Damian's men moved toward the center display. One of them pulled out a heavy-duty plasma cutter and aimed it at the bulletproof glass protecting the Lotus Box.

Helen knew she had seconds. She reached into one of the small pouches on her tactical belt and pulled out a marble-sized smoke pellet.

She flicked her wrist, bouncing the pellet hard against the far wall near the ventilation grate. It popped with a sharp crack, releasing a thick, hissing cloud of white smoke.

Damian's men instantly raised their suppressed rifles, spinning toward the noise.

In that split second of distraction, Helen exploded from the shadows. She sprinted at the glass case, her laser pen already activated. She slashed it across the glass in a perfect circle. The glass shrieked and popped loose.

Damian whipped his head around. His eyes locked onto the slender figure in black.

"Take her down!" Damian roared. He lunged forward, his massive body closing the distance with terrifying speed.

Helen grabbed the Lotus Box. She sensed the rush of air behind her and violently twisted her torso.

Damian's heavy fist grazed her shoulder. The sheer force of the near-miss sent a shockwave of pain down her arm.

He didn't stop. He threw a brutal, military-style hook aimed at her head. Helen ducked under it, her body moving like water. She used his momentum against him, grabbing his wrist and twisting her hips to throw him.

Damian planted his feet, refusing to go down. He slammed her backward. Helen's spine hit the cold concrete wall with a bone-jarring thud.

Damian pressed his forearm against her collarbone, pinning her. Their bodies were crushed together in the dark. His hot, angry breath washed over her black mask.

In the violent struggle, Damian's heavy hand snagged against a small utility pouch on her belt, tearing the fabric. Immediately, a sharp, distinct scent of crushed pine and raw mountain herbs spilled into the suffocatingly close space between them. It was the exact same homemade paste the girl in the woods had rubbed on his chest.

Damian's pupils dilated. His heart slammed against his ribs. "Jane," he breathed, his voice thick with shock and rage.

Helen's stomach tightened. His senses were too sharp.

She didn't speak. She brought her knee up in a vicious, punishing strike, driving it directly into his wounded abdomen.

Damian let out a choked gasp. The pain was blinding. His grip on her collarbone loosened for a fraction of a second.

Helen spun out of his hold. She ripped a high-explosive flashbang from her vest, closed her eyes tightly, and smashed it against the floor between them.

The vault erupted in a blinding, searing white light.

Damian's men screamed, dropping their weapons to cover their eyes. Damian squeezed his eyes shut, tears of physiological pain leaking from the corners. Blinded, he reached out blindly, his fingers clawing at the air.

He caught a handful of fabric.

Helen didn't hesitate. She slashed her knife downward, severing the piece of her jacket he held.

When the spots finally cleared from Damian's vision, the vault was empty. The glass case was broken. The Lotus Box was gone.

Damian stood in the center of the room, his chest heaving. He looked down at his hand. His fingers were wrapped tightly around a jagged piece of black tactical fabric.

His jaw locked. The muscles in his neck strained against his skin. "Lock down every block in a five-mile radius," he growled to his groaning men. "Find her."

High above the street, Helen scrambled across the rooftops, the Lotus Box secured against her chest, racing back to the toxic Gallagher estate.

Helen walked into the Gallagher dining room at precisely 8:00 AM. She wore a crisp white button-down shirt and black slacks, her face washed clean of the night's sweat and adrenaline.

Fredy sat at the head of the long mahogany table. When he saw her, he stretched his lips into a wide, entirely fake smile.

"Helen, my dear," Fredy said, his voice dripping with forced warmth. "Did you sleep well? Is the New York air agreeing with you?"

Sylvia sat to his right. She gestured to a maid. "Bring Helen a French omelet. She needs to put some meat on those bones."

Helen didn't look at the food. She pulled out a chair and sat down slowly. Her face was completely devoid of expression.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, yellowed photograph. She tossed it onto the polished wood. It slid across the table and stopped right next to Fredy's plate.

It was a picture of a young Fredy standing next to Alverta Kramer, Helen's mother. They looked happy.

The moment Fredy's eyes locked onto the photo, his fake smile froze. The muscles in his face twitched.

His hand jerked violently. He knocked over his porcelain cup, sending scalding black coffee spilling across the pristine white tablecloth.

Sylvia saw the photo. The color drained from her face, leaving her looking sickly pale. Her eyes darted around the room in panic.

Candice looked back and forth between her parents, her brow furrowed in confusion. "What is that? Why are you acting so weird?"

Helen leaned back in her chair. She crossed her arms. She watched Fredy's panic with cold, surgical detachment.

"It's amazing," Helen said, her voice low and steady. "How easily you sleep in this house. Considering you bought it by selling out my mother's family when the Kramer company went bankrupt."

The words hit the room like a bomb. It was the ugliest, most heavily guarded secret of Fredy's rise to power.

