I left through the staff exit.

Rain had turned to sleet by the time I reached Oak Street. A black sedan idled across from my building. I recognized Julian in the back seat as it rolled past me and stopped at the corner.

So that was how Ethan always beat the subway home.

I waited in the bodega doorway until the car disappeared, then climbed four flights to our apartment.

Julian was sitting on the mattress in his old gray hoodie. He had rubbed soot across one cheek and changed into scuffed work boots. If I hadn't seen the sedan, the transformation might have impressed me.

"Maya?" He jumped up. "Where have you been? I called the store."

"The train stalled."

"You're freezing." He took my hands and rubbed them between his palms. "You shouldn't be walking alone this late."

The concern was perfectly performed.

"How was work?" I asked.

"Bad. A stack of steel pipe came off a forklift." He reached behind him and produced a ribboned box. "I almost forgot. One more birthday present."

Inside was a designer wallet. The tag—$199—had been left where I couldn't miss it.

"Ethan, how did you pay for this?"

"I skipped lunch for two weeks." His eyes shone on cue. "You've been carrying cash in a torn envelope. I wanted you to have one nice thing."

At Vesper, he had spent more than that on a bottle no one finished.

I took his wrist. A pale band circled the skin where his watch had been.

"Anything for you," he said.

I slid my thumb over the mark. "I love it."

Relief warmed his smile. He thought I still believed him.

"Come to bed."

"In a minute. I need a shower."

He fell asleep before I turned off the bathroom tap.

I stood over the sink and let myself feel exactly one minute of grief. Then I washed my face, opened the wallet, and counted everything I owned: forty-two dollars.

At six, Julian's phone buzzed on the floor beside the mattress. He woke, checked the screen, and dressed in a hurry.

"Foreman needs me early," he said, kissing my cheek. "I'll bring groceries tonight."

"Be careful around the trains."

The door closed behind him.

I packed before his footsteps reached the second floor: jeans, sweaters, birth certificate, high school diploma, and the photograph of my grandmother I kept inside an old Bible. Everything fit into one gym bag.

I had just zipped it when someone hit the door hard enough to shake the frame.

"Maya! Open up."

Frank.

My father had been gone for two years, ever since he skipped bail on an assault charge. I knew better than to answer.

The second blow split the cheap lock. The door flew inward.

He looked worse than I remembered—greasy beard, army-surplus coat, eyes red from whatever he had been drinking. He swept the room with a frantic stare.

"Where's the money?"

"There is no money."

"Your grandmother sold land in Dover. Thirty grand. She left it to you."

"She died owing the hospital."

He crossed the room and caught a fistful of my hair. "Don't lie to me."

I drove my elbow into his ribs. He swore and shoved me into the dresser. Pain tore through my side.

Then he saw the wallet on the mattress.

"Well, look at you."

I snatched it first and shoved it inside my jacket.

Frank kicked my gym bag aside. "I owe people, Maya. Serious people. I gave them your name and address."

"What did you do?"

"Signed a few papers for you." He smiled, showing a broken tooth. "Family helps family."

The landing creaked behind him. Our landlord shouted from downstairs that he had called 911.

Frank backed toward the door. "They'll be here by tomorrow. Thirty thousand, plus interest. If you don't have it, they'll collect another way."

He ran before the police arrived.

My phone buzzed ten minutes later from an unknown number.

A photograph filled the screen: me leaving the grocery store the previous night.

Under it was a message.

FORTY-EIGHT HOURS. YOUR FATHER'S DEBT IS YOUR PROBLEM NOW.

The collectors were waiting outside the market the next morning.

There were two of them, both in dark jackets, neither pretending to be legitimate. One blocked the employee entrance while the other showed me a copy of a loan agreement bearing my name and a signature that looked nothing like mine.

"That's forged," I said.

He folded the paper. "Tell it to your father. Forty-eight hours became thirty-six."

"I don't owe you anything."

"No," he said. "But Frank does, and he gave us your address."

