated our five-year anniversary by sleeping with his mistress. He thought I was a clueless trophy wife, too dim to notice the vanilla and tuberose scent on his expensive suits. He was wrong. For years, I played Mrs. Vance, hiding my brilliance while Julian claimed my patents.
An anonymous email confirmed his ultimate betrayal: photos of him and Scarlett Kensington in ecstasy. My heart didn't break; it solidified into ice at five years wasted.
I activated "The Protocol" for a new identity and escape countdown. Playing the doting wife, I plotted his downfall, catching him with his mistress selling my work, and publicly snapping his credit card.
His betrayals and stolen work ignited a cold, calculated fury. He had no idea the monster he'd created. I was dismantling his empire.
I shredded his patent papers, stripping him of his ill-gotten gains. With a final tap, I initiated "Identity Erasure." Mrs. Vance was dead. Dr. Evelyn Thorne had just begun her counterattack.
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Chapter 4
The adrenaline crash hit her three blocks later. Her hands started to shake. The triumph at the boutique was fleeting; the reality was that she was still married to a man who was buying handbags for his mistress with her money.
She needed a drink.
She ducked into a narrow doorway on a side street. There was no sign, just a brass knocker in the shape of a tiger. The Blind Tiger. A speakeasy.
She pushed inside. It was dark, smelling of cedar and aged whiskey. Jazz played softly in the background. She sat at the far end of the bar, the shadows wrapping around her.
"Whiskey. Neat. Whatever is your most expensive," she told the bartender.
She drank the first one too fast. The burn was grounding. She ordered a second.
The door opened, letting in a gust of cold wind and the noise of the city. A man walked in. He was tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a suit that cost more than a car. He looked exhausted. He sat two stools away from her, loosening his tie with a weary sigh.
Evelyn, the alcohol buzzing in her blood, turned to look at him. She recognized him instantly. The sharp jawline, the dark, intelligent eyes. It was Alistair Sterling.
She shouldn't engage. She should look away. But the whiskey made her reckless.
She slid her glass across the mahogany bar toward him. The ice clinked.
"Rough night, Director Sterling?" she asked.
The man turned. His eyes were the color of steel. He looked at her, really looked at her, analyzing her face. He didn't seem to recognize her from the personnel files yet-her photo there was five years old and she looked very different now. But he was surprised she knew his name.
"Do I know you?" he asked, his voice a deep rumble.
Evelyn laughed. It was a bitter sound. "No. But I know you. You're the man who builds cages for viruses."
Alistair raised an eyebrow. A flicker of amusement crossed his face. "And you are?"
"Just a ghost," she murmured. She leaned in, her elbow slipping slightly on the polished wood. She looked him up and down, noting the perfection of his attire. "You're too pretty to be trapped in a lab all day."
"I could say the same for you being in a bar alone," he replied smoothly.
Evelyn dug into her purse. She pulled out a hundred-dollar bill from her stash. She slammed it on the bar.
"I just want to talk about parasites," she said. "About how they attach themselves to you and suck you dry until you're just a shell. You know about parasites, don't you, Doctor?"
Alistair stared at her. He realized she wasn't just a random drunk. She was intelligent, broken, and talking in metaphors that hit close to home.
"I deal with them every day," he said quietly.
Evelyn started rambling. She talked about the patents without naming them. She talked about the tie. She talked about the silence.
The man listened. He didn't interrupt. He drank his own drink and watched her with an intensity that was unsettling.
Suddenly, the room spun. The whiskey hit her on an empty stomach. She swayed.
"I need to go," she mumbled. "I think I'm going to be sick."
She stood up and stumbled. The man's hand shot out, catching her by the elbow. His grip was firm, warm, and electric.
"Careful," he said.
Evelyn pulled away, panic flaring. She couldn't do this. She couldn't be this messy in front of the man who would soon be her superior.
"Keep the money," she said, gesturing to the bill on the bar. "Consultation fee."
She turned and fled into the night, leaving Alistair Sterling sitting at the bar, staring at the door, wondering who the hell the brilliant, broken woman was who knew his title but treated him like a bartender.