Three days later.

The conference room at Stark Industries was a glass box suspended in the sky. It was sterile, cold, and smelled of lemon polish and ozone.

Eleonora sat at the long mahogany table. She wore a tweed suit that was three years old, carefully pressed. Her phone sat in front of her, the screen lighting up every few minutes with payment overdue notifications.

The door opened.

It wasn't Alden. It was a man with a face like a ferret and a suit that fit too perfectly. Almus Sharpe. The fixer.

He slid a document across the table. It landed with a heavy thud.

"Draft of the prenuptial agreement, Miss Compton," Almus said. His voice was dry, like rustling paper.

Eleonora opened it. Fifty pages.

She scanned the clauses. No community property. No shared equity. A confidentiality agreement so strict she wouldn't be able to tell a therapist she was unhappy.

Her finger stopped at Clause 12. During the marriage, the Wife shall participate in all public relations events as directed but shall have no right to inquire into or interfere with the Husband's private life or associations.

She looked up. "Is he hiring a wife or a potted plant?"

"He is hiring a partner."

Alden walked in. He didn't apologize for being late. He took the seat at the head of the table, dominating the room instantly.

"In exchange," Alden said, gesturing to the document, "I will post your father's bail. I will provide you with a residence and an allowance. You will have the Stark protection."

"I want Julian removed from the family trust," Eleonora said.

Alden smirked. "Using me for personal revenge? You're ambitious."

"It's genetic hygiene, Mr. Stark. He is disloyal and stupid. Bad for the brand."

Alden tapped his finger on the table. "Done. But I have a condition."

He leaned back, his eyes narrowing. "You have three days to clean up your own mess. I will not have a wife who comes with baggage."

"Baggage?"

"Julian," Alden said. "He's been calling the front desk. He's been texting you. End it. Publicly. Irrevocably."

Eleonora's phone buzzed again. It was Julian.

Alden glanced at the screen. "Your due diligence period starts now. Prove your value."

Eleonora picked up the phone. She read the text. I know you're broke, El. Come back. I can set you up in an apartment. You can be my side thing.

Bile rose in her throat. She swallowed it down.

"I'll handle it," she said, standing up. "Three days."

"Tonight," Alden corrected. "There is a charity gala. Julian will be there with that... scarlet woman."

Eleonora nodded. She walked out of the room.

In the elevator, she replied to Julian. Meet me at the Gala tonight. We need to talk.

He replied instantly. Knew you'd come crawling back.

She went back to her temporary apartment-a studio with peeling paint. She opened her laptop. She pulled up the video file from the cemetery. In it, Julian clearly mentioned using trust funds to pay for Tiffany's extravagant shopping spree. That was the leverage. Not the affair, but the misappropriation of assets. Then she logged into the dark web browser she hadn't used since law school.

She found Tiffany's academic records. Or rather, the lack of them. The forged transcripts from UPenn.

She had no money for a dress. She looked at the old black gown in her closet. It was too conservative. Too "good girl."

She took a pair of scissors.

She slashed the back open. She pinned the fabric to create a plunging neckline. She sewed it with quick, angry stitches.

When she looked in the mirror, the woman staring back wasn't Eleonora Compton, the victim. It was a weapon sheathed in black silk.

At Stark Tower, Almus watched the security feed of Eleonora leaving her building. "She's going to the Gala alone, sir. Should I send security?"

Alden swirled the whiskey in his glass. "No. If she can't handle an ex-boyfriend, she can't handle being Mrs. Stark."

He took a sip. "Let her bleed. Let's see if she bites back."

The ballroom smelled of expensive perfume and hypocrisy.

When Eleonora walked in, the conversation died. Heads turned. They were waiting for the breakdown. They wanted to see the bankrupt girl cry.

She kept her chin high. The modified dress exposed her spine, a line of vulnerability that was actually a trap.

Julian spotted her. He was wearing a white tuxedo, standing next to Tiffany, who was draped in diamonds that probably weren't insured.

Tiffany laughed loudly. "Sister! Are you here to beg for the buffet leftovers?"

A ripple of laughter went through the crowd.

Eleonora didn't stop. She walked straight up to them.

Julian smiled, smug and oily. He extended a hand. "El. If you apologize nicely, I might write you a check."

Eleonora ignored his hand. She pulled her phone from her clutch and shoved the screen into his face.

The video played. The cemetery. The car. The moan.

Julian's face went the color of ash. He lunged for the phone.

Eleonora stepped back smoothly. She knew the risks. Publicly airing this was a declaration of war, a messy, low-brow tactic. But it was also a checkmate. It was designed to create a public spectacle so toxic that the Stark board would have no choice but to see Julian as a liability she was offering to clean up. It was an audition for Alden. "This video has already been sent to the Stark Family Trust's compliance officer. And a copy is on its way to the SEC, detailing your misuse of trust funds."

