I was supposed to kill him. Clean shot, mountain road, body never found. I've done it seventeen times before. I don't hesitate. I don't FEEL. Then I saw the white roses in his back seat, and my trigger finger went dead. I don't know why. That's the problem — I don't know ANYTHING. Not my name, not my face in the mirror, not why my body knows six languages and three ways to kill a man with a pen. I woke up in a billionaire's guest room with a bullet hole in my shoulder and a head full of nothing, and he was sitting in a chair beside my bed like he'd been waiting — not hours. YEARS. He calls me Lily. He says I'm his fiancée. He has a white rose garden planted beneath my window and eyes that look at me like I'm someone he lost a long time ago. His head of security thinks I'm a threat. The woman who's been warming his orbit for five years thinks I'm a con artist. And me? I think there's a reason the roses feel like mine. Here's what I do know: someone paid twenty million dollars for his death, and the man who holds my leash is already hunting for me. My brother — the one person I'd burn the world to protect — is alone in Geneva with no idea what I am. And somewhere in the wreckage behind my eyes, there's a truth that connects me to Damien Voss in a way that goes deeper than a contract. I was his killer. Now I'm his secret. And the memories clawing their way back might turn me into both. I should run. I should DEFINITELY run. I stay.