The ballroom of the Kirk estate was a cavern of gold leaf and crystal. It smelled of expensive perfume and old money.

When Gunnar walked in with Elayne on his arm, the room didn't just go quiet; it froze.

Elayne kept her chin high. She could feel the weight of hundreds of eyes. They were dissecting her. The fraudster's daughter. The ruined girl.

"Smile," Gunnar murmured, his lips barely moving. His hand was a warm, heavy weight on the small of her back. "You adore me."

"I'm contemplating murder," Elayne whispered back, smiling radiantly.

"Good. Passion sells."

He steered her toward the main bar, then paused as a group of gray-haired men waved him over. "Stay here," he commanded. "Don't speak. Don't embarrass me."

He walked away, leaving her stranded on an island of parquet floor.

Almost immediately, the sharks circled.

"Well, well," a voice drawled. Angelique Tate. The Senator's daughter. She was wearing a dress that cost more than Elayne's father's bail.

Angelique stepped into Elayne's personal space, holding a flute of champagne. "I heard they let visitors bring snacks to the penitentiary now. Is that where you've been, Elayne? Visiting Daddy?"

A titter of laughter rippled through Angelique's entourage.

"And that dress," Angelique sighed, looking Elayne up and down. "So... vintage. Is that from the season before the FBI raided your closet?"

Elayne's fingers tightened around her glass. She wanted to shrink. She wanted to run.

But then she remembered the contract. Maintain the Kirk image. A Kirk didn't get bullied. A Kirk destroyed.

Elayne took a slow sip of her wine. She let the silence stretch until Angelique looked uncomfortable.

"It is vintage," Elayne said, her voice sweet and clear. "Unlike your gown, Angelique. Isn't that a Ponti original? I heard he was indicted for money laundering last week. The FBI is seizing all assets purchased from his atelier. You might want to check if they're waiting for you at the coat check."

Angelique's face went slack.

Elayne turned to the woman on Angelique's left. "And Mrs. Vanderbilt. How is your husband? Is he enjoying his time in the Caymans? I heard the weather is lovely, though the paternity laws are quite strict regarding... outside children."

The circle of women recoiled as if Elayne had pulled a knife.

Elayne smiled. She had been a curator. She knew every dirty secret, every hidden asset, every fake masterpiece in this room.

Angelique's face turned a blotchy red. "You bitch," she hissed. She jerked her hand, splashing her champagne forward.

Elayne sidestepped with the grace of a dancer.

The liquid missed her entirely and splashed onto the pristine white tuxedo of the Japanese investor standing behind her.

The investor gasped. The room went silent.

Angelique stood there, glass empty, looking horrified.

A hand settled on Elayne's waist.

Gunnar was back. He looked at the wet tuxedo, then at Angelique's terrified face, and finally at Elayne.

He didn't look angry. The corner of his mouth twitched.

"My fiancée seems to be having a lively evening," Gunnar said, his voice cutting through the tension. He pulled Elayne closer, his grip possessive.

He leaned down, his breath hot against her ear. "I thought I told you to behave."

"I'm protecting your asset value," Elayne whispered back. "Weakness devalues the stock."

Gunnar looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time. There was a flicker of respect in the ice.

"Remind me never to cross you in public," he murmured.

Just then, a commotion at the entrance caught Elayne's eye. She froze.

Meredith. Her stepmother was arguing with security, trying to push past the velvet rope.

Elayne's blood ran cold. If Meredith saw Gunnar, she would demand more money. She would make a scene.

"I need the ladies' room," Elayne said abruptly, pulling away from Gunnar.

She didn't wait for his answer. She turned and walked fast toward the side corridor, slipping out of the ballroom before Meredith could spot her.

She hurried down the hallway, looking for a bathroom, but took a wrong turn. She found herself at the foot of the grand staircase. She ran up, needing to put distance between herself and the chaos.

She opened the first door she found on the second floor and slipped inside, leaning back against the heavy wood, breathing hard.

The room was dark. It smelled of old paper and dust.

"Who are you?" a voice rasped from the shadows. "Why do you hold yourself like that?"

