Prologue
She had a name once.A life. A past she could trace, like a line drawn in the dirt, clear and undeniable. Now, she was a ghost in her own story, forced to exist in a version of reality where she barely recognized herself.
She sat perched on the edge of the bed, staring at the driver’s license on the nightstand. A different name, a different face staring back at her—same bone structure, same wary eyes, but stripped of everything that made her,her.
Her new apartment was nothing like home, just a half-furnished box with beige walls and curtains too thin to make her feel safe. It smelled stale and was even less appealing; the air was heavy with the weight of uncertainty. The furniture was impersonal, and the kitchen cabinets were empty except for a single box of cereal and a mug from the gas station down the street. She hadn’t gone grocery shopping yet. It felt like a commitment she wasn’t ready to make.
Every sound outside made her tense—footsteps in the hall, a car idling too long at the curb. Her old instincts told her to be readyto run, but where could she go? There was no running from this. No way back.
She traced the cover of the new journal she’d picked up, hesitant to open it. A fresh start. That’s what they called it. What was she supposed to write?Day one of pretending this is my life.
Her phone—the cheap burner model they’d given her—buzzed with a text from her handler. Just a check-in. A reminder that she wasn’t alone, not really. But she was. More than she had ever been.
A deep breath. A glance in the mirror. A stranger looked back at her. It was time to figure out who she was going to be.
Chapter One
Anna “Diamond”Lovelace leaned back in her chair, staring at the faint grooves on her desk—the scars of a thousand restless moments just like this one. She hated being cornered, and yet that’s exactly how she felt now. Not by an enemy, not even by someone openly hostile, but by the very people claiming to support her chapter: the Royal Bastards MC of Montreal.
They said all the right things. Brotherhood. Solidarity. Shared goals. But Diamond wasn’t buying it. She’d been around long enough to know that help almost always came with strings attached. And her chapter didn’t need strings—it needed freedom.
Her chapter’s work was delicate, intricate, and most importantly, secret. Moving abused women and children required discretion that only came from years of building trust with the right people. It wasn’t a game of muscle or bravado. It was a game of shadows and whispers, of knowing when to act and when to disappear. The Royal Bastards didn’t live in shadows—they stomped into rooms, all leather cuts and loud declarations of loyalty.
And now, they wanted a seat at her table.
Diamond ran a hand through her hair, her jaw tightening. She couldn’t afford to offend them outright, not with the Casino Royal fundraiser looming. The Bastards could help make the event a success, to boost the visibility of the cause. It sounded good on paper—more eyes, more donors, more funds for the boys’ and girls’ houses. But visibility was exactly what Diamond didn’t want.
For years, her chapter had operated under the radar, carefully avoiding the kind of attention that could jeopardize their work. The last thing they needed was a group like the Bastards—no matter how well-meaning—drawing scrutiny. And what if they took a deeper interest in the chapter? What if their “help” turned into oversight? Or worse, control?
Diamond clenched her fists at the thought. The Royal Harlot’s Quebec City clubhouse was hers. This chapter was hers. Every contact, every safe house, every woman and child who’d slipped away to a new life—it was all built on her blood, sweat, and grit. The idea of letting outsiders into that world, no matter how much they promised to stay out of her way, made her stomach churn.
Her mind flickered back to the last fundraiser, a quieter affair that had barely broken even. The memory gnawed at her. She couldn’t afford another mediocre turnout, not when the boys’ and girls’ houses needed so much. The Bastards’ involvement could tip the scales, bringing in more money than they’d ever dreamed of. And yet, it still felt like a gamble—a gamble she wasn’t sure she wanted to take.
She let out a slow breath, her gaze dropping to the silver ring on her finger, engraved with the Royal Harlots’ emblem. It wasa symbol of her authority, her leadership, her responsibility. It reminded her of the oath she’d taken when she founded this chapter: to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves, no matter the cost.
But what if that cost was letting the Royal Bastards in? What if their support came at the expense of the very independence that made her chapter so effective? She’d been there at the meeting that sealed their fate.
Diamond’s lips pressed into a thin line. She knew what she had to do. She had to play along, at least for now. The Casino Royal fundraiser was too important to risk alienating the Bastards outright. But she would maintain distance from them, making it clear that, while their presence was appreciated, their involvement would cease immediately after the event.
Because if there was one thing Diamond had learned from her past, it was this: the only person she could truly count on was herself.
With no other choice, Diamond grabbed the phone and stared at the number scribbled on the weathered, sticky note. The edges of the yellow paper were curling, a testament to how long she’d been putting this off. Her thumb hovered over the keypad, but she hesitated, the weight of the call pressing down on her chest like a stone.
A sharp knock at the door snapped her out of it. Her hand jerked toward the receiver, instinctively ready to hang up before she’d even dialed. “Come in,” she called, her voice tight.
The door creaked open, revealing Nova, her VP, leaning casually against the frame. “You wanted to see me, Diamond?”
Diamond nodded, motioning her inside. “Yeah, come in. I’m making a call.” She held up the sticky note for Nova to see, the barely legible scribble catching the light.
Nova’s expression didn’t change, but her slight raise of an eyebrow said enough. She stepped into the office, closing the door softly behind her before taking a seat across the desk.
Diamond punched the numbers into the phone, each beep loud in the tense quiet of the room. She pressed the receiver to her ear, listening to the dial tone buzz as her gaze drifted back to Nova. Covering the mouthpiece with her hand, she asked in a low voice, “What’s the Prez’s name for the Bastards?”
“Teller,” Nova answered without missing a beat, her tone even.
Diamond let the name settle in her mind. Teller. She’d heard plenty about him over the years—his reputation for being sharp, calculating, and not easily pushed around. Exactly the kind of man she didn’t want in her business.
The line clicked, and the dial tone was replaced by a deep voice on the other end. “Teller speaking.”
