THE FAINT SMELL OF CURRY, chickpeas, and fried pastry from the Afghan restaurant below wafted through my tiny apartment. A potato sambosa sounded amazing, especially washed down by a cherry blossom iced tea, but I was running late again. I’d taken leave from my college, moved out of my place, and quit my part-time job applying makeup at the MAC counter at Nordstrom, styling the drag queens in the city.

Now, four months after Joaquín had been arrested, I was living in San Rafael, across the San Francisco Bay. I hated isolating myself, but I couldn’t afford to make any mistakes. If Grant came looking for me, any connection to my former life had to be erased. That meant no catching the latest indie band at Bimbo’s 365 Club with my girlfriends, no hikes to Mount Tam with my old friends from high school, and no spring auditions for Marin Shakespeare Company’s summer season with my drama cohorts. Whenever I thought of my passion for theater, my chest ached. For so long that had been my dream. Sometimes your dreams would simply remain that: a dream. It was hard not to feel sad, bereft.

Still, I actually loved being back in my hometown of Marin—the cool, creative vibe, being among the musicians and artists who flocked here. But I wasn’t here to make friends, and this time I wasn’t running away from my problems. This was my BUD/S. Joaquín had undergone six months of rigorous training to become a SEAL. I was training just as rigorously to make sure he could keep being one.

I threw some gel into my hair, pulled on a vintage Mötley Crüe T-shirt and some faded jeans. It was a relief to be back home, away from the flock of picture-perfect Baywatch bitches who inhabited San Diego. I never fit in there. Not that I was doing an excellent job of blending in here, especially with my new looks, though I was doing a better job after trading Joaquín’s monstrous Ford Raptor for a Honda Accord Hybrid. The Raptor was too conspicuous among the eco-friendly Teslas, Toyota Prii, Nissan Leafs and Chevy Volts of Marin.

Saying goodbye to Joaquín’s truck gutted me. Every time I drove it, I’d thought how it should be him behind the wheel, free from shackles, and my resolve to clear his name grew. But I had to erase any connection I had to my old life, to Joaquín, in order to go undercover and save him.

I locked up my place, filled up a bottle of water, and hopped into my car. Today I had a long day of training in San Francisco: a Russian lesson in the Richmond District, kung fu in Chinatown, pole dancing at a studio on the unfortunately named Bush Street. Tomorrow was equally packed with weapons training, CrossFit, an acting workshop, and computer classes. I was so exhausted and sore every night I would usually stumble back to my place, soak in a warm bath filled with Epsom salts, and crash.

The lessons and training were actually fun, but I had done something drastic. Something I swore I would never do, something that was completely against my belief system.

I’d gone through an extreme makeover.

As a rule, I was fundamentally against plastic surgery. I loved my body, my unique looks, my distinct features. I was half Latina—I had flat breasts, wide hips, almond-shaped eyes, a weak chin, and a cute bump on my nose. At first, I didn’t even consider surgery as part of my plan,

After Joaquín was denied bail, I’d gone to San Diego one more time and, as promised, my brother had refused my visit. But I refused to give up on him—I drove like a madwoman across the Coronado Bay Bridge. I was no longer a military dependent, so I didn’t have an ID to gain access to base. I parked at the Del and headed toward the beach that borders the SEAL compound.

I hoped one of Joaquín’s friends would see me, take pity, and offer me some help or guidance. As luck would have it, Grant and his buddies were helping to train the BUD/S recruits. Grant’s face flashed a notice of recognition toward me, but he ignored me. I might as well have been a stranger.

Then a wicked idea crossed my head. What if I was a stranger? To not just him, but to his entire Team. Could I find out what really happened that night? Go undercover with the strippers at the club and discover the SEALs’ secret sins? Learn about them with their masks off, from the vantage point of a fantasy temptress instead of the good girl they wanted to protect.

It was the only way. I drove back to San Francisco that night and booked an appointment with a surgeon.

Having to go under the knife last month was excruciating, especially without anyone to take care of me. The nurse I’d hired to help me recover kept lamenting that such a pretty young girl would ruin her face and body. I agreed with her completely, but she didn’t have a clue what was at stake.

