The cab ride back to the Upper East Side cost Colette thirty dollars she didn't have, leaving her with a knot of anxiety in her chest that was tighter than the one in her stomach. She stared out the window as the familiar brownstones blurred past. This used to be home. Before her mother died. Before her father got sick. Before Meredith.

The taxi pulled up to the curb. Colette practically fell out, clutching her shoes. She just wanted a shower. She wanted to scrub the scent of expensive cologne and cheap decisions off her skin.

She jammed her key into the front door lock. It didn't turn.

She jiggled it. Nothing. She pulled it out and tried again, sweat prickling her hairline.

"Looking for this?"

The door swung open. A maid stood there, blocking the entrance with her body. Her expression was a mix of pity and disdain.

"My key isn't working," Colette said, her voice raspy.

"Locks were changed, Miss Barrett. Mrs. Barrett's orders."

Colette pushed past her into the foyer. The house smelled of lilies and old money-a smell that used to comfort her but now just made her want to gag.

"Colette?"

The voice floated down from the top of the stairs. High-pitched. Mocking.

Colette looked up. Her blood turned to ice.

Tiffany stood on the landing, her arm draped possessively over a man in a navy suit.

Chad.

Colette felt the floor tilt. Chad looked down at her, his eyes widening for a fraction of a second before he masked it with a practiced look of indifference. Tiffany was wearing a silk slip dress. Colette's silk slip dress. The one her mother had given her for her twenty-first birthday.

"You didn't come home last night," Tiffany said, descending the stairs slowly, like a queen greeting a peasant. "Daddy is in the hospital, and you were out... where exactly?"

Colette ignored her stepsister. Her eyes were locked on Chad. "What are you doing here?"

Chad adjusted his tie, avoiding her gaze. "We broke up, Cole. You know that."

"We were on a break," Colette whispered. "Because I was working two jobs to pay for Dad's surgery."

"I have ambitions, Colette," Chad said, finally looking at her. His eyes were cold. "Tiffany understands the market. She understands the future."

"He means you're broke," Tiffany giggled, squeezing Chad's bicep.

"Enough."

Meredith walked out of the living room. She was wearing a cream-colored suit that cost more than Colette's annual salary as an art restorer. She held a porcelain cup of coffee, looking every inch the grieving wife, despite the fact that she hadn't visited the hospital in weeks.

"Don't air our dirty laundry in front of guests," Meredith said smoothly. "Although, looking at you, you are the dirty laundry."

Colette felt a surge of rage so pure it nearly blinded her. She took a step toward Chad, her hand raising instinctively.

A large man in a black suit stepped out from the shadows of the hallway-private security. He blocked her path without saying a word.

Meredith tossed a blue folder onto the entryway table. It slid across the polished wood and stopped inches from Colette's hand.

"Since you're here," Meredith said, taking a sip of coffee. "Sign this. Renounce your claim to your father's estate, and I'll cover his medical bills for another week."

Colette stared at the folder. "This is blackmail."

"This is business," Meredith corrected. "The hospital called. Your father's account is overdrawn. They're going to stop treatment, Colette. Unless someone pays."

"You're his wife!" Colette screamed, her voice cracking.

"And I'm tired of throwing money into a pit," Meredith snapped, her mask slipping. "Sign the papers, or watch him die. It's your choice."

Tiffany smirked, leaning her head on Chad's shoulder. "Just give it up, sis. You can't even afford to feed yourself."

Colette looked at them. The three of them. A tableau of greed and betrayal.

She grabbed the folder. For a second, Meredith looked triumphant.

Colette ripped the folder in half. Then in quarters. She threw the pieces into the air.

"I will get the money," Colette said, her voice shaking with adrenaline. "And I will bury all of you."

"Get out," Meredith hissed. "And don't come back until you have a check."

Colette turned and ran. She ran out the door, down the steps, and into the street. Her phone buzzed in her hand.

It was the hospital. The screen flashed: FINAL NOTICE.

She declined the call, staring at her reflection in a shop window. Her hair was a mess, her eyes were wild, and she looked exactly like what she was: a woman with nothing left to lose.

The waiting room of the ICU at New York-Presbyterian smelled of bleach and stale coffee. It was the smell of bad news. Colette sat on a hard plastic chair, her knuckles white as she gripped her phone.

Dr. Evans walked out through the swinging doors. He looked tired. He held a clipboard against his chest like a shield.

"Miss Barrett," he said softly.

Colette stood up, her legs trembling. "How is he?"

"His vitals are dropping," Evans said. "We need to move to the next stage of the treatment plan. The experimental protocol we discussed."

"Do it," Colette said immediately. "Please, just do it."

Dr. Evans sighed. He looked down at his shoes. "I can't. The finance department has flagged the account. We need a deposit. Fifty thousand dollars. Today."

Fifty thousand. It might as well have been fifty million.

"I can get it," Colette lied. "Just give me a few days."

"We don't have days," Evans said. "We have hours."

He walked away, leaving Colette standing alone in the hallway. She pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the observation window. Her father lay in the bed, a tangle of tubes and wires. He looked so small. This was the man who taught her how to mix pigments, how to see the light in a Vermeer.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Meredith.

Attachment: 1 Image.

Colette opened it. It was a photo of a man. He was in his sixties, balding, with a thick neck and eyes that looked like wet stones.

Mr. Gorsky loves art, the text read. Dinner tonight. 7 PM. Le Bernardin. If you don't go, I sign the DNR order myself.

Colette felt bile rise in her throat. She knew who Gorsky was. Everyone in the art world knew. He was a hedge fund manager who collected young female artists the way he collected statues. He was a predator.

She dialed Meredith.

"You're selling me," Colette whispered into the phone. "He's a monster."

