With a twist of the ignition key, the rusted Ford Mustang roared to life, its engine block shaking the entire chassis.

Harper grabbed the overhead safety handle as the tires squealed against the hot pavement. The car shot out of the gates and onto the sun-baked Nevada interstate.

Chloe immediately cranked the stereo dial to the maximum. Heavy indie rock blasted through the blown-out speakers, vibrating the floorboards beneath Harper's feet.

Her ears ringing from the sheer volume, Harper reached over and turned the dial down just enough to stop her eardrums from bleeding.

"I like your jacket," Harper yelled over the music, pointing to Chloe's distressed leather moto jacket.

Chloe glanced sideways, the rigid tension in her jaw relaxing slightly.

"I'm taking you to a real diner," Chloe shouted back. "No tourists. Just locals."

"Perfect," Harper said, her eyes scanning the barren desert landscape, tracking the street signs to ensure they were heading toward the coordinates her investigator had sent.

The Mustang swerved sharply, kicking up a massive cloud of yellow dust as they pulled into a desolate, gravel parking lot. A flickering, broken neon sign buzzed loudly above a squat, retro diner.

Pushing her door open, Harper’s heels crunched loudly against the loose gravel. The midday heat hit her instantly, causing a thin layer of sweat to break out across her collarbones.

Suddenly, a low, synchronized hum vibrated through the ground.

Harper turned her head toward the highway. Three massive, heavily modified matte-black Cadillac Escalades rolled into the lot, moving in a tight, aggressive tactical formation. They parked in a way that completely blocked the exit, their blacked-out, bulletproof windows radiating pure menace.

The doors of all three SUVs opened simultaneously. Over a dozen massive men in dark suits poured out, their eyes scanning the perimeter.

Chloe's face drained of color. She grabbed Harper's arm, her nails digging in. "Don't look at them," she hissed, her voice trembling. "That's the local syndicate. Absolute psychos. Bad news."

Harper frowned, rubbing her arm where Chloe had pinched her.

The rear door of the lead Escalade was pulled open by a guard. A towering, broad-shouldered man stepped out into the blinding sun.

He had his back to Harper.

He slowly raised his left hand to adjust the cuff of his custom black dress shirt. The harsh sunlight caught the metal on his wrist.

It was a highly distinct, custom silver watch.

Harper's lungs seized, the air vanishing from her chest. It was the exact same watch from the grainy photograph in her father's file.

The man, flanked by his guards, began walking toward the diner entrance with heavy, measured steps.

Chloe yanked Harper's arm again, trying to drag her toward the door before the men got there. Harper stumbled, but she couldn't tear her eyes away from the man's broad back.

Just before he disappeared inside, Harper quickly memorized the Nevada license plate of the lead SUV.

Her heart hammered violently against her ribs as she pushed open the heavy glass door of the diner, stepping directly into the lion's den.

The tarnished brass bell above the diner door clanged, and a wall of freezing air conditioning hit Harper’s face, raising goosebumps on her arms. The air inside smelled aggressively of stale bacon grease and burnt coffee.

Chloe marched quickly down the narrow aisle, keeping her head down, and slid into a cracked, cherry-red vinyl booth by the front window.

Harper slid in opposite her, deliberately positioning herself for a clear, unobstructed view of the entrance and the main walkway.

An exhausted waitress tossed two sticky, laminated menus onto the table and walked away without a word.

Suddenly, the phone inside Harper's bag began to vibrate with a high-pitched, frantic buzz.

She pulled it out. The screen flashed the name of her ultimate rival in the New York social scene: Sloane Vaughn.

Harper clenched her jaw, suppressing a strong urge to throw the phone against the wall.

"Who is it?" Chloe asked, talking around a plastic straw.

"The biggest parasite in Manhattan," Harper muttered.

She pressed the green button, bringing the phone to her ear.

"Harper!" Sloane's shrill, artificially sweet voice pierced her eardrum. Harper pulled the phone an inch away from her head.

"I'm at the polo club in the Hamptons," Sloane bragged loudly. "It's absolutely gorgeous today."

Harper picked up her glass of ice water, gripping it tightly. "Fascinating, Sloane."

"You'll never guess who just bought me a glass of champagne," Sloane purred. "Barrett Petty."

A sharp, physical ache splintered behind Harper's ribs. Her fingers tightened around the glass until her knuckles ached, her throat closing up with sudden, violent jealousy.

She forced herself to take a breath, letting out a light, breathy laugh that sounded perfectly careless. "Barrett always did have a soft spot for charity cases," she mocked.

The line went dead silent for a second. When Sloane spoke again, the fake sweetness was gone, replaced by venom. "Where are you, Harper? Everyone says you got dumped by Sterling and ran away to hide."

Harper realized her mother's social circle was already leaking poison.

She leaned back against the sticky vinyl seat, her mind racing. Her eyes darted over the top of her menu, scanning the back of the diner. The men in black suits had completely taken over the rear section, forming a human wall around the dark corner booth. The towering man was sitting in the deepest shadow, his face still hidden from view.

Harper forced her attention back to the phone. She needed to shut Sloane up, permanently.

She dropped her voice into a low, conspiratorial whisper.

"Listen to me very carefully, Sloane," Harper whispered, her tone laced with deadly seriousness.

Sloane gasped sharply on the other end, her gossip radar fully activated.

"Sterling didn't dump me. He's not even in Hawaii," Harper lied smoothly, not blinking. "He suffered a massive overdose."

"Oh my god," Sloane breathed.

"He's in a lockdown rehab facility," Harper continued, her voice tight. "The Bright family is spending millions to bury this so the stock prices don't tank."

"What is he on?" Sloane demanded, her voice vibrating with greedy excitement.

"I'm not discussing details," Harper said flatly. "If this leaks, my father will know it was you."

She knew Sloane. The threat wouldn't stop her; it would only make the secret more valuable.

Sloane promised absolute silence and quickly hung up.

Harper stared at the black screen, a cold smile touching her lips. That rumor would consume Manhattan by dinner time.

Tossing the phone onto the table, she picked up her water glass. As she lifted it, her eyes caught a reflection in the chrome napkin dispenser.

The curved metal distorted the image, but it was clear enough.

A man in a black suit was standing in the narrow hallway leading to the restrooms. One of the guards from the parking lot.

He was standing perfectly still, his body angled toward Harper's booth, staring directly at the back of her head.

Harper's blood turned to ice. The cold glass slipped slightly in her sweaty grip.

He was close enough. He definitely heard her talking about the Bright family and the stock prices.

In the reflection, the guard turned his back and walked away.

A cold sweat broke out across the back of Harper's neck, her pulse pounding violently in her ears.

Chloe waved a hand in front of Harper's face. "Hello? You look like you're going to throw up."

Harper forced a rigid smile. "The AC is just blowing right on my neck."

She grabbed her menu and held it up high, using it as a shield, peeking over the laminated edge to track the guard.

He walked straight to the dark booth in the back, leaning down to whisper directly into the ear of the towering man.

The boss didn't move a single muscle. He didn't look up. He just continued to stare at his black coffee.

The waitress suddenly appeared, slamming two massive, greasy cheeseburgers onto the table. The smell of charred meat hit Harper's nose, making her stomach churn violently.

Chloe grabbed her burger and took a massive bite, completely oblivious to the lethal tension in the room.

Harper stabbed her fork into a french fry. She couldn't hide now. She had to know if the man in the back was the cleaner.