My husband satisfies me for my best friend on stage at our fifth anniversary party—announced she was his "true love" in front of three hundred guests—while I stood in the front row wearing the diamond necklace I'd bought with my own money, and the rejection letter from his fertility clinic burned in my purse, stamped with the words: *Patient: Kiera Voss. Status: Viable. Husband declined to proceed.* He'd canceled our embryo transfer. Without telling me. "Ladies and gentlemen." Ryan gripped the microphone, his Hollywood jaw catching the chandelier light. "I know tonight is supposed to celebrate five years of marriage. But I believe in honesty." Three hundred faces turned toward the stage. Senators. Tech moguls. Defense contractors. Everyone who mattered in D.C. "The truth is—I've found my soulmate." He extended his hand. "Natasha, come up here." Natasha. My best friend since college. My maid of honor. The woman I'd let live in our guest house for two years because she said she was "recovering from a bad breakup." She climbed the stairs in a red dress I recognized—because I'd designed it. It was from my private collection. The one I kept in the closet Ryan never opened because he said my "little fashion hobby" was embarrassing. "I know this is unconventional," Ryan continued, pulling Natasha against his side. "But love doesn't follow rules. Natasha and I are together. We have been for over a year." A year. Twelve months of lies. Of her eating breakfast at my table. Of him kissing me goodnight and then—what? Walking down the hall to her? The crowd murmured. Some looked horrified. Most looked fascinated. This was better than any political scandal—a live betrayal, served with champagne. "Kiera and I will divorce amicably," Ryan said, like he was announcing a merger. "I'll make sure she's taken care of. She's a good woman. She just... wasn't enough." Wasn't enough. The words hit me like bullets, one at a time. Natasha leaned into the mic. "I just want to say—Kiera, I hope we can still be friends. I never meant to hurt you." She smiled at me. That perfect, practiced smile. And I saw it—the same smile she'd given me when she borrowed my car and returned it with the mileage reset. When she'd asked to "borrow" my jewelry and never gave it back. When she'd cried on my shoulder about being lonely while she was fucking my husband in the next room. The room waited for my reaction. I didn't scream. Didn't cry. Didn't throw my champagne in his face. I set down my glass. Smoothed my dress. Walked toward the exit. "Kiera, wait—" Ryan called. "Don't make a scene." I paused at the door. Turned. "You said I wasn't enough." My voice carried across the silent ballroom. "Remember that, Ryan. Remember you said that." His face flickered—confusion, then dismissal. I walked out. In the parking lot, my phone buzzed. A message from a number I hadn't used in three years. A number from my other life—the one Ryan knew nothing about. *Colonel Voss. Operation Blackridge is compromised. Atlas Defense needs you back. Immediately. —General Morrison* I stared at the screen. The world knew me as Kiera Voss—quiet, obedient trophy wife. Nobody knew I was also K. Moreau—founder and sole owner of Atlas Defense Technologies, the most valuable private military contractor on Earth. Worth sixty-eight billion dollars. And my husband had just declared war on me at a party full of people who'd been begging for my contracts. I dialed Morrison back. "General. I'm coming in."