Atlas Defense Technologies operated out of a fortress in the Virginia mountains that didn't exist on any map. I arrived at 0200. The guards saluted as my car passed through three layers of security—biometric, thermal, and a satellite-linked system I'd designed myself. "Colonel." General Morrison met me at the elevator. Silver-haired, battle-scarred, built like a tank. He'd been my mentor since I was nineteen—a prodigy recruited straight out of MIT into a black-ops engineering program. "What happened with Blackridge?" I asked, stripping off my anniversary dress in the elevator and pulling on the tactical gear someone had left for me. Morrison didn't blink. He'd seen me in worse states. "Someone leaked our satellite defense schematics to a foreign buyer. We've traced the breach to a contractor named Meridian Systems." I stopped. "Meridian Systems." "You know them?" "My husband's company." The words tasted like poison. "Ryan's been trying to land a defense contract for two years. He's been begging Atlas for a partnership—sending proposals to K. Moreau. He doesn't know K. Moreau is me." Morrison's expression hardened. "You think he stole from you?" "I think he's been using his access to my home network to scrape data." My mind raced. "I had encrypted files on my personal laptop. He always joked about my 'boring spreadsheets.' If he cracked the encryption—" "Then this isn't just corporate espionage. It's treason." Treason. My husband had committed treason. Against his own wife's company. For money. For power. For Natasha's expensive tastes. "There's more," Morrison said as we entered the command center—a vast room of screens and analysts and controlled chaos. "Meridian Systems is hosting a defense expo next week. They're presenting technology that looks remarkably similar to our Blackridge satellite system. If they demonstrate it publicly, they'll secure a twelve-billion-dollar government contract." "My technology. My contract." "Yes." Morrison pulled up a profile on the main screen. "And their new Chief Strategy Officer—recently appointed—is this woman." Natasha's face filled the screen. My best friend. My husband's mistress. Now working for his company. "She has no defense background," I said flatly. "No. But she has a top-secret clearance—obtained through her relationship with Ryan, who vouched for her." Morrison paused. "Colonel, I need to ask. Did you ever tell either of them about Atlas?" "Never." My voice was ice. "Ryan thinks I'm a housewife who dabbles in fashion design. Natasha thinks I'm a trust fund baby with no ambition." "Then how—" "Because I was careless." The admission burned. "I trusted them. I left my laptop unlocked. I took calls in the house thinking they couldn't hear. I underestimated them because I loved them." The room was silent. I turned to Morrison. "How long do we have before the expo?" "Eight days." "Then here's what we're going to do." I pulled up the tactical display. "We're not just going to stop the demonstration. We're going to attend it. And I'm going to show up as K. Moreau—publicly, for the first time in Atlas's history." "That means revealing your identity. To everyone." "Yes." I looked at Natasha's face on the screen. "Including my husband." Morrison studied me for a long moment. Then smiled—the grim, satisfied smile of a general who smelled victory. "What do you need?" "Everything." I sat down at the command console. "And get me a meeting with Dominic Ashford." Morrison's eyebrows rose. "Ashford? He's—" "The most dangerous defense contractor in Europe. I know. He also owns the convention center where the expo is being held." I cracked my knuckles. "And he owes me a favor."