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 5
The headache the next morning was a sledgehammer behind her eyes. Evelyn groaned, rolling over in the guest bed. She had locked herself in there when she got home.
Her phone beeped.
NOTIFICATION: Protocol Briefing. 0900 Hours. Mandatory Attendance for Phase 1 Candidates.
She looked at the time. 08:15.
Panic.
She showered in three minutes. She dressed in her most severe suit-charcoal grey, high-waisted trousers, a crisp white silk blouse. She pulled her hair back into a tight bun. No makeup to hide the dark circles. She wanted to look like a machine.
She arrived at the secure facility at 08:58. She swiped her card and rushed into the briefing room.
It was full. Top scientists from around the world, all recruited for The Protocol. They sat around a massive oval table.
Evelyn took the only empty seat, near the back.
"Gentlemen, ladies," a voice boomed from the front of the room.
Evelyn looked up. And froze.
Standing at the head of the table was Alistair Sterling.
He scanned the room. His gaze landed on Evelyn. For a microsecond, his eyes widened. Recognition flashed. The woman from the bar. The "Ghost."
He didn't smile. He didn't acknowledge their meeting. He just held her gaze for a second too long before turning back to the group.
"Welcome to The Protocol," Alistair said, his voice smooth.
He started the briefing. Evelyn tried to focus. She took notes. She stared at the holographic projection of the viral structure. But her body was betraying her.
A cramp seized her lower abdomen. Sharp. Violent.
She winced. Her bio-tracker had buzzed three times this morning, but in her rush and hangover, she had ignored it. The stress of the last week, the alcohol, the shock-it had thrown her cycle into chaos.
She shifted in her chair. She felt a dampness.
Oh god.
She checked the date. She was early. Weeks early.
She was wearing light grey trousers.
She sat perfectly still, terror rising in her throat. The briefing dragged on for another twenty minutes. Every minute was an eternity. She couldn't stand up. Everyone would see.
"Dismissed," Alistair said finally. "Except for Dr. Thorne. Remain seated."
The scientists stood up, gathering their tablets. They glanced at Evelyn curiously as they filed out. Evelyn remained frozen, her face pale.
The room emptied. The door clicked shut.
Alistair stood at the front, organizing his papers. He didn't look at her immediately.
"Dr. Thorne," he said. "Is there a problem? You look... distressed."
Evelyn looked up at him. Her face was pale, beads of sweat on her forehead. "I... I need a moment, Director."
Alistair walked around the table. He stopped a few feet away. He wasn't looking at her face anymore. He was looking at her posture. The rigid way she held herself. He followed her line of sight to her lap. He saw the faintest edge of a dark stain on the grey fabric where it pressed against the chair.
His expression didn't change. No disgust. No mockery. Just calculation.
"Stand up," he commanded softly.
"I can't," she whispered, humiliated.
Alistair sighed. He took off his suit jacket. It was a bespoke piece, heavy navy wool, lined with silk.
He walked behind her. "Stand up, Evelyn."
She stood, trembling. Alistair immediately wrapped the jacket around her waist, tying the sleeves in front. The heavy fabric fell to her knees, completely covering the trousers.
He leaned in close to her ear. She could smell sandalwood and clean linen.
"Consider it a return on your investment," he whispered, referencing the money she had left on the bar.
Evelyn turned bright red, burning from her neck to her hairline.
"Thank you," she choked out.
"Go," he said, stepping back to give her space. "Use the private exit in the back. It leads directly to the parking garage."
She clutched the jacket around her waist and ran.