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Sofria Kirk Samantha Kline Stella Keen Sabrina Kittridge

One month later…

London, England

I was born in a grave.

The extravagant Savoy Hotel suite was well-suited for the spoiled aristocrat Sabrina Kittridge.

Decorated in gold and white, the inviting living space was furnished with an ivory linen couch and marble coffee table opposite an ornate fireplace.

The air was scented with lilies. An expansive bed fitted with Egyptian cotton sheets and a Siberian goose-down duvet overlooked the Thames.

As she kicked off her stilettos and pulled the hairpins from her elegant bun, Stella Keen pondered those first dark words she had written in the journal Theo Stritch had given her as a teenager.

Stella nearly laughed at her inadvertent foresight.

She had been referring to her past when she wrote them, but as she released the thigh holster and unbuckled the strap sheathing the hidden blade, Stella knew she was not long for this world.

One wrong word, one misstep, and she was dead, and there was no one to save her.

Stella Keen did not exist. She was, as Theo had once explained in no uncertain terms, expendable.

Die now or die later.

Following her usual ritual, Stella crossed the bedroom of yet another forgettable hotel room. Where was she? Budapest? Buenos Aires? Khartoum? Oh, yes, London. Theo had shortened the timeline, and with only four weeks of prep time, Sabrina Kittridge had arrived.

In the bathroom, she stood in front of the mirror to reboot.

Her face was always the same to her. Stella could change her eye color with contacts.

She could alter the contours of her face with makeup.

At the end of the day, she always saw the same girl in the reflection.

Stella was beautiful; she knew that. With glowing brown skin, light-gray eyes, and full lips, she turned heads without a stitch of makeup.

In Stella’s mind, her appearance did nothing to hide the ugliness beneath.

She had only ever known rejection and isolation.

In these rare, weak moments, she acknowledged it was impossible to love herself when no one else did.

No matter the disguise, inside Stella was always the same: isolated, abandoned, rejected.

Stella Keen’s mother was Pakistani, and her father was the American son of Cuban immigrants. Stella could pass for any nationality, from Nepalese to Nicaraguan.

Sofria Kirk was half Indian, half German.

Sara Kazmi was Kuwaiti.

Sunshine Kemper was Seminole Indian.

And so on and so on and so on.

Stella stared into the mirror and followed her routine.

Inhale, exhale five times. Count to twenty-five by fives and back down to zero.

She returned to the bedroom, hauled her carry-on onto the bed, and opened it.

She didn’t check in with Theo. She was a fatalist—fatal being the operative part of the word.

Theo had taken a vulnerable, hate-filled girl and turned her into a weapon of war. With one swipe of his hand, he had saved her and condemned her.

She picked up the room phone and dialed out.

“Hello?” her target answered.

“Professor Barnett, It’s so good to hear a friendly voice,” Stella replied in a well-bred British accent.

“Lady Kittridge, you’ve arrived. Wonderful.”

“Please, call me Sabrina. Lady Kittridge sounds like an old dowager scaring off children with her cane.”

“Then you must call me Arvin. Are we still on for dinner?”

“I’m so looking forward to it. I’m just going for a quick dip in the tub. Meet you in the lobby bar in an hour?”

“I’ll be there.”

Stella ended the call and started the bath.

In the bedroom, she removed the array of surveillance devices from a padded case and slipped them into her evening clutch.

She stripped out of her clothes and tested the bathwater with her toe.

Disappearing under the bubbles, Stella closed her eyes.

She knew why this assignment hadn’t given her the same rush of excitement she was used to.

For the past three years, she had looked forward to every interaction with Ren Jameson.

She had studied him, spied on him. Stella had once sat for an hour and watched him read Chernow’s biography of Alexander Hamilton, mesmerized when his brows lifted in surprise, or he licked his index finger before turning a page.

She ogled his body as he walked through the bedroom wearing workout shorts and a T-shirt.

The technology was so advanced, Stella could discern the different circles of color—green, gold, and brown—in Ren’s hazel eyes.

Her logical mind knew this forced intimacy was one-sided, but her body responded in a decidedly irrational way.

Leaning her head against the edge of the tub, Stella slipped her hand between her legs and pictured Ren—the two of them together in another time, another place—she’d relax for a moment and then go back to work. It was time for Sabrina Kittridge to worm her way into Arvin Barnett’s life.