The alley behind the club was a narrow throat of brick and darkness. It smelled of rotting vegetables and urine. Imogene stepped out the heavy steel door, dragging a black garbage bag. It was 2:00 AM. Her shift was finally over.

She tossed the bag into the dumpster. Her muscles screamed in protest. She wiped her forehead with her sleeve, leaving a streak of grease.

"Immy."

The voice came from the shadows behind the dumpster. It was a voice from her nightmares.

Imogene spun around. A man stepped into the sickly yellow light of the streetlamp. Frank Kowalski. Her foster father. The man who had taken her in when she "disappeared" from the Coffey family, only to use her as a punching bag and an ATM.

He looked worse than usual. His face was unshaven, his eyes yellowed from liver failure and cheap vodka.

"Frank," Imogene said, her voice tight. "I don't have anything."

"Don't lie to me, girl," Frank slurred. He lunged, grabbing her wrist.

His fingers clamped right over the spot where Kenan had grabbed her the night before. The bruise was still tender. Imogene cried out, a sharp sound of pain.

"Let go!" She tried to twist away.

"I know you got paid," Frank snarled. "I got debts, Immy. Bad debts. You owe me. I put a roof over your head."

"I paid my rent!" Imogene shouted. "I gave it all to the landlord!"

"Liar!"

He yanked her backpack off her shoulder. He upended it. Her belongings scattered onto the wet pavement. Tampons, a hairbrush, a library book, and the remaining three hundred dollars from Tiffany's "loan" that she hadn't deposited yet.

"Hah!" Frank dove for the cash. "Rent, huh? You holding out on me?"

"That's for food!" Imogene dropped to her knees, trying to grab a bill.

Frank shoved her. He didn't hold back. He pushed her hard in the chest. Imogene fell backward, landing in a puddle of dirty water. Her head cracked against the brick wall.

Dizziness washed over her. Her training took over. She did a mental diagnostic. No concussion, just a minor contusion. She catalogued Frank's movements, the way he favored his left leg, the slight wheeze in his breath. Liver disease was progressing to his lungs. She watched helplessly as Frank stuffed the bills into his pocket.

The security guard at the back door, Miller, opened the door a crack. He looked out, saw the domestic dispute, and closed the door again. He wasn't getting paid enough to intervene in family drama.

Frank spat on the ground near her leg. "You're just like your mother. Useless bitch. Ungrateful."

He kicked the empty backpack at her. "Don't come home until you got more."

He turned and stumbled down the alley, disappearing into the night.

Imogene lay in the filth. The water soaked through her jeans. Her knee was bleeding. She felt a deep, crushing hollowness in her chest. She could kill him. She knew exactly where to cut to make him bleed out in thirty seconds. She was the Saint.

But she was also Imogene. And Imogene was helpless. She couldn't draw attention. She couldn't have the police run her prints. If the Coffey family found her, Clair would finish what she started years ago.

A low hum vibrated through the pavement.

A black car, long and sleek, rolled to a stop at the mouth of the alley. A Maybach. The tinted window in the back rolled down two inches.

Imogene didn't see the eyes watching her. She was too busy trying to gather her scattered tampons, her face burning with humiliation.

Inside the car, Kenan Cervantes watched. He saw the girl in the mud. He saw the man walk away with the money. He saw the pathetic scramble to collect her trash.

"Drive," Kenan said. His voice was cold.

"Should we help?" Marcus asked from the front seat.

"No," Kenan said. "It's just street trash fighting over scraps. It has nothing to do with us."

He rolled the window up. The world was full of broken people. He couldn't fix them all. He just needed to fix himself.

The car purred away.

Imogene stood up. She wiped the mud from her cheek. Her hands were shaking, not from fear, but from rage. She shoved her things into her dirty bag.

She looked at the empty alley.

Her fingers traced an invisible line on her own throat, right over the carotid artery. A single, clean motion. The thought was as calming as a prayer.

She turned and limped toward the subway, the fury banked into a cold, hard coal in her gut.

The front entrance of the club was a chaotic strobe of flashbulbs. The paparazzi were swarming like gnats, held back by velvet ropes and stone-faced bouncers.

Imogene had to pass the main entrance to get to the subway station. There was no other way. She pulled her hood down low, hugging her backpack to her chest. She tried to make herself small, to become part of the architecture.

The double doors of the club swung open.

Kenan Cervantes emerged.

The crowd erupted. "Kenan! Over here! Is the merger happening? Kenan!"

He was surrounded by a phalanx of bodyguards. He wore a black suit that fit him like armor. He looked nothing like the broken, feverish man she had held. He looked like a god of industry-untouchable, frozen, perfect.

Imogene paused. She couldn't help it. She was ten feet away, separated by a line of screaming photographers.

Kenan stopped. He adjusted his cufflinks. His gaze swept over the crowd, bored and detached.

Then, his eyes landed on her.

Time seemed to stutter.

He looked right at her. He saw the gray hoodie. He saw the mud stains on her jeans from the alley. He saw the messy hair escaping her hood.

There was no recognition in his eyes. No spark of memory.

There was only a flicker of mild distaste. A rich man looking at a stain on the scenery.

Imogene felt the look like a physical blow. It hurt more than Frank's shove. It was a complete erasure of her existence. To him, she wasn't the woman who saved his life. She was just background noise.

"Mr. Cervantes!"

