The traitor wife. The stolen drive. The ticking bomb. Operatives of Titanis were raided across the country. Reagan was dismantling my father’s legacy with surgical precision.
But he didn’t know I wasn’t just surviving.
I was evolving.
Salvatore got me into a blacksite bunker in the Rockies. No names. No signals. No trackers.
Just ex-spies, elite mercs, a war table, and enough firepower to rewrite the narrative.
We started building my fake death.
Creating a ghost story.
Letting the world believe I was gone.
But I wasn’t gone. I was hunting.
And when I came back?
It wouldn’t be as Reagan’s wife.
It would be as his end.
Faking your death is an art. Not just smoke and mirrors. It’s blood. Fire. Teeth. The explosion rocked the safehouse at dawn. The flames devoured the walls, the air itself twisted from the heat.
Salvatore had everything ready. The dental remains, perfectly matching mine.
My blood, drawn weeks ago, splattered like a sacrifice.
Even the ring—my mother’s—left at the scene like a symbol. I watched from a nearby cliff, far from the chaos. The flames reflected in my eyes, but there were no tears.
I didn’t mourn the woman they thought I was.
She died the day Reagan decided I was disposable.