She attacked the curvy nanny in front of everyone, then the mafia boss walked in and called her his wife

Forty-eight hours later.

The high-rise offices of Whitmore & Associates occupied the thirty-fourth floor of a glass-and-steel tower on Park Avenue.

It was 4:00 p.m. on a rainy Thursday afternoon.

Gregory Whitmore sat behind his massive Italian glass desk, sipping a glass of twenty-year-old single malt scotch. He was adjusting his silk necktie in the reflection of his computer screen, feeling a deep, intoxicating surge of triumph.

In less than an hour, Vanessa Thorne was scheduled to deliver the encrypted Castellano logistics files to his private server. Once the transfer was complete, Gregory’s media contacts would publish the leaked documents, tying the illegal offshore accounts directly to Nora Bennett’s newly created personal trust account.

By sunrise tomorrow, his ex-wife would be arrested by federal agents. Luca Castellano’s reputation would be dragged through the mud. And Gregory would walk away with a three-million-dollar buyout from Meridian Capital that would save his firm from bankruptcy.

He smiled, raising his glass toward the rainy Manhattan skyline.

“You should have stayed in your place, Nora,” Gregory muttered to the empty room. “You always were too stupid to play with the big boys.”

Suddenly, the frosted glass doors of his private office burst open.

Gregory’s administrative assistant backed into the room, her hands raised in sheer panic. “Mr. Whitmore! I tried to stop them! They didn't have an appointment—”

“Get out,” a deep, commanding voice ordered from the hallway.

Four men in dark, perfectly tailored suits stepped into the office, taking positions along the perimeter walls. They moved with the cold, synchronized efficiency of high-level security professionals.

And then Nora Bennett walked through the door.

Gregory’s glass of scotch froze halfway to his lips.

Nora looked nothing like the exhausted, broken woman who had signed divorce papers six weeks ago.

She wore a breathtaking burgundy silk suit that hugged every single one of her lush, stunning curves. Her dark hair was styled in soft, glamorous waves over her shoulders. A pair of brilliant sapphire earrings—the matching pieces to the broken bracelet—gleamed against her neck. She walked into the room with an absolute, undeniable air of elegance, power, and complete supreme authority.

And behind her walked Luca Castellano.

Luca was terrifying. He wore a dark grey pinstripe suit that emphasized his massive shoulders, his hand resting casually inside his jacket pocket. His dark eyes locked onto Gregory with a predatory intensity that instantly turned the warm air in the office to liquid ice.

Gregory swallowed hard, his hands trembling so violently that a splash of scotch spilled onto his glass desk.

“Nora?” Gregory gasped, trying to force his usual arrogant sneer onto his face. “What... what is the meaning of this? You can't just barge into my private firm with armed thugs!”

Nora walked slowly toward his desk, the heels of her designer pumps clicking authoritatively against the hardwood floor. She stopped right in front of him, resting her hands—one still neatly bandaged with white silk—on the edge of his glass desk.

“Hello, Gregory,” Nora said smoothly. Her voice was calm, pleasant, and completely devoid of fear. “You look nervous.”

“I’m not nervous!” Gregory snapped, standing up quickly, though his knees wobbled slightly beneath his trousers. “You’re trespassing! I’m calling building security!”

“Building security has been replaced for the afternoon,” Luca said softly from behind Nora. He walked over to the leather armchair, sat down, and crossed his long legs, watching Gregory like a cat watching a cornered mouse. “Please, Whitmore. Call them. We’d love the company.”

Gregory’s face turned white. “What do you want?”

Nora reached into her leather handbag, pulled out a thin silver flash drive, and tossed it onto the center of his glass desk.

It slid smoothly across the glass, stopping right beside his tumbler of scotch.