A shout broke the moment. Frank Kowalski, emboldened by the cash and the vodka, burst from the crowd. He had followed her, or maybe he had just seen the fancy car.

"Mr. Cervantes! I have a business plan!" Frank yelled, lunging toward the VIP. "Solar panels! Listen to me!"

Two bodyguards intercepted him instantly. They slammed Frank into the pavement with practiced efficiency.

"Get off me!" Frank screamed. "I know people!"

Kenan didn't even flinch. He didn't look down at the man writhing on the ground. He stepped into the waiting Maybach as if Frank were a puddle to be stepped over.

Imogene's heart hammered in her throat. She backed away, terrified that Frank would point at her, that he would drag her into the spotlight.

"Immy!" Frank yelled, spotting her. "Tell them! Tell them who I am!"

Imogene turned and ran. She pushed through the tourists, ducked under a barrier, and sprinted down the stairs to the subway station. She didn't stop until she was through the turnstile.

She collapsed onto a plastic bench on the platform. Her breath came in ragged gasps.

Above ground, inside the quiet sanctuary of the Maybach, Marcus handed Kenan a tablet.

"The girl," Marcus said. "Tiffany. She's been quiet. No leaks."

Kenan nodded, looking out the window at the blurring city lights. "Good."

For a second, an image flashed in his mind. The girl in the hoodie. Her eyes. They were wide and terrified. They reminded him of... something.

"That girl outside," Kenan said. "The one in the gray."

"The homeless one?" Marcus asked.

"Never mind," Kenan said, dismissing the thought. It was ridiculous. The woman who helped him had hands that were steady and cool. That girl outside was a mess.

"Just drive," Kenan said.

Imogene sat on the swaying subway car. The lights flickered. She wrapped her arms around her knees. She felt foolish for thinking he might remember. Why would he? She was a ghost.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket.

She pulled it out. A text from Tiffany.

OMG. Guess who just gave me his personal card?

Imogene stared at the screen. A cold knot formed in her stomach.

Who? she typed back.

The reply came instantly, accompanied by a blurry photo of a black business card with silver embossing.

Marcus. The assistant. I think Kenan wants to see me again.

Imogene let the phone drop to her lap. The train rattled into the darkness, carrying her further and further away from the light.

Imogene's apartment was a closet with a window. It smelled of boiled cabbage from the neighbor's unit and damp plaster. She sat on her mattress, her phone vibrating incessantly against her leg.

Tiffany was live-tweeting her fantasy life.

Ping.

A photo. Tiffany's manicured hand resting on the leather seat of a car.

Caption: Riding in style. Cervantes Group knows how to treat a girl.

Imogene frowned. She zoomed in on the photo. The leather was worn. It wasn't a Maybach. It was a Lincoln Town Car-the standard car service the club used for VIP guests. Tiffany was lying.

Ping.

Imogene typed: Be careful, Tiff. These people aren't playing games.

Tiffany replied: Don't be jealous, Immy. This is my shot.

The next day, Tiffany didn't show up for her shift.

At noon, Imogene's phone buzzed again.

It was a photo sent directly to her. It showed a room. A massive, sun-drenched living room with floor-to-ceiling windows. In the corner, a twisted metal sculpture stood upright.

Imogene stopped breathing. It was the penthouse.

Tiffany's text: He invited me over. Said the place was too big for one person.

Imogene stared at the image. How? How did she get in?

The truth was mundane. Tiffany, emboldened, had called Marcus's office, playing the part of the concerned savior. She claimed she'd left a "sentimental" earring in the suite during the "incident." Marcus, needing to maintain the fragile cover story, had reluctantly authorized a one-time, ten-minute escorted entry for her to "retrieve" it. She'd used seven of those minutes to snap photos before being politely removed by security.

But Imogene didn't know that.

She felt a sharp, acidic sting in her chest. Jealousy? No. It was betrayal. That room was where she had saved him. That room was where he had held her.

"He chose her," Imogene whispered.

It made sense. Tiffany was beautiful. She was vibrant. She wasn't broken. Maybe Kenan remembered the night through a haze and his mind filled in the blanks with Tiffany's face.

Imogene forced herself to type back. Good luck.

She put the phone down. She had to let it go. If Tiffany was the "chosen one," then Imogene was safe. No one would come looking for the girl in the hoodie.

Meanwhile, Tiffany lay on her bed in her cramped Queens apartment, posting the photos to Instagram. She tagged them vaguely. NewBeginnings K.

Within hours, the gossip blogs picked it up. Mystery Brunette Linked to Tech Mogul Kenan Cervantes?

At Cervantes HQ, the PR algorithm flagged the posts.

"Sir," Marcus said, entering Kenan's office. "There are rumors. The girl... Tiffany. She's posting implications."

Kenan didn't look up from his code. "Is she showing my face?"

"No. Just the apartment."

"Let her," Kenan said. "It distracts the press from the health rumors. A playboy narrative is better than a dying CEO narrative."

"Understood."

Back at the club, the breakroom was buzzing.

"Did you see?" Sophie whispered. "Tiffany is practically living with him!"

"She's so lucky," another girl sighed.

Imogene wiped down the table, her movements mechanical.

"Imogene," Sophie called out. "You think she'll get us invited to the wedding?"

Imogene looked up. Her eyes were dull behind her glasses. "I hope so."

She walked out, feeling the weight of the lie pressing down on her. She was safe, yes. But she had never felt more alone. The world was celebrating a fake fairytale, while the real princess was scrubbing floors.