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My husband Julian celebrated our five-year anniversary by sleeping with his mistress. He thought I was a clueless trophy wife, too dim to notice the vanilla and tuberose scent on his expensive suits. He was wrong. For years, I played Mrs. Vance, hiding my brilliance while Julian claimed my patents. An anonymous email confirmed his ultimate betrayal: photos of him and Scarlett Kensington in ecstasy. My heart didn't break; it solidified into ice at five years wasted. I activated "The Protocol" for a new identity and escape countdown. Playing the doting wife, I plotted his downfall, catching him with his mistress selling my work, and publicly snapping his credit card. His betrayals and stolen work ignited a cold, calculated fury. He had no idea the monster he'd created. I was dismantling his empire. I shredded his patent papers, stripping him of his ill-gotten gains. With a final tap, I initiated "Identity Erasure." Mrs. Vance was dead. Dr. Evelyn Thorne had just begun her counterattack.
Contents
Chapter 1 No.1
The silence in the penthouse was not peaceful. It was the kind of silence that had a texture, heavy and suffocating, like wool packed into the ears. Evelyn sat on the edge of the California King bed, her feet sinking into the plush cream carpet that cost more than her father's annual salary had ever been. She stared at the digital clock on the bedside table.
October 14th.
Five years. One thousand eight hundred and twenty-five days of playing the role of Mrs. Julian Vance. The trophy. The silent partner. The woman who smiled at galas and nodded when her husband explained simple concepts to her in front of investors, despite the fact that the concepts were based on patents she had written under a pseudonym.
She stood up, her silk robe rustling. The movement was mechanical. She walked to the kitchen, the marble floor cold against her bare soles. The espresso machine hissed, a violent sound in the quiet apartment. She prepared Julian's blend-seventy percent Arabica, thirty percent Robusta, ground specifically for twenty-two seconds. It was a ritual of devotion. Or at least, that was what it looked like from the outside.
She reached for the hollowed-out spine of The Joy of Cooking on the high shelf. Inside was not a recipe for roast chicken, but a burner phone with military-grade encryption.
A single notification light blinked. Blue.
She pressed her thumb against the scanner. The screen unlocked. There was an email from an anonymous sender. The subject line was simple: Happy Anniversary, Mrs. Vance.
Evelyn didn't tremble. Her heart rate, monitored by the bio-tracker disguised as a Cartier watch on her wrist, buzzed softly against her skin-a notification she habitually ignored these days. It read a steady sixty-two beats per minute. She tapped the attachment.
The photos loaded slowly, high-resolution files that left nothing to the imagination. The setting was the master bedroom of their Hamptons estate. The time stamp was yesterday afternoon, when Julian had claimed to be at a golf charity event.
Julian was there. He was on his back, his head thrown back in what looked like ecstasy. Straddling him was a woman with blonde hair that spilled over her shoulders like liquid gold. Scarlett Kensington.
Evelyn zoomed in. She looked at Julian's hand, gripping Scarlett's hip. She looked at the way his mouth was open. She felt a phantom pain in the center of her chest, a sharp, cold spike that had nothing to do with love and everything to do with the waste of time. Five years of hiding her brilliance so his ego wouldn't bruise. Five years of letting him take credit for her work.
She swiped out of the photo viewer and opened a different app. The icon was a simple black square. It was the recruitment portal for "The Protocol." The offer had been sitting there for six months. A ghost project. A chance to disappear and do the science she was born to do, unencumbered by the name Vance.
The button on the screen said INITIATE.
She didn't hesitate. She didn't think about the wedding vows or the way he used to look at her before the money started rolling in. She pressed the button.
Phase One: Extraction Preparation. Countdown: 168 Hours.
The clock had started. One week to untangle the web, secure her assets, and vanish into the ether. She forwarded the photos to a secure cloud vault, wiped the phone's local cache, and placed it back inside the cookbook just as the elevator dinged.
Julian walked in. He smelled of Santal 33 and the crisp October air. He looked perfect, in that polished, curated way that made magazines love him. He adjusted his cufflinks as he walked toward her, a smile plastered on his face that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Happy Anniversary, darling," he said.
He leaned in and kissed her cheek. Underneath the expensive cologne, she smelled it. The faint, cloying scent of vanilla and tuberose. Scarlett's perfume. It made bile rise in the back of her throat, but she swallowed it down.
"Happy Anniversary, Julian." Her voice was steady. It was the voice of Evelyn Miller, the supportive wife. Not Dr. Thorne, the architect of his destruction.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a long, black velvet box. He opened it to reveal a diamond necklace, a delicate chain holding a stone that was almost vulgar in its size.
"It's beautiful," she said, feigning a gasp.
"I have to run," he said, checking his watch. "Board meeting tonight. It's going to be a late one. Don't wait up."
He turned around, presenting his back to her so she could help him with his tie. It was crooked.
Evelyn reached out. She took the silk fabric in her hands. She looped it, pulling the knot tight. She slid it up to his collar. For a second, just one second, she pulled it too tight. She felt the resistance against his trachea.
Julian flinched, his hand flying to his neck. "Evelyn?"
She smoothed the silk down, stepping back with a soft, apologetic smile. "Sorry. My hands are a little shaky. Too much caffeine."
He looked at her, annoyance flickering in his eyes before he masked it with that practiced charm. "Be careful."
He grabbed his briefcase and headed for the elevator. The doors slid shut, cutting off his image like a guillotine blade.
Evelyn stood in the center of the kitchen. The smile dropped from her face instantly, leaving behind a mask of cold, hard rage. She picked up the diamond necklace from the counter. It sparkled in the morning light, a symbol of his guilt, a bribe for her continued blindness.
She walked over to the high-powered blender she used for her green smoothies. She dropped the necklace inside. The diamond hit the blades with a dull clink.
She didn't turn it on. Not yet. The noise would alert the staff. She just left it there. A promise.
She walked to the window and looked out at the New York skyline. The countdown in her mind ticked down. One hundred and sixty-seven hours remaining.
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