[Stephanie Bckwood’s POV]

  Blood pounds in my ears as I grip the steering wheel, knuckles white with fury. Fifteen missed calls from my wyer shouldn't be how anyone starts their Sunday. I've been driving for two hours through mind-numbing traffic, watching the minutes tick by while my perfect Cape Cod getaway is being vioted by federal agents.

  I finally turn into the long, winding driveway that leads to my vacation estate. The tires of my Bentley crunch over the pristine gravel as I approach the security gate. Through the wrought iron bars, I can see it, a single bck truck with the FBI logo embzoned on the side, parked like an ugly scar on my immacute circur driveway.

  Just one truck. That's something, at least. I was expecting a full circus.

  I punch in my security code, and the gates swing open with their usual elegant precision. Nothing else seems amiss from the outside, my six-bedroom "summer cottage" still stands proud against the ocean backdrop, its white columns and blue trim catching the morning light. If not for that offensive government vehicle, this would be just another perfect weekend retreat.

  I park beside the FBI truck, deliberately close enough that they'll have to shimmy to get back in. Petty, perhaps, but I'm not feeling particurly generous today.

  As I step out of my car, the salt air hits me. Normally, I'd take a moment to savor it, to let the tension of Boston melt away. Not today. Today, I'm here for blood.

  "Ms. Bckwood?" A woman in a dark suit approaches, fshing a badge. "I'm Agent Wilcox with the FBI. We have a warrant…"

  "I know exactly what you’re here to do. To make a fucking mess," I cut her off. "Where's your supervisor? I don't talk to underlings."

  I stride past her without another word. This is absurd. I don't store anything illegal here. My vacation home is exactly that, a pce to escape, to entertain, to be normal for once. All my business dealings, legitimate or otherwise, are handled through yers of protection elsewhere.

  Agent Wilcox follows me through the door, her footsteps annoyingly measured behind me. I spot my wyer, Katherine, standing in the foyer with a pinched expression that tells me she's been dealing with these people far too long already.

  "What exactly are they looking for?" I demand, not bothering with pleasantries.

  Katherine shakes her head, lips pressed into a thin line. "They're not telling me. Just waving that warrant around like it's the Constitution itself."

  I scan the main hall, taking in the agents carefully opening drawers and photographing my personal items. My blood boils at the invasion, at the sheer audacity of these people pawing through my belongings.

  "Ms. Bckwood," Agent Wilcox says, stepping closer, "if I could have a word with you alone."

  Katherine immediately positions herself between us, her arm extended like a barrier. "Absolutely not. My client will not be speaking to you without representation present."

  Agent Wilcox's expression doesn't change, but something shifts in her eyes. "It would be off the record. Just a conversation."

  "Over my dead body," Katherine snaps, her professional veneer cracking slightly. "I've been a criminal attorney for fifteen years. I know exactly what 'off the record' means coming from the FBI."

  I study Agent Wilcox with new interest. The fact that she wants me alone means she's fishing for something specific, something she doesn't want witnesses for. That could be useful information in itself.

  "No, I'll go," I say, ignoring Katherine's sharp intake of breath. "If it's off the record, who cares?"

  Katherine grabs my arm, her fingers digging into my silk blouse. "Stephanie, this is a terrible idea."

  I gently but firmly remove her hand. "I'm not afraid of a little chat, Katherine. Besides, I'm curious now."

  Agent Wilcox nods and gestures to me. "This way, Ms. Bckwood."

  I follow Agent Wilcox down the hallway toward the master bedroom, my irritation growing with each step. The woman walks with the measured pace of someone who believes they have all the time in the world. My time. In my house.

  "I appreciate your cooperation, Ms. Bckwood," she says, not bothering to look back at me.

  "Let's not pretend this is cooperation," I reply coolly. "This is me wanting to know what game you're pying."

  We reach the double doors of my master bedroom. She pushes them open. The room beyond, my sanctuary, has already been vioted. Drawers pulled out, closet doors ajar, even the bed sheets disturbed.

  Agent Wilcox turns and walks back down the hallway.

