The morning began with a strange, heavy quiet.
Samantha stood at the long marble counter of her penthouse kitchen, waiting for her coffee to finish brewing. She hadn't slept—her thoughts looping endlessly around Marcus, Lynn's whisper, and the shadows of her past.
A soft beep echoed from the entrance.
Her security team slid a small envelope across the table.
"No return address, Ms. Bradley. Delivered by hand. The cameras didn't catch a face."
That alone made Samantha's pulse tighten.
She dismissed the guard, then turned the envelope over carefully.
It was plain. Cream. Thin.
Too light.
Too intimate.
She opened it slowly.
Inside was a single photograph.
Her breath caught.
It was her.
But not Samantha Bradley.
Ally Miller.
Long brown waves. Soft smile. The woman who believed love could fix everything.
Behind the photo was a small white note.
Elegant handwriting.
Sharp strokes.
You don't know the whole truth.
Daniel Reed wasn't the one who ordered the hit.