Elayne jumped, her hand flying to her throat.

In the corner, sitting in a wheelchair, was an old man. His skin was like parchment, his eyes clouded with cataracts. Old Man Kirk. Gunnar's grandfather.

He pointed a shaking finger at her. Specifically, at the locket resting on her collarbone.

"That locket," the old man whispered. "It's a Patek Philippe 'Firstborn.' My wife had one. A heavy thing for a girl with no child to wear."

Elayne clutched the locket tight. Inside was the only photo she had of her son.

"I... I don't know what you mean," she stammered, backing toward the door.

"Liar," the old man hissed. "The blood always tells."

Elayne stumbled out of the old man's room, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She turned blindly and collided with a solid wall of chest.

Strong hands gripped her shoulders to steady her.

"Easy," Gunnar's voice said.

Elayne looked up. He was frowning, looking at her pale face. "Did you get lost?"

"I... yes," Elayne lied, her voice breathless. "It's a big house."

Gunnar stared at her for a second too long, then steered her down the hall. "Come in here. We need to talk."

He opened the double doors to the main study. It was a masculine room, all mahogany and leather. He closed the door, shutting out the distant hum of the party.

Gunnar walked to a crystal decanter and poured two fingers of amber liquid. He handed her the glass.

"Drink."

Elayne took a large swallow. The whiskey burned, grounding her.

"You have a silver tongue, Elayne," Gunnar said, leaning against his desk. He was watching her like a specimen in a jar. "What you did to Angelique Tate... it was brutal. I liked it."

Elayne set the glass down. She reached into her clutch and pulled out a crumpled check. It was for fifty thousand dollars-the proceeds from selling the last painting she had managed to hide from the marshals.

She slid it across the desk.

"This is a down payment," she said, her voice steadying. "I'll pay you the rest. I can't do this. I can't be your fiancée."

Gunnar looked at the check. He didn't pick it up. He laughed, a low, dark sound.

"Fifty thousand?" He pushed off the desk and walked toward her. "Elayne, my stock went up four points tonight. That's worth three hundred million dollars. Do you think this covers my time?"

He reached out, took the check, and slowly tore it in half. Then in quarters. He let the pieces flutter down onto the Persian rug.

"You aren't leaving," Gunnar said. "In fact, the terms have changed."

"What?"

"My grandfather is failing. The board is circling. I need you close." He stopped right in front of her, boxing her in against the armchair. "You're moving into my penthouse. Tomorrow."

"No!" Elayne panicked. "I can't. I... I have insomnia. Terrible insomnia. I pace all night. I scream. I'll keep you awake."

Gunnar's eyes narrowed. "Are you hiding a man in that apartment, Elayne?"

"No," she said too quickly.

"Then you're moving in." He pulled out his phone. "Cornell. Send the styling team to the Baxter residence at 8:00 AM. Pack her up."

He hung up before she could protest.

"You can't just order me around!" Elayne cried. "What if I go to the press? What if I tell them this is all a sham?"

Gunnar stepped closer. He reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered on her jawline. The touch was electric, terrifying.

"You won't," he whispered. "Because your father's bail is posted by my company. You talk, he goes back to a cell. General population this time."

Elayne froze. He held all the cards.

"You're a monster," she whispered.

"I'm a businessman," Gunnar corrected. "And you are my most valuable asset right now."

A siren wailed in the distance, getting closer.

There was a knock at the door. A servant entered, looking flustered. "Sir, the police are at the gate. A Mrs. Meredith Baxter was trying to climb the fence."

Gunnar raised an eyebrow at Elayne. "Your family is colorful."

He opened the door for her. "Go home, Elayne. Pack your bags. I'll see you at breakfast."

Elayne walked out, her legs feeling like lead.

8:00 AM. She had less than ten hours to make her son disappear.

The Baxter townhouse was a rotting tooth in a row of perfect smiles. Inside, it smelled of stale wine and desperation.

Elayne found her father, Richard, slumped on the sofa. Meredith was pacing, screaming into her phone.