  I'm about to protest when I notice I'm not alone. Someone is sitting in my reading chair by the window, a tall woman in FBI gear. She's wearing dark sungsses despite being indoors, a blue disposable face mask covering the lower half of her face, and an FBI cap pulled low over her forehead. The jacket she wears is tight against her frame, and she's holding what appears to be a silver ptop, folded closed in her left arm.

  The door clicks shut behind me.

  "And who, pray tell, are you?" I ask, crossing my arms.

  "Agent Rough Toast," she replies, her voice carrying a hint of amusement.

  "Alright..." I say slowly, wondering if this is some kind of joke. No federal agent would use such a ridiculous name.

  She shifts in my chair, leaning back.

  "It's a nice pce you got here," she comments, looking around. "Isoted. Miles from anyone else. The media doesn’t even know about it."

  "Okay..." I respond cautiously, trying to pce her voice.

  "So once we leave," she continues, "no one will know the FBI raided you. Only you and your wyer."

  My pulse quickens. This isn't standard procedure. "What is it you want?"

  "Well, we've got evidence you were keeping trafficked men here, so we of course had to check." Her tone is light, conversational, as if discussing the weather rather than federal crimes.

  "That's preposterous. I would never…"

  "But you would, wouldn't you?" she cuts me off. "William Gray."

  My blood runs cold at the mention of his name.

  "I haven't trafficked him," I say defensively. "I'm just pnning to make him mine."

  "Well, there's the problem, you see," Toast says, shifting the ptop in her arms. "We were looking for trafficked men, but then when I looked under your bed in here, I found this shiny silver ptop." She holds it up slightly. "Neato, huh?"

  I stare at the device. I've never seen it before in my life. "That's not mine."

  And I mean it. I would never keep a computer here. This house is deliberately kept as a technology-minimal space. My work devices stay in Boston.

  "Strange..." she says mockingly, "because I found it here." She pats the ptop with her free hand. "And who knows what kind of images... might be on it."

  A chill runs down my spine. I’m being set up.

  "Are you working with Lara?" I demand. "Does Lara really have the FBI in her pocket?"

  Toast ughs, hard, genuinely amused, her shoulders shaking with it. The sound echoes off the walls of my bedroom.

  "Oh no," she says when she finally catches her breath. "In fact, we'll come back to that."

  She stands up, towering over me. I'm not a short woman by any means, but she has several inches on me.

  "Look, here's the deal," she says, her voice suddenly all business. "I'm going to catalog this ptop into evidence. It will ruin your life. You can fight it as much as you want, but I promise what's on this thing will not only put you in jail, it will ruin your reputation as well. Some really sadistic shit on this thing." She pauses deliberately. "But..."

  "What?" I ask, hating the desperation creeping into my voice.

  "I'll lose the ptop if you just leave William Gray alone."

  I stare at her, stunned. "You're joking."

  Toast gets to her feet, adjusting her cap. "Oh, and no telling Lara you got raided by the FBI either."

  I swallow hard, my mind racing. This can't be happening. This woman, whoever she is, has me cornered.

  "How long do I have to make my decision?" I ask, buying time to think.

  "Right now, Bckwood."

  I panic internally, weighing my options. I can't lose everything I've worked so hard for, my company, my reputation, my freedom. But William... the thought of never having him, never making him mine after all this time...

  But if I'm in jail, I can't have him anyway. And this mysterious agent clearly has connections that could make my life hell.

  I sigh miserably. "Fine. I'll stop pursuing William."

  Toast's posture rexes visibly. "That's so wonderful. Thank you."

  She steps toward me and puts her arm on my shoulder. The gesture is oddly familiar, not what I'd expect from a federal agent. "You're making the right move." She pats me once. "Anyways. We'll go now."

  I stand frozen as she walks past me toward the door. Just before she reaches it, I find my voice again.

  "Wait," I call out. "Who are you really? And how did you know about William and me?"

  She pauses with her hand on the doorknob but doesn't turn around. "I told you already. I’m Agent Rough Toast."

  Agent Rough Toast