Chapter 5
Stella's POV
The training was brutal. They broke me down to nothing, then rebuilt me into something sharp and efficient. Taught me to fight—not street brawling but precise, lethal technique. Krav Maga, because it was designed to kill quickly. Taught me chemistry, biology, how to make someone stop breathing without leaving a mark. Taught me to lie so well I could pass a polygraph.
I took my first contract at fifteen. A cheating husband whose wife wanted him gone. I made it look like a heart attack—potassium chloride in his protein shake, untraceable once it metabolized. The wife paid fifty thousand. The Hive took forty. I got ten and a reminder that I owed them half a million for my training, room, and board.
On my fifteenth birthday, Widow handed me a folder.
"Your answers," she said.
Inside were medical records, financial transactions, DNA tests. Surveillance photos of a blonde woman in a white coat—Vivian Mellon, former nurse at Mellon Medical Center. Photos of a little girl with golden hair and blue eyes—Chloe Mellon, daughter of Victor and Vivian.
Except the DNA said otherwise. Chloe's DNA matched Vivian's. Not the woman Victor had been married to twenty-three years ago. Not Sophia Mellon, who'd died in a hospital fire while her newborn daughter disappeared.
The folder had everything. How Vivian had been sleeping with Victor while his wife was pregnant. How she'd switched the babies during the evacuation, taken Sophia's daughter and replaced her with her own bastard child. How she'd set the fire to cover her tracks and make sure Sophia never told.
How she'd paid Jack Taylor five thousand a month to keep Isabella Mellon locked in a basement, beaten and broken, until she either died or stopped being a problem.
I read it three times. Then I threw up in the corner of Widow's office.
When I was done, I looked up at her. "I want them destroyed. All of them. Victor, Vivian, Chloe. I want to take back everything they stole."
Widow's expression didn't change. "That will cost you. Revenge is expensive. And if you expose The Hive in the process, we'll kill you ourselves."
"I'll pay," I said. "Whatever it takes."
She nodded. "Then get to work."
I spent eight years paying down the debt. Took every contract they offered, no matter how dangerous. Learned to forge documents, hack databases, create identities from nothing. Studied online college courses between kills, practiced upper-class manners by watching YouTube videos of etiquette coaches. Built Stella Taylor from scratch—transcripts, references, a whole fake life.
At twenty, I had a hundred thousand saved. At twenty-two, three hundred thousand. And then came Mason—his arrogance, his predictable desperation to possess something new and forbidden. The two hundred thousand he handed over. It was the final injection, the money that filled the last gap in the ledger. At twenty-three, I made the final payment and walked away from The Hive with my freedom and a warning: "Don't make us regret letting you go."
I'd been planning this for eight years. Every step calculated. Every identity layered. Every connection strategic.
And now I was three hours away from walking into Victor Mellon's house.
I stood up from the floor, legs stiff. The rain had gotten heavier, drumming against the windows. Across the water, I could just make out lights on Bainbridge Island. The Mellon Estate would be lit up by now, getting ready for dinner.
Getting ready for me.
I went to the bathroom, turned on the shower. While the water heated, I looked at myself in the mirror. Stella Taylor looked back—soft brown curls, green eyes, the kind of face that made people think "sweet" and "harmless." I'd worked hard on this face. Practiced the expressions, the slight downturn of the lips that made me look perpetually worried, the wide-eyed innocence that made men want to protect me.
Underneath, Isabella Mellon was still there. The girl who'd slit a man's throat at twelve. The woman who'd killed seventeen people for money and walked away clean every time.
Tonight, I'd need both of them.
I showered, dried off, pulled on the outfit I'd chosen yesterday. Black slacks, cream blouse, minimal jewelry. Professional but not threatening. The kind of thing a nutritionist would wear to a job interview.
At six-fifteen exactly, a black Town Car pulled up outside. I grabbed my portfolio—fake résumé, fake references, real certifications I'd actually earned—and headed down.
The driver didn't speak. Just held the door, waited for me to settle, then pulled into traffic. We drove north, caught the ferry to Bainbridge. I watched the city recede, the Space Needle disappearing into the clouds.
By the time we docked, it was fully dark. The car wound through tree-lined roads, past gated estates, until we reached the Mellon property. Wrought-iron gates, security cameras, a long driveway lined with manicured hedges.
The house itself was massive. Georgian architecture, white columns, warm light spilling from floor-to-ceiling windows. It looked like old money. Like permanence. Like everything I should have had.
The driver let me out at the front entrance. A butler—actual butler, white gloves and everything—opened the door before I could knock.
"Miss Taylor. Please, come in."
Inside was exactly what I'd expected. Marble floors, crystal chandelier, oil paintings in heavy gilt frames. But there was something off about it. Too perfect. Too staged. Like a museum exhibit of wealth rather than a home where people actually lived.
The butler led me to a sitting room. The air hummed with a low, discordant energy. Across the foyer, another doorway spilled out laughter and the clink of glasses. "Mrs. Mellon is hosting a small pre-dinner gathering for some neighbors. Mr. Kensington insisted your introduction be made tonight, as the family's schedule is quite full. You are to join them briefly before proceeding with Mrs. Mellon for the formal interview."
He left. I stood in the center of the room, taking it in. More paintings—military scenes, naval battles. A display case full of medals and commendations. Photos on the mantle: Victor shaking hands with generals, politicians, defense contractors. Chloe in a debutante gown. Logan in a prep school uniform, looking bored.
No photos of Sophia. No trace that Victor had ever had a first wife.
I heard voices in the hallway, growing louder, a party on the move. I smoothed my blouse, arranged my face into Stella's pleasant, slightly nervous expression.
The door to the sitting room opened, and the party seemed to briefly flood in.
Victor came first, holding a crystal tumbler of amber liquid. He was mid-conversation with a silver-haired man in a navy blazer, laughing at something, not yet noticing me. Tall, silver-haired, wearing a suit that probably cost more than my car.
Vivian followed, a practiced hostess's smile on her face as she ushered a group of women in elegant dresses past the doorway. She wore a cream pantsuit and pearls, her eyes briefly sweeping the room and landing on me. The assessment was quick, cold, before she turned her attention back to her guests.
Then Chloe drifted into view, golden hair in perfect waves, a champagne flute in hand. She was listening to a young man in a tuxedo but her eyes scanned the room, the art, the new face—me—with detached curiosity.
Logan slouched against the doorframe, a stark contrast in his hoodie and ripped jeans, gaming headset around his neck. He glanced in, his eyes flicking toward me with a bored, fleeting interest before he looked down at his phone, thumbs already moving.
The butler materialized and cleared his throat, pitching his voice to cut through the ambient noise. "Mr. Mellon, Mrs. Mellon—pardon the interruption. This is Miss Stella Taylor, as arranged by Mr. Arthur Kensington."
The chatter didn't fully stop, but it dampened. A few curious glances from the guests in the hallway.
Victor finally broke from his conversation, his gaze turning toward me. It wasn't an interview stare; it was the look of a man acknowledging a piece of scheduled business. "Arthur says you're good," he said, his tone more a distracted statement than a question. "Vivian, you'll handle this?" He didn't wait for an answer, already turning back to his friend with a dismissive gesture. "Show her whatever she needs."