I was trying to go undercover with Navy SEALs, men who were impossible to fool, and I couldn’t take any chances, especially with Grant. He knew every inch of my body. So I’d had breast implants, a nose job, a chin implant, fillers in my lips and cheeks, lipo on my neck, lasers to remove my freckles, and Botox on my eyebrows. I looked like a plastic freak, but the doctor swore my features would get less tight and I might someday resemble a human again.

Still waiting.

My entire body throbbed, the chin implant burned through my skin, my nose was still swollen. Blinking was a daily struggle. These silicone balloons on my chest strained my back.

I forced myself to stare in the mirror, not recognizing my own reflection. The rest of my body had transformed also. As soon as the doctor cleared me, I’d started weight training. Squats to give me a nice butt, weights to make my skinny body toned and lean. Was this the type of woman Grant really desired? A stereotypical plastic blonde bombshell with perfect features devoid of any uniqueness?

I reminded myself I hadn’t changed my appearance to win Grant back. I’d altered my looks to lure Grant to me so I could go undercover and clear Joaquín’s name. After all I’d done, this had better work. Failure was not an option. I wasn’t sure I could survive the heartache if I didn’t complete this mission.

I was used to being alone, but I missed my brother. And I missed Grant. What was he doing now? I had always kept tabs on him through Joaquín—but for the first time since I’d met Grant, I didn’t have any clue where he was. Was he deployed? With another girl? Training somewhere? Bastard didn’t even have a Facebook account I could stalk. His Scorpio ass had become even more elusive since we broke up.

When we were together, I never doubted his fidelity or love; he was honest and open with me. But I also felt that I could never penetrate his core. Even after dating him for two years, he always held a part of himself back. Like he was afraid to let me see his true self. Joaquín and I shared so much with each other that Grant’s exclusion had sometimes made me wonder if he really wanted me in his life. But I was far from innocent—I kept my secrets too.

I crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, and my heart raced when I viewed the city skyline. This was my hometown, the last place where my life had made sense. The Transamerica Pyramid, where my father had worked nights cleaning, glowed in the distance. My dad had been so proud, so principled. In a way, I was glad he never lived to see his only son accused of murder.

I turned off Geary Boulevard and pulled the car in front of Blue Danube Coffee, grateful to the parking fairy for finding me a spot. I dashed out of the car but paused before opening the front door of the coffee shop. The San Francisco Chronicle stand held a paper with the headline—U.S. Navy SEAL Joaquín Cruz Murder Trial set for August.

I pushed four quarters into the metal slot and grabbed a paper from the top. My muscles quivered, and I ground my teeth. I hated not being there for him, showing him support and unconditional love every step of this mess. I had to make this work. I was his only hope.

My instructor, Roman, was waiting for me at a back table. I ordered myself an almond milk Mexican Mocha and slid into the chair across from him. This gorgeous man was the polar opposite of Grant. Roman’s jet-black hair skimmed his eyebrows, highlighting his almost black eyes. His lips were full, his skin was pale, his body was lean. His accent was so alluring; every time he pronounced the word pleasure “plea-shure” my knees went weak. In another life, another time, I could fall madly in love with the man sitting across from me sipping a single black espresso. But I was focused on Joaquín, and unfortunately for me, Grant had a permanent hold on my heart.

He slowly eye fucked me. “You’re late.”

“I’m sorry, it won’t happen again, Roman. Traffic.”

“Call me Roma.” His eyes focused on my swollen breasts. “Why it is that you want to learn Russian? You never told to me.”

Of course I didn’t. I found you on Craigslist.

“It’s a sensual language. Always wanted to learn. I’m an actress. I would love to perform Chekhov in his native tongue.”

He smirked, clearly not buying my story. I now started to doubt my acting skills. “You will tell to me when you are ready. Davai. Kak vas zovut?”

Let’s go. What’s your name?

I took a sip of my mocha, the warm liquid coating my throat, helping me slip into my character. “Menya zovut Ksenya.”

Ksenya, derived from the Greek word xenia, which meant stranger. My eyes perked when I found it on a list of Russian names. I was a stranger now, a stranger to Joaquín, to Grant, to myself. Grant had been right. Mia couldn’t help Joaquín. Mia couldn’t break the SEAL code. Mia couldn’t get anyone to talk.

But none of those SEALs stood a chance of resisting Ksenya.