The ballroom windows exploded, and my husband threw himself over his mistress. Three floors above him, I was thirty-two weeks pregnant—and the guard outside our son’s nursery had just been ordered away.

The reconstructed Blackthorn Manor glowed like an icy diamond against the dark autumn night.

Polished white marble, towering floor-to-ceiling glass walls, and minimalist steel sculptures had replaced the warm mahogany and historic tapestries of the old estate. It was cold, arrogant, and devoid of soul—a perfect reflection of its new mistress, Simone Vey Cole.

Hundreds of black-tie guests filtered through the massive entrance, sipping six-hundred-dollar champagne while classical musicians played on a floating glass stage above the grand pool.

In the master suite on the top floor, Adrien Cole stood before a full-length mirror, adjusting his black bowtie.

At thirty-seven, he looked distinguished, though heavy gray lined his temples and his eyes held a permanent, haunted hollow that no amount of wealth could hide.

Simone walked up behind him, wearing a dazzling crimson dress, her hands sliding over his shoulders.

"You look like a Senator, my love," she whispered, kissing the side of his neck. "The polls show a fourteen-point lead the moment we officially drop the announcement tonight."

Adrien stared at his reflection, his expression grim. "Victor checked the perimeter security?"

"Twice," Simone said, her voice laced with subtle annoyance. "Adrien, it's been three years. Why do you still get like this every time we host an event here?"

"Because she died here, Simone," Adrien said harshly, turning around to face her. "My son died here."

Simone’s eyes hardened into thin slits of ice. "Mara is gone, Adrien. Her father’s trust rebuilt this company. Her legacy built your political career. Stop acting like a martyr and go down there to win that seat."

Downstairs, inside a blacked-out surveillance van parked half a mile down the private estate road, I watched the bedroom feed through a hacked internal camera.

"They're getting ready to go down," Marcus reported from the driver's seat. "Signal jammers are in place. The media broadcast line is secured."

I sat in the back of the van, wearing an exquisite midnight-blue velvet gown—the exact color of the dress I had worn three years ago. My ash-blonde hair was styled in an elegant, sharp bob, my face sculpted by subtle makeup that made me look strikingly familiar, yet eerily unrecognizable at first glance.

"Are the guests seated?" I asked.

"All five hundred," Marcus confirmed. "Including the State Attorney General, the Governor, and the Federal District Prosecutor."

I opened the silver velvet box, pulled out the sapphire earrings—the exact pair Simone had stolen from my suite three years ago, which Marcus’s team had quietly retrieved from her jeweler two days ago—and clipped them onto my ears.