"They wouldn't let me in! Me!" Meredith shrieked when she saw Elayne. "You useless girl! Why didn't you come get me?"

Elayne walked past her. "I was busy saving us from your debts."

"Don't you walk away from me!"

"Meredith, shut up," Richard groaned. "Leave her alone."

Elayne locked her bedroom door and leaned against it. She slid to the floor.

She crawled to her closet and pried up a loose floorboard. Beneath it was a baby monitor.

She turned it on. The grainy green image showed a crib. A small lump was breathing rhythmically. He was safe. He was at her former nanny's apartment in Queens.

She dialed the nanny, Mrs. Higgins.

"I need to move him," Elayne whispered. "Tomorrow morning. Early."

"He's warm, Elayne," Mrs. Higgins said, her voice worried. "He's been fussy all evening."

"It's just teething," Elayne said, trying to convince herself. "I'll be there at six."

She went to the window. She pulled back the curtain.

Two black SUVs were parked across the street. Men in suits were leaning against them.

Gunnar's men.

He hadn't just sent her home. He had put her under house arrest.

Elayne couldn't leave. If she walked out with a bag, they would follow. If she went to Queens, she would lead them straight to the baby.

She didn't sleep.

At 7:55 AM, Cornell knocked on the door. Behind him was a team of stylists holding garment bags.

"Good morning, Miss Baxter," Cornell said.

"I need to change," Elayne said. "I'll use the downstairs powder room."

She went into the small bathroom and locked the door. She turned on the faucet loud.

She opened the small window above the toilet. It opened into a narrow alleyway filled with trash cans. It was the only blind spot.

Elayne squeezed through. She dropped into a pile of garbage bags, landing hard on her ankle. Pain shot up her leg, but she bit her lip and scrambled up.

She ran. She limped through the alley, out onto the side street, and flagged down a taxi.

"Queens," she gasped. "Fast."

Her phone buzzed. Mrs. Higgins.

"Elayne, he's burning up. It's 104. He's having a seizure."

Elayne's world stopped. The plan to hide him, the plan to run-it all vanished.

"Take him to Lenox Hill," Elayne screamed at the driver. "Turn around! Go to the hospital!"

She didn't care about Gunnar. She didn't care about the contract. Her son was dying.

She burst into the ER waiting room twenty minutes later. Mrs. Higgins was there, holding the small bundle.

Elayne grabbed her son. His skin was on fire.

"Help!" she screamed. "Someone help him!"

Nurses swarmed. They took the baby. Elayne collapsed into a chair, shaking uncontrollably.

She sat there for an hour, staring at the floor.

Then, she noticed the silence. The ER had gone quiet.

She looked up.

Standing at the entrance of the waiting area was Cornell Conrad. He wasn't looking at her. He was adjusting his glasses.

Behind him, walking through the automatic doors, was Gunnar Kirk.

He looked out of place in the sterile, fluorescent light. He looked like a storm cloud.

He walked straight to her. He stopped.

A nurse came out. "Ms. Baxter? The baby is stable. It was a febrile seizure. He's fine."

Elayne sobbed with relief.

Gunnar looked at the nurse. Then he looked at Elayne. Then he looked at the door where the baby was.

"Whose is it?" Gunnar asked. His voice was devoid of emotion.

Elayne stood up. Her mind raced. "A friend's," she lied. "She... she's in surgery. I'm the emergency contact."

Gunnar stared at her. His eyes bored into hers. He knew she was lying. But he didn't care.

"Mr. Kirk," Cornell interrupted gently. "The press is outside. A freelancer followed us from the house. They saw her come in with the child."

Gunnar's jaw tightened. Cornell was already on his phone, his voice a low, brutal command to a subordinate. "Buy the photographer's memory card. And his car, if you have to. The story is that Miss Baxter was visiting a child from the gallery's outreach program. Plant it. Now." He hung up and looked at Gunnar. "Get in the car, Elayne. Now."

"I can't leave him!"

"Cornell will handle the... friend's child," Gunnar said coldly. "You are coming with me. Unless you want the world to see my fiancée holding a bastard child in a public ER."