Eleonora paced the room. The carpet was worn, the pattern faded.

The door opened. Vivian entered, followed by two maids. She held a dress. It was pink, frilly, and hideous.

"Put this on," Vivian ordered. "Mr. Hightower is coming for dinner."

"I will not marry that toad," Eleonora said.

"Your father owes him fifty million. You are the collateral."

The maids moved forward. Eleonora fought them. She scratched one, but they pinned her down. They stripped her of her suit and forced her into the pink monstrosity.

They dragged her downstairs.

The dining room was dimly lit. At the head of the table sat Mr. Hightower. He was a man made of grease and gold rings. He looked at Eleonora like she was a steak.

"Miss Compton," he leered. "Worth every penny."

Richard poured wine, his hands shaking. "She's yours tonight, if you sign the check."

Eleonora felt vomit rise in her throat.

Hightower reached out. His hand, covered in coarse hair, moved toward her arm.

Eleonora grabbed the steak knife from the table.

She slammed it down.

The blade vibrated, stuck in the wood, one millimeter from Hightower's finger.

The room froze.

"Touch me," Eleonora whispered, her eyes wide and manic, "and I will remove your fingers."

Hightower jumped back, then laughed. A wet, hacking sound. "Spicy! I like it!"

"Eleonora!" Richard roared.

Julian burst into the room. He was waving a paper. "The doctor confirmed it! Tiffany miscarried! Because of the fall!"

It was a lie. A blatant, convenient lie.

"Oh my god!" Vivian wailed.

"I'm pressing charges," Julian said, staring at Eleonora. "Assault. Unless..."

"Unless she disappears," Hightower suggested. "Marry me, little girl. I'll make the lawsuit go away. I have... influence."

"Fine," Julian said. "Take her. Just get her out of New York."

Eleonora looked at the knife. She couldn't fight them all.

She dropped her shoulders. "Okay."

"Okay?" Hightower blinked.

"I'll do it. But I need to use the restroom. To... freshen up."

Hightower grinned. "Don't be long."

Eleonora walked into the hallway bathroom. She locked the door.

She didn't look in the mirror. She climbed onto the sink.

She dug her fingernails into the ventilation grate. It was painted shut, but the screws were old. She remembered the simple pearl earrings they hadn't bothered to take. Prying one off, she used the sharp metal post as a lever, jamming it into the screw's rusted groove. The pearl snapped off, but the metal bit into the slot. It was agonizingly slow, her fingers raw, but the screw turned.

She pulled the grate off. A blast of dusty air hit her face.

It was a crawlspace. She used to hide here when her parents fought.

She hoisted herself up. The pink dress tore. She didn't care. She crawled into the darkness, the dust filling her lungs, crawling toward the only exit she knew.

Eleonora kicked the grate open and tumbled onto the wet grass of the backyard.

She landed hard. Her ankle twisted with a sickening pop.

Pain shot up her leg, blinding and white-hot. She bit her lip to keep from screaming.

Sirens.

Blue and red lights flashed against the trees.

She tried to stand, but her leg collapsed.

Police officers swarmed the yard. Vivian had called them. Of course she had.

"Eleonora Compton?" A flashlight blinded her. "You're under arrest."

"I'm the victim!" she screamed. "They held me hostage!"

The officer grabbed her arms, cuffing them behind her back. "We have a statement from three witnesses regarding assault on a pregnant woman and corporate theft."

"Theft?"

"Documents found in your bag, ma'am."

Tiffany. She must have planted something.

They shoved her into the back of a cruiser. Through the window, she saw Hightower talking to her father. They were shaking hands.

The holding cell was cold. It smelled of urine and bleach.

They took her shoes. They took her jewelry, but not the small gold locket she'd managed to slip from its chain and tuck deep into the padded lining of her bra just before they'd dragged her from her apartment.

Eleonora sat on the metal bench, shivering. Her ankle was swollen to the size of a grapefruit.

Stark Tower. Penthouse.

