Elisa stood under the shower in her own apartment, scrubbing her skin until it was raw and pink. The water was scalding, but she couldn't feel warm.

She stepped out and wiped the steam from the mirror. There was a bruise on her neck, just below her ear. A dark, purple mark.

She stared at it, touching it tentatively. It throbbed.

She covered it with heavy concealer, layer after layer, until the skin looked perfect and fake.

Her phone rang. It was the landline. She had left her mobile turned off, afraid to see the notifications.

She picked it up. "Hello?"

"Where the hell are you?"

It was her father. Arvel Hamilton didn't do greetings.

"I'm at home, Dad," Elisa said, her voice raspy.

"Chris called me. He said you had a fight. He said you walked out on him."

"He walked out on me," Elisa corrected, gripping the phone cord. "He forgot our anniversary."

"Grow up, Elisa," Arvel snapped. "Men forget dates. It's not a reason to jeopardize a merger worth three billion dollars."

"Is that all this is to you?"

"Don't be dramatic. We have a liquidity problem, Elisa. You know this. If Osborne pulls out, the gallery goes. The trust goes. Everything your mother built goes."

"Elena wouldn't mind," Elisa said bitterly. "She'd love to see Mom's gallery sold off."

"Leave Elena out of this," Arvel warned. "She's trying to help. Hayley is trying to help. You're the one making things difficult. Fix this, Elisa. Call Chris. Apologize. Get that ring back on your finger."

The line clicked dead.

Elisa lowered the phone. Her hand was shaking. Fix this.

She walked into her study and sat down at her desk. She retrieved a slim, matte black device from a hidden compartment in her desk-a hardened, military-grade slate that operated on a closed satellite network. She bypassed the regular login and booted up a secure, encrypted system.

She logged in, her credentials a string of alphanumeric chaos. The system that bloomed on the screen wasn't a browser; it was a global market nerve center of her own design.

Numbers scrolled across the screen. Offshore accounts in the Caymans, shell companies in Singapore, high-frequency trading algorithms running on servers in Zurich.

The primary liquidity pool displayed a number so vast it was almost abstract, a figure capable of bringing nations to their knees or propping them up on a whim.

She could write a check right now and save Hamilton Holdings. She could buy her father out. She could buy Chris out.

But she couldn't. Not yet. Her mother's will was ironclad. The voting rights to the family shares-the real power-only transferred to her upon her marriage or her twenty-eighth birthday. She was twenty-five.

If she revealed her money now, Arvel would sue for control. Elena would find a way to drain it.

She had to be smarter.

She looked at the screen, her reflection ghostly against the code.

"Scorched earth," she whispered.

She wouldn't just leave Chris. She would dismantle him. She would let the merger go through, let their finances entangle, and then she would pull the thread that unraveled the whole sweater.

The doorbell rang.

Elisa jumped. She closed the slate instantly, sliding it back into its hidden dock.

She walked to the door and looked through the peephole. A delivery man holding a massive bouquet of white roses.

She opened the door.

"For Ms. Hamilton," the man said, handing her the flowers.

There was a card. I'm sorry. Stress at work. Let's start over. - C.

No signature. Just an initial.

Elisa took the flowers. She walked into the kitchen and dropped the entire bouquet, vase and all, into the trash compactor. The sound of crunching glass and stems was satisfying.

She needed a plan. She needed leverage.

She thought of the recording on her phone. That was a start. But she needed more. She needed proof of the financial misconduct Chris had bragged about.

And she needed to make sure the man from last night-the stranger-never found her.

It was 6:00 PM when Chris came home.

Elisa was sitting in the living room, a book open on her lap. She hadn't read a single page in an hour.

The door opened and Chris walked in. He looked refreshed. He was wearing a new suit. He was carrying a box from La Maison du Chocolat.

"Babe," he said, putting on a sad, puppy-dog face. "I'm such an idiot."

He walked over and knelt by her chair. He placed the chocolates on the table.

"I was so stressed last night," he said, taking her hand. "I didn't mean what I said about space. I panicked."

Elisa looked at him. She really looked at him. She saw the pores in his skin, the slight redness in his eyes. He looked ordinary. Pathetic.

"It's okay," she lied. Her voice was smooth, detached. "I overreacted too."

Chris let out a breath, shoulders sagging in relief. "Thank god. I love you, Elisa. You know that, right?"

He leaned in to kiss her.

Elisa smelled it. Underneath his cologne, faint but distinct. Chanel No. 5. It wasn't her perfume. It was old-fashioned. Heavy.

She turned her cheek at the last second, letting his lips graze her jaw. "I'm still a little upset, Chris."

"I know, I know. I'll make it up to you. I promise." He stood up. "I'm going to jump in the shower. Then let's order in? Thai?"

"Thai sounds good," Elisa said.

Chris took off his jacket and threw it over the back of the sofa. He loosened his tie as he walked toward the bedroom. "Be right back."

Elisa waited. She counted to thirty. She heard the water turn on in the master bath.

She moved.

She went to the sofa and picked up his jacket. She patted the pockets. His wallet. His keys. And...

A phone. But not his iPhone.

It was a small, black Blackberry. A burner.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. She pulled it out. It was locked.

She tried 1234. Incorrect.

She tried his birth year. 1995. Incorrect.

She paused. She looked at the bathroom door. The water was still running.

She typed in 1012. Her birthday.

The screen unlocked.

Elisa felt a wave of nausea. He used her birthday to lock away his secrets. It was a twisted form of ownership.

She scrolled through the messages.

Ivy: When can I see the loft?

Chris: Thursday. I'll bring the keys.

Ivy: Did you tell the Ice Queen you were working late?

Chris: She believes anything I say.

Elisa's hand shook. She scrolled further. There was an email attachment. A PDF.

Deed of Sale. 145 Hudson Street, Unit 4B. Owner: Ivy Maxwell.

He bought her a loft. With whose money?

She kept scrolling. She found a group chat app called "Signal". The group name was GameStop.

Dash: Short squeeze is coming. Get in now.

Chris: I'm leveraging the Hamilton account. Dumping 5 million tomorrow.

User2: Is that legal?

Chris: Only if you get caught.

Insider trading. embezzlement.

This wasn't just cheating. This was prison time.

The water in the bathroom stopped.

Elisa froze. She quickly pulled out her own phone and snapped photos of the screen. The deed. The texts. The trading chat.

She heard the shower door open.

She shoved the Blackberry back into the jacket pocket, exactly how she found it. She threw herself back into the armchair, picking up her book.

Chris walked out, toweling his hair. He was wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt.

"Did you order the Pad Thai?" he asked, smiling.

Elisa looked up. She forced her mouth to curve upward. "Just about to."

She stood up and walked over to him. She wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her head on his chest. She could hear his heart beating. A steady, lying rhythm.

"I missed you," she whispered, fighting the urge to vomit.

"Missed you too, babe," Chris said, kissing the top of her head.

He had no idea he was holding a grenade.