A week before my wedding, my fiancé paid a man to destr0y my face with ac:id so he could secretly marry another woman. While pretending to remain unconscious in the hospital, I heard him say, “If she’s left scarred, even better.” I didn’t scream. I waited until he left and asked for one thing… because I had just discovered that the attack wasn’t his worst betrayal.

At 10:45 p.m., the rain over Indianapolis had turned into a steady, freezing downpour.

Inside Hangar 4 at the general aviation terminal of Indianapolis International Airport, the air was cold and smelled of aviation fuel and wet concrete. A sleek, white Cessna Citation double-engine turboprop sat near the open bay doors, its engine idling with a low, vibrating hum that echoed off the corrugated metal walls.

Gabriel Vance stood near the wheel well of the aircraft, clutching a heavy black leather gym bag against his chest. Sweat was pouring down his neck, soaking the collar of his custom Italian shirt. Every shadow flickering against the wall looked like a cop or a hitman.

Footsteps echoed from the darkness near the side entrance.

A tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a dark grease-stained canvas jacket and a low-profile cap stepped into the yellow light of the overhead sodium lamps. His skin was pockmarked, his right eyebrow split by an old scar. Marcus Vance.

"You're late, suit," Marcus grunted, his voice rough as gravel. He didn't look at Gabriel's face; his eyes went straight to the gym bag.

"Traffic was bad," Gabriel lied, his voice trembling despite his best efforts to appear calm. Inside his jacket pocket, his burner phone was active, its high-definition microphone capturing every sound. "The rain."

Marcus sneered, stepping closer. "Where's the rest of it? Twenty-five grand in cash. Non-sequential hundreds."

Gabriel slowly unzipped the bag, revealing the neatly stacked bands of hundred-dollar bills. "It's all here. Twenty-five thousand."

Marcus reached out to grab the handles, but Gabriel pulled the bag back an inch.

"Hold on," Gabriel said, trying to mimic the cold authority he had heard in Genevieve's voice hours earlier. "Christian wants confirmation."

Marcus stopped, his small, dark eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. "Confirmation of what? The bitch is in the hospital with half her face melted off. I did the job. Give me the bag."

"He wants you to state clearly that the contract is complete," Gabriel said, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. "He needs to know there are no loose ends. He needs to know you used the exact chemical he supplied."

Marcus chuckled—a wet, disgusting sound that made Gabriel's stomach turn. "Tell your pretty-boy boss that sulfuric acid from an industrial battery supplier does the trick every time. She took the full pint right to the right cheek. She won't be looking in any mirrors for the rest of her life."

"And the deal was fifty thousand total?" Gabriel pressed, taking a slight step backward to ensure the microphone caught the audio clearly. "Paid by Christian Prescott personally?"

Marcus stepped forward aggressively, snatching the bag from Gabriel's hands with sudden, terrifying force. "You're asking a lot of questions for a guy who delivered money late, suit. Christian paid thirty grand up front and twenty-five now. That's fifty-five total. Five extra for keeping my mouth shut about his little mistress in Florida."

Marcus unzipped the bag, quickly flicking through the stacks of green bills with a thick, calloused thumb. Satisfied, he zipped it back up and swung it over his shoulder.

"Tell Christian it was a pleasure doing business," Marcus smirked, turning toward the stairs of the Cessna. "If he ever gets tired of the mistress, he knows where to find me."

"He won't need to find you, Mr. Vance," a new voice echoed from the shadows of the hangar.

Marcus froze, his hand hovering over the metal railing of the plane's stairs. His hand dropped instantly toward his waistband, reaching for a concealed firearm.

CLICK.

A red laser dot appeared precisely over the center of Marcus Vance's forehead.

Two seconds later, three tall men dressed in unbadged tactical black gear stepped out from behind the fuel tanks. They moved with absolute silence, their suppressed submachine guns trained directly on Marcus's chest and head.

"Hands where we can see them," the lead operative said. His voice was completely devoid of emotion—the voice of a professional who handled high-risk extractions for a living. "Drop the bag. Step away from the stairs."

Marcus stared at the red dot on his forehead, his breath hitching in his throat. He was a hardened criminal, but he knew military-grade operatives when he saw them. These weren't local cops reading rights; these were ghosts.

Slowly, carefully, Marcus raised his hands into the air, letting the leather gym bag drop onto the wet concrete with a dull thud. "Who the fuck are you guys? DEA?"

The lead operative didn't answer. He signaled to his second-in-command, who stepped forward, efficiently disarmed Marcus, pulled his arms behind his back, and secured his wrists with heavy-duty zip-ties. A black cloth hood was tossed over Marcus's head before he could utter another word.

Gabriel stood frozen against the plane's wheel well, his jaw slack, his hands raised in terror. "Wait! Don't shoot! I'm Gabriel! I'm on Genevieve's side! I recorded it!"

The lead operative walked over to Gabriel. He didn't draw a weapon on him. Instead, he reached into his tactical vest, pulled out a encrypted satellite phone, and pressed speaker.

Elias Vance's voice filled the space between them.

"Gabriel?"

"Elias?!" Gabriel gasped, collapsing against the metal fuselage of the plane. "Jesus Christ, you actually sent a strike team?!"

"My operatives have taken custody of Marcus Vance, the cash, and the plane," Elias said calmly. "Did you secure the recording?"

"Yes! Yes!" Gabriel stammered, pulling the burner phone from his jacket pocket with trembling fingers and handing it to the lead operative. "It's all on here. He admitted to the acid, the payment, Christian's name, and the mistress!"

"Good work, Gabriel," Elias said. "You just bought yourself a ticket out of a federal indictment. Now, listen carefully to your instructions for tomorrow morning."

"Anything," Gabriel said, wiping cold sweat from his eyes. "Whatever you want."

"Tomorrow at 9:00 a.m., Christian is holding a live televised press conference from his mansion in Carmel," Elias instructed. "He is going to announce the temporary suspension of his national tour and launch a 'Foundation for Acid Attack Victims' in Genevieve's name. You will stand beside him. You will look sad. You will confirm every lie he tells the press."

Gabriel blinked, confused. "Wait... you want me to keep helping him lie?"

"We are letting him dig his own grave, Gabriel," Elias explained, his voice smooth and terrifyingly confident. "The higher he builds his pedestal of grief and martyrdom over the next six days, the violent his crash will be when we pull the rug out from under him on his wedding day in Key West."

"His wedding day..." Gabriel whispered. "Next Tuesday."

"Next Tuesday," Elias confirmed. "Genevieve is currently being transferred to a private surgical facility in Chicago under heavy security. As far as Christian, the media, and the rest of the world are concerned, Genevieve Vance is a broken, disfigured woman lying in a semi-coma in a private ward."