**Three days before their divorce, Dante Moretti thought his wife was being dramatic—until he woke up wearing her face.**

"That's a very thorough plan, Marcus," a voice cut through the quiet air of the living room.

Marcus blinked, startled, and spun around.

I stood up slowly from the piano bench, walking out from the shadows of the baby grand into the warm amber light of the chandelier.

Marcus stared at me—at the small, slender frame of Elena, draped in emerald silk, walking with absolute, unyielding posture.

"Elena, what are you—"

"I didn't say my name was Elena," I interrupted. My voice—Elena’s high, melodic voice—rang out with the cold, commanding cadence that had terrified competitors across boardrooms for a decade.

Marcus frowned, taking a step back. "What kind of sick game are you playing?"

Elena walked over to stand beside me, my massive, imposing body towering over Marcus with arms crossed over my chest.

"Look at the jacket, Marcus," Elena said, her voice deep, gravelly, and dripping with absolute authority—my voice. "Look at the shoulders. Look at the way I stand."

Marcus stared at Elena. He looked from her face down to her stance, and then back to me. A flicker of profound, irrational terror crossed his eyes.

"That's... that's impossible," Marcus stammered, shaking his head. "You're... you're both insane."

"I am Dante Moretti," I said, taking two steps forward until I was standing face-to-face with the man who had betrayed me. Though I was trapped in Elena’s small body, every ounce of my presence radiated pure, unadulterated executive fury. "And you just confessed to corporate embezzlement, extortion, and framing a sitting officer of this corporation on a recorded line."

Marcus’s face drained of all color. He lunged forward, his hand shooting out to grab the digital recorder resting on the coffee table.

Before his fingers could even touch the device, a heavy shadow detached itself from the hallway archway.

Leo, Dante’s primary head of security—a six-foot-four ex-marine who hadn't left his post in the building all week—stepped out of the shadows with the speed of a striking panther. He caught Marcus’s wrist mid-air, twisting it behind his back with a sharp, brutal snap that sent a cry of pain echoing through the penthouse.

Marcus hit his knees against the Persian rug, gasping for air as Leo pinned him securely to the floor.

"Good evening, Mr. Vance," Leo said smoothly, pulling a miniature flash drive from his pocket—the direct backup of the live audio stream piped straight to the corporate legal server. "Mr. Moretti’s instructions were very clear. We recorded every single word."

Marcus looked up at me, his eyes wide with sheer panic. "Dante... Dante, please! We've been partners for ten years! You can't—"

"You stole from my company," I said, looking down at him with cold detachment. "You tried to destroy my wife. And you proved to me in five minutes what I was too arrogant to see in seven years."