My husband humiliated me in front of our entire family and thought he had destroyed me, but he had no idea what I’d set in motion for exactly 2:00 PM.

The boathouse was a slaughterhouse of smoke, spent brass, and cold wind.

Two of Marcus’s mercenaries lay motionless on the shattered floorboards. David was pinned behind the overturned oak workbench, blood soaking through the left shoulder of his tactical jacket, his ammunition dwindling as a steady stream of automatic fire chewed away the heavy wood protecting him.

Marcus Vance stood in the open doorway, framed by the blinding spotlight of an offshore tactical cutter anchored two hundred yards off the rocks. He held an assault rifle loosely in one hand, a smirk of cold triumph carved into his aristocratic face.

"Give me the drive, Callahan," Marcus called out over the wind. "Julian was an idiot. He thought public humiliation and petty domestic cruelty were enough to break Clara. He never understood the scale of what our father built. With that drive, I absorb the offshore accounts, the state senators on our payroll, and the entire maritime corridor. You give me the drive, and I let the girl live a quiet life in exile."

"You're going to die on this beach, Marcus," David’s voice came from behind the bench, raspy, strained by the loss of blood. "The Coast Guard has the perimeter locked down. You have five minutes before the Blackhawks drop out of the clouds."

"The Coast Guard commander in this sector belongs to me, you fool," Marcus sneered, taking two slow steps forward, raising his rifle to align with the edge of the workbench. "Goodbye, Callahan."

*Crack.*

The shot didn't come from behind the bench.

It came from the dark rafters above the wet slip hatch.

Marcus staggered sideways, a high-caliber bullet tearing through his right shoulder, spinning him around as his rifle clattered against the stones. He screamed in rage and shock, clutching his shattered collarbone, his eyes darting frantically toward the shadows.

Clara stepped out of the darkness, her hands locked in a two-handed combat grip, the Glock smoking in the frigid air. Her eyes were wide, dilated with pure adrenaline, but her arms were steady as iron.

"You underestimated the wrong Vance, Marcus," Clara said.

Marcus snarled, his hand reaching for the sidearm holstered at his hip. "You miserable little—"

Clara fired again.

The round struck him in the right kneecap. Marcus collapsed onto the wet floorboards with an agonizing shriek, writhing in the pool of oil and seawater.

David lunged from behind the workbench, despite the blood pouring down his arm, and kicked Marcus’s sidearm across the room, driving his combat boot down onto Marcus’s uninjured shoulder, pinning the billionaire to the floor.

"Clara..." David breathed, his face pale, staring at her in shock. "I told you to run."

"I don't run from bullies," Clara said, her weapon still trained on Marcus’s forehead. "Not Julian. And certainly not his dead brother."

Marcus looked up at her, blood bubbling at the corner of his lips, but he began to laugh—a sickening, gurgling sound that echoed against the wooden rafters.