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.

The water beyond the estate’s private wooden pier erupted into white foam.

Three massive, sixty-foot black Midnight Express tactical speedboats cut through the waves at forty knots, their triple 450-horsepower outboard engines roaring like angry beasts. They turned sharply in unison, spraying fifty-foot plumes of sea water into the air before slamming into the docks alongside the estate's private beach.

"What the hell is that?!" Christian yelled, breaking formation from the altar, his face contorting in sudden anger as he stepped toward the lawn's edge. "Security! Where the fuck is security?!"

Before the estate's private guards could even move from their posts near the palm trees, two dark matte-black Sikorsky S-76 helicopters rose over the tree line behind the mansion. The downwash from their massive rotor blades hit the wedding lawn like a localized hurricane.

The white canvas canopy tore from its metal frames and went flying across the grass. The white silk ribbons ripped away from the chairs. The floral orchid arch shuddered and collapsed into a heap of crushed white petals. Guests screamed, clutching their formal dresses and hats as dust, sand, and leaves whirled through the air in a blinding storm.

"Turn those engines off!" Christian screamed into the wind, shielding his eyes with his arm, his pristine white tuxedo rapidly becoming covered in fine white sand. "This is private property!"

The two helicopters touched down simultaneously on the manicured lawn, their landing gear crushing the manicured grass.

The side doors of the lead helicopter slid open instantly.

Four heavily armed officers wearing navy bulletproof vests emblazoned with FBI in bright yellow letters leaped out onto the grass, their weapons held at low ready. Following them stepped three agents from the Internal Revenue Service Criminal Investigation Division, carrying thick leather accordion files.

Christian went completely pale. His heart hammered against his ribs. "FBI?! What is the meaning of this?! I am Christian Prescott! I am a private citizen!"

The lead FBI agent, a tall, grey-haired man with an iron jaw, stepped forward, unholstering a rolled federal warrant from his jacket.

"Christian Prescott?" the agent announced, his voice amplified through a bullhorn over the dying roar of the helicopter blades. "We are executing federal arrest warrants issued by the United States District Court for the Southern District of Indiana."

Sabrina screamed, clutching her four-year-old son against her white lace dress. "Christian! What's happening?!"

"There's been a mistake!" Christian yelled, stepping in front of Sabrina, trying desperately to project his usual charismatic authority. "Agent, whatever PR misunderstanding this is, my lawyers can—"

"It's no misunderstanding, Mr. Prescott," a voice called out.

The side door of the second helicopter opened slowly.

A tall man in a dark charcoal suit stepped out first—Elias Vance. He turned and extended a hand toward the interior of the cabin.

A woman stepped out.

She wore a breathtaking, tailored suit of solid, midnight-black silk. Her shoulders were set back, her head held high with the regal grace of a queen visiting a conquered territory. Her long dark hair flowed over her shoulders, catching the Caribbean wind.

And across the right side of her face—from the high crest of her cheekbone down to the edge of her jawline—lay a thick, dark red, jagged scar.

The air left Christian's lungs in a violent, wheezing gasp.

His eyes bulged out of his head. His knees buckled slightly, catching himself on the edge of a wooden chair. His face drained so thoroughly of blood he looked like a corpse standing under the tropical sun.

"Gen... Genevieve...?" Christian choked out, his voice cracking into a high-pitched, terrified whisper. "No... no... you're... you're in a coma... you're in Columbus..."

I walked across the ruined, sand-covered grass. My heels clicked with absolute, deliberate rhythm against the wooden walkway path.

I didn't stop until I was standing six feet away from him.

I looked at his pristine white tuxedo, now stained with gray soot and sand. I looked at Sabrina, who was staring at my scarred face in absolute, paralyzed horror. I looked at little Leo, who was crying into his mother's skirt.