Ashton's Betrayal, Her Unyielding Vengeance

Iris POV

The anonymous sedan sped through the night, leaving the burning ballroom and the wreckage of my life behind. My shoulder throbbed, a constant, dull ache, but the sting of Ashton' s betrayal was far more potent. He had shot me. He had left me for dead. And he had believed Elodie's lies without a second thought.

We reached the outskirts of the city, a remote industrial area. Colonel Hall pulled the car into a dilapidated warehouse, its windows boarded up, its facade blending seamlessly into the urban decay. Inside, it was surprisingly clean, sparsely furnished, but functional. A temporary haven.

He helped me out of the car, his movements gentle despite his gruff exterior. "Rest, child," he said, pushing me onto a cot. "I need to clean that wound properly."

As he worked, his hands steady and skilled, I stared at the ceiling. Exiled. Traitor. Nothing. Ashton's words echoed in my mind, each one a fresh stab.

Suddenly, the warehouse door rumbled open. My heart seized. Had they found us?

But it wasn't Ashton's men. It was a man in a crisp suit, his face unyielding but kind. He carried a briefcase. "Colonel Hall," he said, inclining his head. "The arrangements are made."

Colonel Hall nodded. "Thank you, Arthur. She's ready."

Arthur approached my cot, placing the briefcase beside me. "Grecia Munoz," he stated, his voice calm. "Born in Madrid, raised in London. Fluent in seven languages. A brilliant, ruthless venture capitalist." He opened the briefcase. Inside, nestled among stacks of foreign currency, were three passports, each bearing my face, but with different names. Grecia Munoz was the most prominent.

He then handed me a sleek, encrypted satellite phone. "Your new comms. Untraceable. Encrypted. For emergencies only."

I stared at the new identity, the new life, laid out before me. It felt surreal. Like a costume I was meant to wear.

My hand instinctively went to my old phone, tucked in my pocket. The one Ashton had been frantically calling days ago. I pulled it out. Hundreds of missed calls and messages. Not from him, not directly. From my old team, from other associates. They were looking for Iris Greer.

I scrolled through the contact list, my finger hovering over Ashton's name. Ashton Maxwell. The man who was once my world, now my executioner.

A bitter laugh escaped me. He had just shot me. He had cast me out. There was nothing left. No connection. No shared history that wasn't tainted by blood and betrayal.

With a grim resolve, I began to delete. My old contacts. My old photos. Every trace of the woman I used to be. Each tap of my finger felt like a severing, a cutting away of dead flesh. It was painful, but necessary.

Finally, I reached Ashton's contact. My finger hovered for a long moment. A decade of my life, summarized in a single name. A decade of loyalty, love, and ultimately, abject betrayal.

I took a deep breath. Delete.

The screen flashed. Gone. Erased. Just like Iris Greer.

An hour later, Colonel Hall and Arthur drove me to a private airfield. A small, sleek jet waited on the tarmac, its engines already humming.

"This is it, Iris," Colonel Hall said, his gaze meeting mine. "You ready for this?"

I looked at the jet, at the promise of a new life, a new identity. A new beginning forged in the fires of betrayal. My old phone, the one with Ashton's contact now erased, was still in my hand. I pulled out its SIM card, crushed it between my thumb and forefinger, then threw it into a drain. The phone itself, an empty shell, joined it.

"Ready," I replied, my voice hard, devoid of hesitation. "But it's not Iris Greer getting on that plane, Colonel. It's Grecia Munoz. And she has a score to settle."

He nodded, a grim smile on his lips. "She'll be formidable."

I climbed the steps to the jet, the wind whipping my hair around my face. I looked back one last time. The city lights twinkled in the distance, a glittering facade masking the darkness within. A darkness I had once been a part of. A darkness I would now dismantle.

Colonel Hall and Arthur stood on the tarmac, watching me go. My last ties to the ghost of Iris Greer.

As the jet taxied down the runway, I took out the silver locket. The Maxwell family crest. The one Ashton had used to bind me. I held it in my palm, its cold metal a stark contrast to the burning rage in my heart.

Then, with a decisive movement, I snapped it open. Inside, nestled against the metal, were two small, faded photographs. My parents. The only true loyalty I had ever known. And they would be my strength.

I looked at the photos, then at the locket, then out the window at the receding city. Iris Greer was dead. Grecia Munoz was born. And she was coming for everything he held dear.