The Scar He Gave, The Queen I Became

The armored Range Rover idled in a graffiti-choked alleyway deep in Greenwich Village.

Cadence stepped out into the damp night air.

Ronan shadowed her as she pushed open a heavy, rusted iron door.

Inside the basement studio, deafening heavy metal music vibrated against the concrete walls.

Jett Marlowe, one of the most elusive and expensive underground tattoo artists in the city, sat under a harsh surgical light.

An unlit cigarette hung from his lips as he sterilized a tattoo machine.

He looked up, his eyes widening slightly before a familiar smirk spread across his face.

He reached over and killed the music.

"Look who finally decided to break out of the golden cage," Jett drawled, wiping his hands on a black towel.

Cadence didn't smile.

She slipped the black silk coat off her shoulders and turned her back to the blinding light.

The thick, raised keloid tissue sliced an ugly, jagged path from her left shoulder blade down to her waist.

Ronan, a man who had seen countless bullet wounds, sucked in a sharp breath.

Jett's smirk vanished instantly.

He pulled on a pair of black latex gloves and gently traced the edge of the scar.

"Who did this?" Jett's voice was tight, dangerous.

Cadence closed her eyes.

"The price of a stupid mistake," she said, her voice entirely detached. "Erase it."

She wanted a butterfly.

A massive, dark-winged butterfly breaking out of a cocoon, using Jett's signature blackout style to swallow the ugly red tissue.

Jett stared at her back, then turned to mix the ink.

"Covering scar tissue this deep, right over the spine and ribs... the pain is going to be ten times worse than normal skin," he warned.

Cadence lay face down on the black leather tattoo bed.

She turned her head to the side, a cold, feral smile touching her lips.

"Pain is exactly what I need right now."

The machine buzzed to life, a high-pitched mechanical whine.

The cluster of needles pierced her skin.

Black ink and tiny beads of blood bloomed over the ruined flesh.

A blinding spike of agony shot straight up Cadence's spine, radiating into her skull.

She bit down on the edge of the leather bed, her knuckles turning bone-white as she gripped the frame.

Cold sweat broke out across her forehead. She bit down violently on her lower lip until she tasted the sharp tang of copper, a choked, agonizingly muffled groan barely escaping her throat as her body fought the trauma.

With every drag of the needle, the memory of the freezing rain four years ago clawed at her brain.

The sensation of the rusted combat knife tearing through her muscles merged with the burning needles.

She remembered the heavy weights tied to her ankles.

She remembered Franklin screaming on the riverbank, and the image of him holding Isabelle tight while Cadence sank into the dark water.

Every drop of ink pushed into her skin felt like she was physically bleeding out the last remnants of her love for him.

Four agonizing hours later, the buzzing finally stopped.

Jett wiped away the excess ink and plasma with an antibacterial wipe, letting out a long exhale.

He rolled a full-length mirror over to the bed.

Cadence pushed herself up, her muscles trembling from the sustained trauma.

She turned her back to the glass.

The hideous scar was gone.

In its place rested a breathtaking, lethal-looking blue-black butterfly.

The raised scar tissue gave the wings a terrifying, three-dimensional texture, as if the venomous insect was about to take flight off her skin.

Cadence reached back, her fingertips brushing the raw, burning artwork.

The heavy fog in her eyes cleared, replaced by a wild, untamed freedom.

She slipped her coat back on and tossed a thick stack of unmarked hundred-dollar bills onto the metal tray.

"Do you want me to put the word out?" Jett asked as she walked toward the door. "Tell the underground you're back?"

Cadence paused.

She glanced over her shoulder, her profile sharp and deadly in the dim light.

"Keep it quiet," she murmured. "I have a game to play first."

Morning sunlight pierced the Manhattan smog as Cadence climbed back into the Rover.

"To the Chase manor," she ordered.

At that exact moment, high above the city in the Mueller Group headquarters, Franklin stood by his floor-to-ceiling window.

His eyes were bloodshot, his jaw tight with exhaustion.

He had spent the entire night tearing the city apart with his security network, finding absolutely nothing.

A timid knock sounded.

Hilary stepped into the office, her face pale, holding a thick manila envelope.

"Sir," Hilary stammered. "This just arrived via courier from Elena Rostova's firm. It's the formal petition for divorce."

Franklin spun around.

His eyes locked onto the gold-embossed logo of the law firm.

A muscle in his cheek twitched violently.

He snatched the papers from her hands, his eyes scanning the aggressive demands for immediate termination of the marriage.

His fist slammed down onto the mahogany desk, rattling the expensive pens in their holder.