The Ghost Heiress: My Dangerous Double Life

Midnight. The Vance estate was a tomb of silence.

Serena moved through the darkness of her room. She had shed the white dress. She pulled on a black tactical bodysuit, the fabric whispering against her skin.

She sat on the edge of the bed and slid a micro-decoder into the sole of her left boot. A grapple line went into the right.

Her phone buzzed again. She opened the encrypted file. The primary target was on the screen: a Russian arms dealer. Below it was a secondary, passive file marked 'Engagement Protocol.' She tapped it. A man's face appeared-sharp jaw, gray eyes, a faint scar bisecting his left eyebrow. Julian Sterling. CEO, Sterling Industries. She committed the face to memory, a cold knot tightening in her stomach. Two missions, one night. Complicated.

She slipped out onto the balcony. The camera swept left. Serena vaulted over the railing, dropping fifteen feet to the garden lawn, absorbing the impact in a silent roll.

Jax was waiting at the service gate in a gray sedan that looked like nothing and had an engine that cost more than the house.

He handed her a mask. Half-face, silver filigree. "VIP access."

Manhattan. The skyline was a jagged jaw of light eating into the dark sky.

High above the streets, in the penthouse office of Sterling Tower, Julian Sterling loosened his tie. He stared out at the city, his reflection ghostly in the glass.

The phone on his desk buzzed. Grandmother.

He answered. "Margaret."

"The engagement," her voice was steel wrapped in velvet. "Harrison Vance found the girl. You will honor the contract."

Julian's grip on the phone tightened until his knuckles turned white. "I'm not marrying some trailer trash charity case just to merge our shipping lanes."

"Then say goodbye to the Asian sector assets," Margaret said. Click.

Julian threw the phone onto the desk. He rubbed his temples.

Preston, his assistant, knocked and entered. "Sir. The hacker signal. We tracked it. It's pinging at Club Onyx."

Julian stood up. His eyes, usually cold, lit up with the thrill of the hunt. "Let's go."

Club Onyx was a assault on the senses. The bass thumped in Serena's chest, a physical rhythm that matched her heartbeat. The air smelled of sweat, expensive perfume, and dry ice.

She slipped through the kitchen entrance, the silver mask obscuring her upper face. A wig of long, platinum blonde hair cascaded down her back.

She scanned the VIP balcony. Target identified. A Russian arms dealer, sloppy, drunk, a blonde on each arm. The drive was in his breast pocket. She could see the outline.

Julian entered through the front. The manager scrambled to clear a path. Julian didn't sit. He stood in the shadows of a corner booth, his eyes scanning the floor, looking for anomalies.

He saw her.

The woman in the silver mask. She didn't walk like a club girl. She walked with a center of gravity that was too controlled. She moved through the crowd like water.

Serena approached the VIP stairs. A bouncer stepped in her way. She leaned in, whispering a phrase in rapid-fire Russian. The bouncer blanched and stepped aside.

Julian frowned. Interesting.

Serena entered the booth. She held a tray of champagne. She stumbled-a calculated trip. The champagne flute tipped, soaking the Russian's shirt.

"Oh! I am so sorry!" she cried out.

While he cursed and swiped at the wet fabric, her hand moved. It was a blur. Two fingers dipped into his pocket and retracted.

She was backing out of the booth before he even stopped swearing.

Three seconds later, a roar erupted from the booth. "MY POCKET!"

Serena was at the railing of the balcony. Below her, the dance floor was a sea of bodies. Behind her, the stairs were filling with angry security guards.

She looked down. Julian Sterling was standing there, looking up. His gaze locked onto hers.

She had nowhere to go but down.