They walked away before anyone on the street thought to look twice.

I locked myself inside the store and started unloading canned beans. Routine was the only thing keeping my hands steady.

"Do you know where anything is in here?"

I turned.

Christian stood at the end of the aisle in a camel-colored coat, looking as if the fluorescent lights had personally offended him. I recognized him immediately from Vesper: Julian's friend, the owner of the Aston Martin, the man who had laughed hardest.

"The registers are up front," I said.

"I'm not shopping." He held out a car key. "I need a favor. Drive to Mercer Street, pick up a portfolio from my apartment, and bring it to my hotel. Five hundred dollars."

"Hire a courier."

"I don't trust couriers." His gaze moved to the bruise near my temple. "And you need the money."

I gripped the edge of the carton. "I'm working."

"For minimum wage." He stepped closer. "Walk out with me and I'll make it worth your time."

There it was: the assumption that everyone had a price and rich men deserved to name it.

"Keep your money."

His eyebrows rose.

"I'd rather stock beans than work for trust-fund trash."

For a beat, the aisle was silent.

Then Christian laughed—not loudly, not cruelly. Almost with surprise.

"Trust-fund trash," he repeated. "Fair enough."

He put the key away and left.

Only after the door shut did I realize he had called me Maya. I wasn't wearing my name tag.

***

At seven the next morning, Mr. Henderson was clearing his desk into a cardboard box.

"What happened?" I asked.

"Owner sold the building and the business." He wouldn't meet my eyes. "Buyer kept the staff. Apparently."

"Who bought it?"

"I did."

Christian emerged from the back office carrying coffee and a cream-colored folder.

Mr. Henderson muttered something under his breath and left. The lock clicked behind him.

I rounded on Christian. "You bought a grocery store because I insulted you?"

"No. I bought it because the property company accepted an obscene offer, and because I needed five minutes of your attention." He set the folder on the counter. "You can keep this job under the same terms, or you can take the one I'm offering."

The first page read EXECUTIVE ASSISTANT—TEMPORARY CONTRACT.

I skimmed the terms. One hundred dollars an hour. Night work. Organizing merger files, digitizing records, and maintaining strict confidentiality.

It was too much money for clerical work and not nearly enough for whatever Christian actually wanted.

"You know about Julian," I said.

His expression barely changed. "I know he called himself Ethan."

"You sat there while he made me the punch line."

"I did."

At least he didn't pretend otherwise.

"And now you want to hire me?"

"I want someone smart, discreet, and angry enough to pay attention."

I pushed the contract back. "This is a trap."

"Probably." He took a second document from the folder and placed it beside the first. It was a copy of Frank's forged loan agreement, followed by photographs of the two men who had cornered me. "But it's a trap with an exit."

My mouth went dry. "How did you get that?"

"Money buys information. It also buys debt."

"You bought Frank's loan?"

"Not yet. I can, if you sign. You'll repay the principal through wages. No interest. The collectors stay away from you."

"That signature isn't mine."

"I know. A court would agree. The men holding the paper won't wait for a court."

My phone vibrated in my pocket.

TEN HOURS. THEN WE START WITH A FINGER.

Christian saw my face but didn't ask to read the message. He uncapped a fountain pen and set it on the contract.

"Why me?" I asked.

His answer came too quickly. "Because Julian thinks you belong to him."

"So this is about beating him."

"Partly."

"And the rest?"

His gaze settled on the sparrow at my throat. "Sign, and maybe I'll tell you."

I read the cancellation clause twice. Either party could end the arrangement in writing. No penalty. No claim on my personal life. Whoever drafted it had made the contract clean enough to survive a lawyer.

That didn't make Christian safe. It made him careful.

I signed.

He closed the folder before I could change my mind.

"Nine tonight," he said. "St. Regis, suite 1904. Bring identification. A laptop will be waiting."

I pocketed the pen. "I'm keeping this."

For the first time, his smile reached his eyes. "Consider it a signing bonus."