Fredy slammed his hands on the table and shot to his feet. His face was dark red, the veins in his neck bulging. "Shut your mouth!" he roared, spit flying from his lips.

The mask of the loving father was entirely gone, replaced by the cornered, vicious animal he truly was.

Helen didn't flinch. She stared right back at him, her eyes cutting into him like shards of ice. "Screaming doesn't change the fact that you're a traitor, Fredy."

Sylvia jumped up, grabbing Fredy's arm. She glared at Helen with pure hatred. "You ungrateful little bitch! We took you out of the gutter!"

Helen shifted her gaze to Sylvia. "You're just a thief living in a stolen house."

Candice let out a high-pitched shriek of rage. She grabbed her heavy crystal water glass and raised her arm, aiming to hurl the freezing water right at Helen's face.

Helen didn't move to block it. She just looked at Candice.

Helen didn't move, just raised her eyes to meet Candice's. Her gaze was completely dead, devoid of any emotion, as if she were looking at an inanimate object rather than a human being. The sheer, unnatural stillness in Helen's posture, combined with a faint, chilling smirk, made Candice feel like she had just been targeted by a striking viper. Candice gasped, her psychological terror causing the air to leave her lungs. Her wrist went entirely numb with a sudden, overwhelming dread. The heavy crystal glass slipped from her trembling fingers and crashed onto the floor, shattering into a hundred pieces.

The dining room fell dead silent. The only sound was Helen's fingernail lightly tapping against the mahogany table.

Helen stood up. She smoothed the front of her shirt. "I've lost my appetite."

She reached over, picked up the photograph, and walked out of the room without looking back.

Fredy collapsed back into his chair. His chest heaved. His eyes narrowed, burning with a dark, calculating malice.

Fredy stood in his private study, breathing heavily. He grabbed a priceless Ming dynasty vase from the mantel and hurled it against the wall. It shattered into dust.

Sylvia stood near the door, wringing her hands. "We cannot let that feral girl ruin our reputation, Fredy. She's out of control."

Fredy took a deep breath, forcing his heart rate down. A cold, mercenary light entered his eyes. "She's beautiful," he muttered. "And she's a Kramer. There's value in that. We just need to break her."

Half an hour later, the head butler knocked timidly on Helen's bedroom door. He held out a thick stack of legal documents.

"Mr. Gallagher requires your signature, miss," the butler said nervously. "It's the paperwork to legally change your surname to Gallagher."

Helen didn't even read the first line. She snatched the papers from his hands, walked over to the small paper shredder by the desk, and shoved the entire stack into the slot.

The machine whined and ground the documents into confetti.

"Tell him," Helen said over the noise, her voice like grinding stone, "I would rather die than carry his filthy name."

The butler wiped sweat from his upper lip and scurried away to report to Fredy.

Fredy ground his teeth together when he heard the news, but he swallowed his rage. He had a better trap to set.

At three in the afternoon, Candice kicked Helen's door open. Two maids followed her, their arms full of outdated, heavily sequined Chanel and Dior gowns.

Candice lifted her chin, looking down her nose at Helen. "These are my cast-offs," she sneered. "You can borrow one for the charity gala tomorrow night. Your trashy clothes will embarrass us."

Helen was sitting on the floor by the window. She had a heavy, antique pocket watch spread out on a towel, methodically calibrating a tiny metal gear with a micro-screwdriver, though the casing hid a highly advanced encrypted signal jammer. She didn't look up.

"I'm in mourning for my mother," Helen said flatly. "I don't wear neon garbage."

Candice's face flushed with anger. She marched forward, grabbing a hot pink dress from a maid, intending to throw it directly onto Helen's face.

Helen's eyes snapped up. Her wrist flicked.

A solid brass gear from the watch flew through the air with a sharp flick of her wrist. It grazed right past Candice's ear, shattering the heavy crystal vase on the hallway console table directly behind her head with a violent crack.

Candice screamed. She dropped the dress and stumbled backward, clutching her face in absolute terror.

Helen stood up slowly. She walked toward Candice, her presence filling the room with a suffocating pressure. "Take your trash and get out."

Candice burst into tears and ran down the hall. The maids dropped the dresses and fled.

That night, Fredy came to Helen's door. He didn't enter. He stood in the hallway, his voice hard.

"You will attend the Montgomery charity gala tomorrow night," Fredy demanded. "If you refuse, I will cut off every cent of funding to the nursing home where your grandmother is staying."

Inside the room, Helen's hands stopped moving. A violent, murderous rage spiked in her chest.

Her grandmother had been dead for years. Fredy didn't know that. He was using a ghost to blackmail her. It was a test of control.

Helen opened the door. She looked at Fredy's smug face. "Fine. I'll go."

Fredy smiled, a greasy, victorious look. He thought he had found her leash.

Helen watched him walk away. Her stomach twisted with disgust, but her mind was already calculating. She would use his gala to find the information she needed, and then she would burn his world down.