Almus Sharpe put down the phone. "She's been arrested. Vivian accused her of stealing trade secrets and causing a miscarriage."

Alden was tying his tie in the mirror. He paused. "Theft? That's clumsy."

"Should I post bail?"

Alden looked at his reflection. His eyes were unreadable.

He waited five seconds.

"No," he said.

Almus blinked. "Sir?"

"I want to see what she does," Alden said, turning to the window. "This is a stress test. If she breaks, she's useless to me. If she waits for a savior, she's weak."

"And if she fights?"

"Then she's my wife."

Back in the cell.

Officer Martinez, a woman with kind eyes, handed Eleonora a paper cup of water. "You don't look like a thief."

"I was framed," Eleonora said, her voice hoarse. "I need a phone call."

"You have the right to call a lawyer."

Eleonora dialed the number on the private card Alden had given her.

It rang.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

She held her breath. Pick up. Please, pick up.

Click. Voicemail.

The automated voice was cold. "The subscriber is not available."

Eleonora lowered the phone. The dial tone buzzed in her ear like a flatline.

He wasn't coming.

She was alone.

The interrogation room door opened.

It wasn't a detective. It was the Compton family lawyer, followed by Hightower.

"Eleonora," the lawyer said. "Sign this plea deal. Admit to the assault. Mr. Hightower will pay your bail and the charges will be... suspended."

"It's an admission of guilt," Eleonora said. "I'll have a record."

"No," Hightower grinned, leaning over the table. "I'll take you to my private island. For 'rehab'. No one will check your record there."

It was a kidnapping. Legalized kidnapping.

"Don't fight it, baby," Hightower whispered. "Alden Stark didn't come, did he?"

The words hit her like a physical blow.

No. He didn't.

She looked at Hightower's sweaty face. She looked at the lawyer.

"Okay," she said. "I'll sign. But I need air. It's suffocating in here."

Officer Martinez stepped in. "Mr. Hightower, you need to process the bail payment at the front desk."

Hightower smirked. "Don't go anywhere, honey."

He walked out.

Eleonora stood up. "'Officer,' she said, her voice loud and clear enough to carry, 'I wish to file a formal complaint against the arresting officer, badge number 4815. There was improper chain of custody for the evidence they allegedly found, and I was not read my Miranda rights correctly upon arrest.'"

Martinez sighed, annoyed by the paperwork this would create. As she turned to a superior to report the complaint, and with Hightower distracted signing the bond, Eleonora saw her opening-a brief moment of procedural chaos. She didn't shove anyone. She simply slipped through the gap created by the shift change and bolted.

"Hey!" Martinez shouted.

"Grab her!" Hightower roared.

Eleonora burst through the double doors.

The rain hit her instantly. A wall of water.

She had no shoes. Her bare feet slapped against the wet pavement. Glass shards and gravel dug into her skin.

She didn't feel it. She ran.

She heard heavy footsteps behind her. Hightower's bodyguards.

She reached the main road. Traffic was blurring past.

She ran into the middle of the street.

A yellow cab slammed on its brakes, skidding on the wet asphalt. The horn blared.

Eleonora ripped the back door open and dove in. "Drive! Stark Tower! Go!"

A fist pounded on the trunk. A face appeared at the window-one of the guards.

"Drive!" she screamed.

The driver floored it. The cab lurched forward, leaving the guard cursing in the rain.

Eleonora collapsed on the seat. She looked at her feet. They were shredded, bleeding onto the rubber mats.

Thirty minutes later. The cab pulled up to the glass monolith of Stark Tower.

"That's fifty bucks, lady," the driver said.

Eleonora reached into her bra, her fingers finding the small, hard shape in the lining. Her mother's locket.

She ripped it out. "This is gold. It's worth five hundred. Keep the change."

She threw it on the front seat and rolled out of the car.

She stood on the sidewalk. Barefoot. Bleeding. Soaking wet.

She looked up at the revolving doors. This was it.