"You're crazy," Julian hissed, his voice trembling. "That's a family scandal! The stock will drop!"

"That's a Stark problem," Eleonora said, her voice cool and light. "Not a Compton problem. Oh, and Tiffany?"

She turned to her stepsister. "The UPenn Alumni Association was very interested in your forged transcripts. I believe they're opening an inquiry tomorrow."

Tiffany let out a strangled squeak. She grabbed Julian's arm. "Do something!"

Julian grabbed Eleonora's wrist. His grip was painful. "You bitch-"

Eleonora didn't pull away. She pointed with her free hand to the ceiling. "Cameras, Julian. Journalists everywhere. Go ahead. Hit me. Tomorrow's headline: 'Stark Heir Assaults Ex-Fiancée.'"

Julian froze. He looked around. He saw the eyes. He saw the lenses.

He dropped her hand like it burned him.

Eleonora stepped closer. She reached out and straightened his bow tie. "Consider our accounts settled. Thoroughly."

She turned. Her black skirt swirled around her legs like smoke. She walked away, leaving them shivering in the middle of the heated room.

Up on the mezzanine, behind one-way glass, Alden watched.

"Is that what you wanted, sir?" Almus asked.

Alden finished his drink. "She's more ruthless than I thought. Good."

Eleonora exited the ballroom. Her legs gave out. She leaned against the wall in the corridor, gasping for air. Her hands were shaking so hard she dropped her clutch.

A hand appeared, holding a white handkerchief.

She looked up. Almus Sharpe.

"Mr. Stark is pleased with your performance," the lawyer said. "Tomorrow, 9 AM. Come to sign."

Eleonora took the handkerchief. She wiped the cold sweat from her forehead. "Tell him I'll be there."

Julian burst into the hallway behind them. "You think this is over? You think you won?"

Eleonora didn't look back. She walked to the exit.

She took a cab to her apartment. When she got there, the door was ajar. The lock had been drilled out.

Inside, her few belongings were trashed. A message was spray-painted on the wall: WE OWN YOU.

It wasn't Julian. It was her father. The war had just begun.

The Compton estate smelled of mold and desperation.

Eleonora had been summoned. Or rather, dragged. Two of her father's "associates" had intercepted her outside her apartment.

She walked into the living room. Her stepmother, Vivian, sat on the sofa, looking like a coiled viper. Her father, Richard, stood by the fireplace, looking old and weak.

Tiffany was sitting in a wheelchair.

"You ruined Tiffany's reputation!" Vivian shrieked. "The Alumni Association sent a letter!"

"She ruined it herself when she cheated," Eleonora said calmly.

Julian stepped out of the shadows. He was standing next to Tiffany. "Give me the original video file, Eleonora. Or your father doesn't get a dime for his bail."

Eleonora looked at her father. "You're letting him threaten me?"

Richard looked at the floor. "El... for the family. You have to sacrifice."

Eleonora felt a crack in her chest. The last piece of her childhood, breaking.

Suddenly, Tiffany stood up from the wheelchair. She forgot she was supposed to be injured. She rushed at Eleonora. "You jealous witch!"

Eleonora sidestepped.

Tiffany's momentum carried her forward. She tripped on the rug and collided with the banister of the stairs. It wasn't a hard hit, but she let out a scream that could shatter glass.

She slid to the floor, clutching her stomach. "Ah! My baby! Julian, our baby!"

Silence.

Julian dropped to his knees. "Baby? You're pregnant?"

Vivian gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. "Murderer! Eleonora pushed her! She's carrying a Stark heir!"

Eleonora stared. "I didn't touch her."

Julian looked up. His eyes were wild. He saw it. The golden ticket. An heir. A way to secure his place in the trust against Alden.

"You tried to kill my child," Julian said, his voice dripping with venom.

"This is attempted murder," Vivian declared. "We're calling the police. Unless..."

"Unless what?" Eleonora asked, her voice trembling with rage.

"Unless you sign over your remaining inheritance rights," Richard said softly. "And marry Mr. Hightower to settle my debts."

Eleonora looked at them. Her father. Her family. They were selling her.

"You make me sick," she said.

She turned to the door.

Two large men blocked the exit.

"Welcome home, darling," Vivian smiled.

They grabbed her arms. Eleonora kicked and screamed, but they dragged her upstairs. They threw her into her old bedroom.

The lock clicked.

She ran to the window. Bars. They had put bars on the windows years ago, "for security." Now, it was a prison.

She checked her pockets. Her phone was gone.

Tomorrow was the signing with Alden. And she was locked in a tower, with no knight coming to save her.