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."

Elayne stood by the open door of the SUV, shivering in the morning air.

Cornell stepped forward. "I will ensure the child is transferred to a private room and attended to, Miss Baxter. Go."

He gave her a look. It wasn't malicious. It was a warning. Go before he loses his temper.

Elayne got in.

The ride back to the Baxter house was silent. Gunnar typed furiously on his phone.

When they arrived, the street was blocked. Not by police, but by delivery trucks.

Dozens of them. Men were carrying boxes wrapped in silver paper into the house.

"What is this?" Elayne asked.

"The engagement gifts," Gunnar said, not looking up. "Part of the deal. Jewelry, couture, assets to stabilize your family's image."

They walked in.

Meredith was in the hallway, ripping open a box. She pulled out a diamond necklace that caught the light like fire.

"Oh my god," Meredith gasped. She saw Cornell. "Is this... is this for the Baxter girl?"

Cornell paused. He looked at Elayne, standing in the shadow of the doorframe. Then he looked at Meredith's greedy face.

"Yes," Cornell said. "For the future Mrs. Kirk."

Meredith screamed. "Tiffany! Tiffany, wake up!"

Tiffany, Elayne's stepsister, came running down the stairs in a silk robe. She saw the diamonds.

"He sent them!" Tiffany shrieked. "I knew it! I said on my stream last night that a mystery billionaire was watching me!"

Meredith grabbed Tiffany's shoulders. "He wants to marry you, baby! Look at this!"

Elayne stepped forward to speak, to correct them.

Cornell caught her arm. His grip was firm.

"Let them," Cornell whispered. "A lightning rod is most useful when it draws the strike away from the real target. Let Tiffany play the princess. It keeps you out of the line of fire."

Elayne looked at him, shocked. "Why?"

"Mr. Kirk doesn't care who signs the papers, as long as the name is Baxter," Cornell said. "And if they are distracted... you have leverage."

Elayne looked at Tiffany, who was trying to shove her wrist into a diamond bracelet that was too small. She looked at Meredith, who was already calculating the pawn value.

A plan formed in Elayne's mind. A way out.

If Tiffany thought she was the bride... Elayne could disappear. She could take her son and run while they were distracted by the wedding circus.

Elayne stepped back into the shadows.

"Yes," Elayne said softly. "Congratulations, Tiffany."

Tiffany looked at her with a sneer. "I told you, Elayne. You're just the help. Gunnar Kirk wants a real woman."

Tiffany held up a dress-a size 2 Chanel. "I'll fit into this by the wedding," she declared, sucking in her stomach.

Elayne watched the farce. "I'm sure you will, Tiff."

Gunnar had already gone to the study to take a call. He hadn't witnessed the mix-up.

Elayne smiled. It was a cold, sharp smile.

Enjoy the diamonds, Tiffany, she thought. You're just fattening yourself up for the slaughter.

The next forty-eight hours were a blur of insanity.

Tiffany's Instagram following exploded. She posted photos of the gifts, captioning them with cryptic heart emojis and BillionaireWife. She didn't tag Gunnar, but the internet detectives did the rest.

Elayne played the role of the bitter, jealous sister perfectly. She fetched coffee. She held pincushions.

And she sabotaged everything.

"Mr. Kirk's assistant is on the phone," Meredith barked. "He wants to know about the flower arrangements."

Elayne took the phone. She walked into the pantry.

"This is Elayne," she said, pitching her voice higher, mimicking Tiffany's nasal whine. "Listen, about the flowers. I want lilies. Thousands of them. And for the appetizers... peanut satay. It's trendy."

She knew Gunnar hated lilies. And she knew, from a dossier she had read years ago, that he was deathly allergic to peanuts.

She hung up, heart pounding. She wanted him to hate the bride. She wanted him to be so disgusted he wouldn't look closely at the altar.

Across town, in the glass tower of Kirk Industries, Gunnar listened to the recording of the call.

He smirked.

"Peanuts," he said. "She's trying to kill me."

"She has claws," Gunnar noted to Cornell, a flicker of something cold and appreciative in his eyes. "I'll give her that."

"Shall I cancel the order, sir?" his assistant asked.

"No," Gunnar said, spinning his chair to look out at the city. "Let her think she's won. Cornell, swap the entire catering menu. Same dishes, different kitchen. I want to see her face at the reception when I eat the satay and don't die. Let her think she's in control."

He thought it was Elayne. He thought the woman who had kissed him in the restaurant was playing a game of brinkmanship. He admired the audacity.

"Let her have her fun," Gunnar said.

Back at the townhouse, Tiffany was having a meltdown.

"I need more followers!" she screamed. "Elayne, take a picture of me with the ring!"

Elayne snapped the photo. While Tiffany was busy editing filters, Elayne slipped into her room.

She pulled a shoe box from under the bed. Inside was her passport and a stack of cash she had skimmed from the household budget over the years.

She had booked a flight to Zurich for 11:00 AM on the wedding day.

While Tiffany was walking down the aisle, Elayne would be in the air.

She looked at her reflection in the mirror. She looked tired. Hollow.

"Just one more day," she whispered.

Downstairs, Tiffany was laughing. "I'm going to be the Queen of New York!"

Elayne packed her bag. You can have the crown, Tiffany. It's made of thorns.