My husband walked into my Businesswoman of the Year ceremony in Chicago with his mistress

Thirty-six hours later, the Gulfstream touched down on the snow-slicked runway of a private airfield nestled in the Engadin Valley of Switzerland.

The air outside was biting, crisp, and thin, carrying the scent of pine and frozen granite. Far below us lay the postcard-perfect chalets of St. Moritz, glowing under the twilight like jewels scattered across white velvet. But our destination lay thousands of feet higher, perched against the jagged teeth of the Swiss Alps: the Bellevue Sanatorium.

Julian had arranged three black SUVs equipped with snow treads and heavy armor plating. His private strike team had grown to eight men—silent, lethal professionals who answered only to him.

Eleanor sat beside me, dressed in a black thermal coat, her eyes scanning the winding mountain pass through night-vision binoculars.

"We are entering the dead zone," Eleanor said softly. "Cellular towers are jammed for five kilometers surrounding the facility. That means the Consortium has already established their perimeter."

"How is Arthur holding on?" I asked, my voice cracking despite my efforts to remain stoic. My mind was a whirlwind of rage, longing, and terror. I had spent two decades believing my father had abandoned me. Now, I was racing against the clock to pull him from the jaws of a global syndicate.

"His private physician is a man named Dr. Klaus Weber," Eleanor said. "A former battlefield surgeon who owes your father his life. If Arthur were dead, Klaus would have triggered the self-destruct mechanism on the mountain's power grid. The lights are still on. That means Arthur is breathing."

"Julian," I said, turning to the front seat. "What’s our tactical entry?"

"Fast and violent," Julian answered, checking the optical sight on his rifle. "We don't have the luxury of stealth. They have snipers posted on the sanatorium roof and a secondary team in the funicular station below. We breach the south gate, blow the electronic lock on the tunnel entrance, and secure the lower medical wing before their command can call for air support."

Suddenly, the front SUV erupted into a ball of orange fire.

An anti-tank missile had struck it from the ridge above, sending the burning chassis tumbling down the ravine into the darkness.

"Ambush!" Julian roared, wrestling the steering wheel as automatic gunfire hammered our vehicle's armored glass like a hailstorm of lead. "Hold on!"

He slammed the SUV forward, ramming through a concealed iron barricade as our rear gunners fired back into the snowdrifts where muzzle flashes illuminated the pine trees. Eleanor leaned out the window, her rifle barking with mechanical precision, taking out a shooter stationed on an elevated rocky ledge.

The SUV slid across the ice, spinning 180 degrees before slamming into the reinforced concrete entrance of the sanatorium’s underground delivery bay.

"Go! Go! Go!" Julian commanded, kicking his door open and unleashing a wall of suppressive fire down the access tunnel.

I grabbed the satchel, jumping out behind Eleanor into the freezing concrete corridor. Julian grabbed my arm, shoving me behind his heavy ballistic shield as bullets ricocheted off the concrete walls in blinding sparks.

We fought our way down the subterranean corridor, Julian’s team dropping enemies who were dressed in identical unmarked gray tactical gear. These were not mere mercenaries; they moved with military discipline, firing in tight formations. But Julian was a demon of tactical warfare. He didn't just fight; he advanced like an inexorable tide, clearing corners and neutralising threats before they could pull their pins.

At the end of the corridor stood a blast door marked with the double-headed phoenix.

Beside the keypad was a retinal scanner, glowing an eerie, pulsing green.

"Elise! Now!" Eleanor shouted, covering the rear flank as more boots pounded down the tunnel behind us.

I stepped up to the scanner, pressed my face against the icy rubber cup, and stared into the light.

*BIOMETRIC CONFIRMED: ELISE VANCE. WELCOME HOME.*