The Untouchable Widow's Ruthless Vengeance

Haden's hand rested on her stomach. He felt the hard muscle beneath the soft skin. There was no swell of pregnancy. No sign of a child.

The reality of what he was doing crashed over him. He looked down at her torn shirt, her red wrist, and the absolute fury in her eyes.

Disgust filled him. Not for her, but for himself. He had lost control. He had become the monster she always accused him of being.

He jerked his hand back like he had touched a live wire. He stumbled backward, falling off the bed.

"Shit," he muttered, running his hands through his hair. He backed up until he hit the wall. "Shit, shit, shit."

He couldn't look at her. He turned and ran out of the room. The front door of the apartment slammed shut a second later.

Ember lay on the bed for a long moment. She listened to the silence.

She sat up slowly. She pulled the torn edges of her blouse together, her fingers trembling slightly.

The vulnerability in her eyes vanished. It was replaced by something cold and calculating. The weakness was gone.

She reached into the hidden pocket sewn into the waistband of her skirt—a detail his rage had overlooked—and pulled out a black, unregistered satellite phone. It was military-grade, untraceable.

She dialed a number from memory. It rang once.

"Execute hunting protocol," she said, her voice deadpan. "Target is Tierney Shaw. Bring her to the yacht."

She hung up the phone and tucked it away.

Three days later.

The giant boardroom at Bancroft Group headquarters on Wall Street was packed. Every seat was filled with nervous directors.

Corbin Bancroft stood at the front of the room, pointing at the holographic projection on the screen. He was outlining the merger benefits, his face red with excitement.

Suddenly, a high-pitched alarm blared from the speakers. The lights on the secure server rack turned from green to flashing red.

The huge projection screen flickered. The charts and graphs vanished, replaced by a screen full of static snow.

Corbin slammed his fist on the podium. "What the hell is this? Fix it!"

The IT director ran to the console, sweat pouring down his face. "Sir, the system is locked! It's a Level 10 hack. We can't override it!"

The static on the screen cleared. The image switched to a bright, sunny view of the open ocean.

The camera panned slowly. The deck of a multi-million-dollar superyacht came into view.

In the center of the frame, Tierney Shaw was tied to a metal chair with thick rope. Her hair was a tangled mess. Her designer dress was soaked with seawater. She was screaming at the camera, her face twisted in terror.

The directors in the boardroom gasped. A few of them stood up, knocking their chairs over.

Corbin's face went white. His legs gave out, and he collapsed into his leather chair.

The sound of high heels clicking on wooden decking echoed from the speakers.

Ember walked into the frame. She wore a sleek black trench coat, the wind whipping it around her legs.

She looked directly into the camera. A small, chilling smile appeared on her face.

"Good morning, Wall Street," she said. "The live broadcast is now in session."

She held up a small device, showing the GPS coordinates on the screen. "We are currently two hundred nautical miles offshore. International waters."

Corbin fumbled for his phone. He tried to dial 911, but the screen was dead. "The signal is jammed!" he yelled, panic choking his voice. "The whole building is dark!"

The trap was sprung. Ember was ready to tear them apart.