Chapter 9: The Taste of Ashes

The champagne flute felt like ice between my fingers, a fragile weapon I hadn't yet decided to use. Across the ballroom, Marcus held court with his investors, that practiced smile of his never faltering. Nineteen days. The number pulsed in my skull like a second heartbeat.

"Darling, you look like you're plotting murder."

I turned to find Elena Ashford, Marcus's sister, gliding toward me with predatory grace. In my past life, I'd been terrified of her—of her sharp tongue and sharper eyes that saw straight through my insecurities. But Elena had watched me drown in Marcus's manipulations without throwing a single rope. She'd even handed him the knife on occasion.

"Just contemplating the canapés," I said, letting my gaze drift back to Marcus. "Some things look delicious but leave a terrible aftertaste."

Elena laughed, a brittle sound that drew glances from nearby guests. "You've changed, Isabella. I almost didn't recognize you when Marcus introduced you. You used to be so... soft."

Soft. That's what they called me. Soft, weak, pliable. A doormat with a trust fund, conveniently widowed and desperate for love. Marcus had seen me coming from a mile away.

"People evolve," I replied, sipping my champagne. The bubbles burned pleasantly. "Or they die."

Something flickered in Elena's eyes—curiosity, perhaps, or the first whisper of suspicion. But before she could probe further, Marcus appeared at my side, his hand sliding possessively around my waist. I fought the urge to flinch. His touch was familiar in all the wrong ways, a prelude to betrayal in a past life I was still bleeding from.

"Ladies," he said, all charm and polished teeth. "Elena, you remember Isabella's late husband's estate is still undergoing probate? We've been discussing how to consolidate the assets."

Assets. Not my inheritance. Not my future. Assets. As if my entire existence had been reduced to a line item on his acquisition spreadsheet.

"Actually, Marcus," I said, pressing my palm against his chest—I could feel his heartbeat, steady and confident, unaware of the guillotine hovering above his neck, "I've been meaning to discuss that with your lawyer. I'm considering a more diversified approach."

His smile tightened almost imperceptibly. "There's no need to trouble yourself with the details, sweetheart. That's what you have me for."

Oh, how I'd loved when he said things like that. How I'd leaned into his strength, let him handle everything, signed whatever he'd put in front of me with blind devotion. Even the document that transferred ownership of my deceased husband's company to his holdings. Even the prenuptial agreement that left me with absolutely nothing.

"Maybe I want to be troubled," I countered, tilting my head to meet his gaze. The amber lighting caught the edges of my smile. "Nineteen days until the wedding. I should at least know what I'm bringing to the table."

Marcus's eyes narrowed. He was calculating, always calculating, trying to figure out if I was still the naive widow he'd snared or if something had shifted in the balance between us. He didn't know about the diary I'd found in the walls of his study. He didn't know I'd seen the messages exchanged between him and my late husband's mistress. He didn't know that I knew about the offshore accounts, the shell companies, the plan to bleed my inheritance dry before disposing of me the same way he'd disposed of—

"Let's dance," I said abruptly, setting my glass on a passing tray. "I want to remember this night forever."

Marcus blinked at the sudden shift, but his ego won out. He believed I was still besotted, still pliable, still his. He led me to the dance floor, hand burning through the silk of my gown.

We swayed to a waltz I didn't recognize, but it didn't matter. All that mattered was the hard weight of his phone in my clutch purse—lifted with a trained pickpocket's precision as I'd pressed myself against him, claiming I wanted to be closer.

"You're different tonight," he murmured against my hair. "In a good way. More confident."

I thought of the phone's encrypted files I'd already transferred to my burner device. I thought of the evidence buried in those messages that would connect him not only to fraud but to far worse. I thought of the way he'd smiled at my funeral in my past life—I'd seen it in that moment between death and rebirth, that cruel satisfaction on his face as my casket lowered into the earth.

"I've found myself," I whispered back. "Doesn't that frighten you?"

His laugh was a shadow of its usual warmth. "Why would I be frightened of the woman I love?"

Love. He said the word like it meant nothing—just another tool in his arsenal. Just another lie to add to the mountain of them he'd told me.

The music swelled, and I felt the phone vibrate against my clutch. A message. From the one person Marcus never expected to betray him. Elena—who had seen me switch his phone during our dance and had chosen to say nothing.

One domino down. Eighteen days, if I was feeling generous. Far less, if I played my cards right.

"Marcus," I said softly as the song faded, "what would you do if you found out I knew everything? Every secret you've buried. Every person you've burned to keep your empire standing."

His hand tightened on my waist. For a heartbeat, I saw the real man underneath the mask—the predator who had destroyed me once already.

"I'd make sure you had an accident," he said, his smile never wavering. "A tragic one. The kind people mourn at funerals."

The music stopped. Around us, couples applauded. I stepped back, smoothing the front of my gown, letting the silence hang between us like a challenge.

"Good," I said, a smile sharp enough to draw blood curling across my lips. "Then we understand each other perfectly."

His phone buzzed again in my clutch—screenshots I hadn't yet viewed, encrypted files Elena had risked everything to send. Eighteen days remained, but the clock was no longer ticking in his favor.

The woman in red turned and walked away, leaving Marcus frozen on the dance floor with the first cracks spider-webbing beneath his feet. He watched her go, unaware that the trap was already sprung, unaware that in the private booth overlooking the ballroom, a woman with eyes like winter was typing a single message to his most dangerous enemy.

*She knows. Finish her before she finishes you.*

And in the parking garage below, I slid into my car, opened Elena's transmission, and felt the world shift beneath me. The files weren't about fraud. They weren't about embezzlement. They were about the night my husband died—and the man who had been lurking in the shadows, the man who was not Marcus, the man I had never seen before.

But Elena had.

And now I knew where to find him.