Part 2: Madison nodded.

Cheryl opened her arms, and Madison walked into them.

For two minutes, she cried in the parking lot under the brutal Arizona sun. Not because she wanted Carter back. Not because she was weak. She cried because she had carried a version of herself that had been bent into someone else’s comfort, and at last, she had put it down.

Then she wiped her face.

“I need that chicken,” she said.

Cheryl handed her the container. “That’s my girl.”

The next few weeks were not glamorous. Madison moved into a two-bedroom apartment in Midtown Phoenix with good light, a noisy air conditioner, and a kitchen that felt like hers the first time she burned garlic in it. She bought a mattress, a coffee maker, and one stubborn plant she named Duke.

She requalified on three weapons platforms in one afternoon. Her instructor, a retired Marine named Dale, watched her run a perfect course and said, “Still got it.”

Madison checked the target. “Never lost it.”

Her old mentor, Roy Simmons, former Secret Service, called after Vivian sent her name through the private security network.

“You ready to stop hiding in rich-wife jail?” Roy asked.

“I wasn’t hiding.”

“Madison.”

She sighed. “I’m ready.”

“There’s a client looking for a head of executive protection. Serious money. Serious risk. Italian.”

“Mob?”

“Not mob,” Roy said. “Worse for some people. Legitimate.”

“Name?”

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