My husband’s ex spent millions on a luxury beach club party, forced me to expose the scar across my ribs, and called me cheap trash in front of hundreds of guests. She thought she’d won—until I recognized a symbol on her security guard’s wrist, sent a silent emergency signal, and realized the humiliation she planned for me was about to become the least important thing happening that night.

The private jet climbed steadily into the night sky, leaving the Mediterranean coastline far behind as it charted a direct course back to Chicago.

The cabin was quiet, bathed in the soft, amber glow of recessed reading lights. Below us, the Atlantic Ocean stretched out like a vast, ink-black blanket flecked with the distant lights of cargo ships crawling through the dark.

I sat by the window, a cup of warm chamomile tea resting between my hands, watching the cloud formations drift past the wing.

Mark walked out of the private stateroom at the front of the plane, carrying a thick manila folder stamped with red federal clearance seals. He sat down on the cream leather sofa across from me, placing the folder on the polished mahogany table between us.

“What’s that?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“The final briefing from the federal liaison,” Mark said, leaning back and resting his arms along the sofa. “Viktor’s network has been completely dismantled across three continents. The encryption keys you recovered three years ago gave the coalition everything they needed to shut down their financial lifelines.”

I looked down at the folder, feeling a strange, hollow sense of closure wash over me. For years, that network had been a phantom chasing me through alleyways, safehouses, and cheap motels. Now, it was just ink on paper in a federal archive.

“It’s really over, isn't it?” I murmured.

“It’s really over,” Mark confirmed softly. He reached across the table, taking my hands in his, his fingers warm and steady. “No more hiding, El. No more looking over your shoulder. From this moment on, you aren't running from Elizabeth, and you aren't pretending to be anyone else. You are simply you.”

A genuine smile touched my lips—the first completely unburdened smile I had worn in years.

“Elizabeth,” I tested the name out loud, letting the syllables roll off my tongue without the cold spike of fear that used to accompany them. It felt good. It felt real.

“Elizabeth Vitali,” Mark added with a warm, teasing grin, squeezing my hands. “I think it has a wonderful ring to it.”

“Don't get ahead of yourself, Mr. Vitali,” I chuckled, shaking my head. “We haven't even had a proper wedding yet. The beach club party was a bit of a scheduling disaster.”

“Consider that null and void,” Mark laughed, leaning forward to press his lips gently against mine. “Next time, we’re doing it on a private island with zero ex-wives, zero tactical teams, and absolutely no dress codes involving sarongs.”