The silence of the room was broken only by the soft hum of the laptop fan and the rhythmic click of keys. Mariana, her face illuminated by the soft glow of the screen, sat hunched over her laptop, her eyes glued to the information scrolling before her. It was past midnight, but sleep was a distant memory, replaced by a burning desire for knowledge, for vengeance.
She had been in this private and secure accommodation provided by Warren for a month now, recuperating from her cosmetic surgery. The transformation was complete, her new face a blank canvas upon which she would paint a new identity, a new life. But the scars of the past, the pain of her betrayal, the rage that burned within her, were still very much alive.
She had spent countless hours researching Benedict Rochester, her cr
