My Secret Wife Is A Top Hacker

The icy water crushed against her chest. Zero's eyes snapped open. Her lungs burned, screaming for oxygen. She broke the surface of the massive bathtub, water cascading down her face as she gasped, her chest heaving violently. The sudden influx of air felt like swallowed glass tearing down her throat. Before she could even process the cold, a violent spike of pain drove through her temples. It was a physical assault. Memories that did not belong to her-memories of a pathetic, lovesick boy named Zero Vance-slammed into her brain. She gripped the marble edge of the tub, her knuckles turning bone-white as her stomach pitched. Her gaze dropped to the floor tiles. An empty, amber prescription bottle lay discarded next to a spilled glass of water, the label smeared. A pathetic, hesitant attempt at an overdose before she had slipped into the freezing water. She was Z. The world's most lethal hacker. She had died. Yet here she was, breathing, shivering, trapped in the body of a notorious, wealthy failure. Zero pushed herself up. The soaked silk shirt clung to her skin, heavy and freezing. As she stood, a sharp, suffocating pressure banded around her ribs. She looked down. Beneath the sheer, wet fabric, a thick chest binder was wrapped tightly around her torso, flattening her breasts. A girl. The "trashy young master" of the Vance family was a girl hiding in plain sight. She stepped out of the tub, her bare feet slapping against the pristine white marble, and walked toward the floor-to-ceiling mirror. Zero stared at the reflection and her stomach physically recoiled. Rainbow-colored hair hung in wet, pathetic clumps. Thick, cheap waterproof eyeliner was smeared across her face in dark, ugly streaks, making her look like a bruised raccoon. Bile rose in her throat. She turned the silver faucet, plunging her hands into the freezing stream, and scrubbed her face brutally. She rubbed until her skin turned raw and red, washing away the heavy black sludge. She opened the vanity drawer. Her eyes locked onto a pair of sharp grooming scissors. She grabbed them. The cold metal grounded her. Zero grabbed a fistful of the heavy, neon hair. She didn't hesitate. Snip. A thick chunk of rainbow hair hit the floor. She kept cutting, the metallic sound echoing in the massive bathroom. She sheared it all off until nothing remained but a sharp, jagged crop of silver-blonde hair. A frantic knock hammered against the bathroom door. "Young Master!" Reginald, the head butler, shouted, his voice trembling with panic. "Please, don't do anything stupid over Maverick Thorne again!" Zero ignored the noise. She grabbed a thick towel and roughly dried her new, short hair. She looked in the mirror again. Without the makeup and the ridiculous hair, the face staring back was striking. Androgynous. Lethal. The jawline was sharp enough to cut glass, and her dark eyes held the cold, dead emptiness of a predator. She unlocked the door and pulled it open. Reginald stood there, his fist raised to knock again. The words died in his throat. He stared at the wet, silver hair scattered across the floor, and then his eyes met Zero's. His heart stuttered. The boy standing before him radiated a freezing, suffocating pressure. This wasn't the crying, hysterical teenager he knew. "A-Are you alright, Young Master?" Reginald stammered, taking a physical step back. Zero walked right past him, leaving a trail of wet footprints. "Prepare a clean black suit for me," she ordered. Her voice was low, raspy, and entirely stripped of emotion. Reginald froze. The absolute authority in that single command pinned his feet to the floor. He could only nod dumbly. Zero stepped into the walk-in closet. The sheer volume of sequins, leopard print, and tight leather pants assaulted her vision. A headache pulsed behind her eyes. She grabbed armfuls of the flashy garbage and threw them onto the hardwood floor. Reginald hurried in, holding a pressed black shirt. "Young Master, those were custom-made for you to wear for Maverick-" Zero slowly turned her head. She didn't speak. She just looked at him. The sheer, physical threat in her dark eyes made Reginald snap his mouth shut. He swallowed hard, his palms sweating. She took the black shirt and pants, changing quickly. The dark fabric hugged her lean frame, instantly shifting her aura into something untouchable and dangerous. She walked to the desk and picked up the phone. It was encased in a bedazzled pink shell. She tapped the screen. The wallpaper was a blurry, zoomed-in photo of Maverick Thorne. A wave of physiological disgust washed over her. Her thumb moved rapidly. She opened the gallery. Thousands of photos of Maverick. She hit 'Select All' and 'Delete'. She opened the messaging app. Hundreds of unread texts sent to him. Good morning. Good night. I love you. She blocked his number. Deleted the contact. The bedroom door opened. Alistair, the private doctor, walked in with a medical bag, a sneer playing on his lips. He was here to check on the "suicide attempt." Alistair snapped on a pair of latex gloves, his face a mask of clinical, sterile apathy. "Young Master Vance, this is a standard post-incident check-up procedure. Please cooperate," Alistair said, his voice entirely devoid of bedside manner as he reached a gloved hand out to impersonally check Zero's pupillary response. Before his fingers could make contact, Zero's hand shot out. She clamped her fingers around his wrist. She squeezed. Alistair let out a sharp cry of pain. The bones in his wrist ground together under her iron grip. "Do not touch me," Zero said, her voice a deadly whisper. She shoved his arm away. Alistair stumbled back, clutching his wrist, cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. He didn't say another word. He grabbed his bag and practically ran out of the room. Zero sat down on the leather sofa, crossing her long legs. She looked at the trembling butler. "I need a top-tier computer," Zero said. "Today." Reginald wrung his hands. "Sir... the Master froze your accounts." Zero's jaw tightened. A broke hacker was a dead hacker. She didn't yell. She didn't throw a tantrum. "Prepare dinner," she said quietly. The unnatural calm terrified Reginald more than any screaming fit ever had. Downstairs in the dining room, Zero picked up her knife and fork. She cut her steak with flawless, aristocratic precision. Reginald stood in the corner, watching her perfect table manners, his mind spinning in absolute confusion. When she finished, she wiped her mouth with a linen napkin. She stood up and walked to the massive floor-to-ceiling window. The glittering skyline of New York stretched out before her. Her lips curved into a slow, dangerous smirk. She was alive. And she was going to take everything back.