"He's a liquidity provider," Meredith said coldly. "And frankly, I'm bored of playing nurse to a vegetable. Go to dinner, Colette. Be charming. Or say goodbye to your daddy."

The line went dead.

Colette dropped the phone. It hit the linoleum floor, the screen shattering into a spiderweb of cracks. She slid down the wall, burying her face in her knees. A sob ripped through her chest, raw and ugly.

Across town, in a glass tower that pierced the clouds, August Sanders sat in a leather chair that cost more than a Honda Civic.

"Report," he said, not looking up from his tablet.

Preston, his executive assistant, cleared his throat. "We identified the woman. Colette Barrett. Daughter of Richard Barrett, the art dealer."

August swiped on his screen. A photo appeared. It was Colette, taken an hour ago, huddled on the floor of the hospital corridor, crying. It wasn't a flattering picture. It was a picture of absolute defeat.

"Context," August demanded.

"Father is in the ICU. Step-mother cut off funding. She's trying to force Miss Barrett into a... meeting... with Boris Gorsky tonight."

August's finger paused over the screen. He looked at the woman who had left him a hundred dollars. She looked broken.

"Gorsky," August said, the name tasting like ash. "The tax evader?"

"The same. He's looking for a companion."

August looked at the photo again. He remembered the curve of her waist. The smell of her cheap shampoo-vanilla and rain. The audacity of that note.

He needed a wife. The board was breathing down his neck. The trust fund stipulations were clear: marry, settle down, stabilize the stock price. He needed someone desperate enough to sign a contract, but proud enough not to be a leech.

Someone who would tip a billionaire because she didn't want to be in his debt.

"Is the IRS investigation into Gorsky ready to move?" August asked.

"It can be expedited," Preston said.

"Do it." August stood up, buttoning his jacket. "And get the car. Tell legal to bring the standard template, Designation 'Wife.' We'll fill in the details on the way."

"Sir?"

"I'm going to dinner," August said, a shark-like smile touching his lips. "I believe Mr. Gorsky is going to have a scheduling conflict."

Le Bernardin was quiet, a temple of seafood and silence. Colette sat at a corner table, wearing a black dress she had borrowed from her friend Zoe. It was a size too big, pinned at the back with safety pins.

She checked her phone. 7:15 PM.

Waiters glided past her like ghosts, their eyes sliding over her as if she were a stain on the tablecloth. She clutched her water glass, her fingers leaving smudges on the crystal. She felt like she was waiting for an executioner.

"Miss," a waiter said, stopping at her table. His nose was wrinkled. "If your party isn't arriving, we will need this table."

"He's coming," Colette said, her voice sounding thin. "Mr. Gorsky."

The waiter's eyebrows shot up. "Mr. Gorsky? Very well." He retreated, but the judgment remained.

Suddenly, the air in the room changed. The low hum of conversation stopped. The maître d' rushed toward the entrance, bowing so low he nearly headbutted the floor.

A man walked in.

He didn't walk; he prowled. He was tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a suit that absorbed the light. He moved with an arrogance that sucked the oxygen out of the room.

Colette kept her head down, staring at the white tablecloth. She couldn't bear to look at Gorsky's face. She just wanted this to be over.

A pair of polished black shoes stopped in her peripheral vision.

Colette took a deep breath, forced a smile onto her face, and looked up. "Mr. Gorsky, I-"

The words died in her throat.

It wasn't Gorsky.

It was him. The escort. The man from the hotel.

He looked even more terrifying in a suit. His eyes were dark, intelligent, and currently fixed on her with laser intensity.

August pulled out the chair opposite her and sat down. "Gorsky isn't coming."

Colette's mouth fell open. "You... did Gorsky hire you too? To... soften the blow?"

August paused in the middle of unfolding his napkin. He looked at her, really looked at her, as if trying to decipher a complex equation written in crayon.

"Miss Barrett," he said, his voice deep and smooth like bourbon. "Your imagination is truly something."

Colette leaned across the table, hissing. "Listen to me. You need to leave. If Gorsky sees me with another... service provider... he won't pay. And I need the money. Please."

August stared at her. She was worried about him. She thought he was competition.

He placed a folder on the table. "Boris Gorsky is currently being escorted out of his penthouse by federal agents. Tax fraud. It's on the news."

Colette blinked. "What?"

"He's not coming," August repeated. "I am."

"You?" Colette laughed, a hysterical, bubbling sound. "What are you going to do? Buy me dinner with my hundred dollars?"

August's jaw tightened. He signaled a waiter. "Caviar. The Reserve. And a bottle of the '96 Salon."

The waiter scrambled to obey.

August turned back to her. "I don't want to buy you dinner, Colette. I want to buy your time. Specifically, one year of it."

"I don't understand," Colette said, her head spinning.

"My board requires... stability. You require a lifeline," August said flatly. "Consider this a merger, Miss Barrett, not a romance. I need a wife. You need money. It's a simple transaction."

Colette stared at him. "A wife? For what? A green card?" She looked him over. He sounded American. "Are you... are you on the run?"

August closed his eyes for a brief second, praying for patience. "I am not an illegal immigrant. I am a businessman."

"You're a gigolo," Colette whispered.

August reached into his pocket. He pulled out his phone, tapped the screen a few times, and slid it across the tablecloth toward her.

"Look at it."

Colette looked. It was a banking app. But it wasn't a personal account. It was a transfer confirmation.

Recipient: New York-Presbyterian Hospital.

Patient: Richard Barrett.

Amount: $500,000.00.

Status: PAID.

Colette stopped breathing. The numbers swam before her eyes. She looked up at him, her eyes wide with shock.

"Who are you?" she breathed.

"The man who just bought your debt," August said. "Now, eat your caviar. We have a contract to sign."