The Gulfstream G650 was a flying palace. The seats were wider than her bed back in the trailer. The carpet was so thick her toes sank into it.

Elara sat on the edge of a beige leather recliner, gripping the armrests until her fingers ached. She had never been on a plane. Every vibration of the engines sent a spike of adrenaline through her veins.

Julian sat opposite her, a crystal tumbler of scotch in his hand. He was on a satellite phone.

"Yes, Grandfather. We're en route. She's... manageable."

Manageable. Like a unruly dog.

The plane hit a pocket of turbulence. The cabin dropped ten feet in a split second.

Elara yelped, her hands flying up to cover her head.

Julian hung up the phone. He looked at her, unimpressed. "Physics, Miss Vance. We aren't going to fall."

Liam approached with an iPad. "Sir, the wardrobe consult for the season."

Julian took the iPad. He scrolled through images of dresses that cost more than Elara's life savings. He glanced up at her, his eyes raking over her flannel shirt with open disdain.

"Liam, when we land in Boston, go straight to Neiman Marcus. Shut down the third floor."

"Yes, sir."

"Everything goes," Julian said, gesturing to Elara with his glass. "Burn it all. The jeans, the shirt, the underwear. Especially the shoes."

Elara crossed her arms over her chest. "These are my clothes. They're clean."

"They smell like mildew and poverty," Julian said. "You are about to meet Arthur Sterling. If you walk in looking like a refugee, he will eat you alive. You need armor."

"I'm not a doll you can just dress up," Elara snapped.

Julian leaned forward. "Let's be clear about the arrangement. You play the role of the long-lost granddaughter. You look the part, you act the part. In exchange, your tuition is paid, and you receive a monthly stipend of five thousand dollars."

Elara froze. Five thousand dollars. A month.

Her mind raced, but she kept her face blank. She didn't think about spending it. She thought about leverage. Five thousand dollars was a passport. It was a retainer for a lawyer who wouldn't be bought by the Sterlings. It was an offshore account.

She didn't need to look for low-paying cash jobs that would expose her. She needed to hoard this cash, launder it, and prepare.

"Five thousand?" she asked, her voice steadying.

"Cash," Julian said. "Discretionary."

Elara slowly uncrossed her arms. She looked him in the eye. "Fine. But I pick the clothes."

Julian smirked, a cold, humorless twisting of his lips. "Within reason. If I see a single sequin, I'm cutting your allowance."

The plane began its descent. Elara looked out the window at the Boston skyline rising from the harbor like a fortress of glass and steel.

"Ready for your Cinderella moment?" Julian asked, standing up and buttoning his jacket.

"I prefer Mulan," Elara muttered.

Julian paused. He looked at her, and for a second, the ice in his eyes cracked. "Mulan went to war," he said softly. "Make sure you're ready for the casualties."

The plane touched down. Two black sedans were waiting on the tarmac.

"Liam, take her shopping," Julian commanded as he stepped into the wind. "I'll meet you there. I have a meeting with a confidential informant that cannot wait."

He got into the second car, leaving Elara standing in the wind, feeling smaller than she ever had in the trailer park.

The VIP suite at Neiman Marcus was larger than the entire trailer she grew up in. Mirrors covered every wall, reflecting Elara's discomfort from a dozen angles.

Liam was sitting on a plush velvet sofa outside the dressing room, typing on his phone while three sales assistants hovered around him with trays of sparkling water.

Inside the small cubicle, Elara held a dress of deep, midnight blue silk. The tag dangled against her wrist: $3,500. It was obscene. It was beautiful.

She shimmied into it. The silk felt like cool water against her skin. It fit perfectly, hugging her hips and waist, flaring out slightly at the floor.

She reached behind her back to pull up the invisible zipper. It was stiff. She strained, arching her back, her fingers fumbling.

Zip.

The mechanism jammed. It wasn't just stuck; the delicate fabric had wedged itself deep into the teeth of the zipper halfway up her spine. Elara cursed silently.

She didn't panic. Panic was for people who had safety nets. She reached for a hanger, trying to use the hook to pry the fabric loose, twisting her body to get a better angle in the mirror. She worked at it for five minutes, sweat prickling her skin, but the silk was unforgiving.

"Miss Vance?" Liam's voice came from outside. "Mr. Sterling is on his way up. Are you almost done?"

"I... just a minute!" Elara called out, her voice tight with frustration.

Footsteps echoed on the marble floor outside. Heavy, confident strides.

"Liam," Julian's voice was sharp. "Why are we still here? Arthur eats at seven sharp."

"She's in the final outfit, sir. Taking a bit of time."

Elara heard a knuckle rap against the door. "Vance. Open the door."

"I can't!" Elara replied, still wrestling with the zipper. "I'm not decent."

"We are on a schedule, Vance," Julian said, his voice devoid of patience. "I'm sending the attendant in."

"No!" Elara said quickly. She didn't want a stranger touching her. "Just... give me a second."

"You have ten seconds before I consider this a medical emergency and breach the door myself," Julian warned. He sounded like he was negotiating a hostage release, cold and functional.

Elara's hand shook with annoyance as she reached for the lock. She clicked it open.

The door swung inward. Julian stepped in, immediately filling the small space. He closed the door behind him, sealing them in.

The scent of him-sandalwood and cold air-overwhelmed the perfume of the store.

He looked at her. His eyes traveled from her bare shoulders down the curve of her spine to where the zipper had eaten her hair and the dress fabric.

He didn't mock her. He didn't make a snide comment about her clumsiness.

He pulled off his leather gloves, tossing them onto the small bench.

"Turn around," he commanded.

Elara obeyed, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She exposed her back to him, her hair tangled in the metal teeth of the dress.

Julian's fingers brushed the nape of her neck. His skin was shockingly cold.

Elara shivered, a goosebump ripple moving down her arms.

"Hold still," he murmured. His breath ghosted over her ear.

She gripped the edges of the mirror in front of her, watching his reflection. He was focused, his brows furrowed in concentration, like he was defusing a bomb rather than untangling hair.

He worked with surprising gentleness. He wove his fingers through the strands, isolating the knot.

"You forced it," he said quietly. "Silk requires patience."

"I'm not used to things that require patience," Elara whispered. "I'm used to things that require force."

Julian paused. His eyes met hers in the mirror. For a second, the prosecutor mask slipped. He looked... analytical. He wasn't looking at her like a woman; he was looking at her like a witness he was trying to crack.

"Force breaks things," he said.

He gave one final, decisive tug. The hair came free. Elara let out a breath she didn't know she was holding.

"Zip it up," he said, but he didn't step away.

His hands moved to the zipper tab. His knuckles grazed her spine, sending a jolt of electricity straight to her core. He pulled the zipper up slowly. The sound was a loud rasp in the quiet room.

The dress cinched tight. Julian's hands lingered on her waist for a fraction of a second, testing the fabric, checking the fit like one checks the structural integrity of a bridge.

He looked at her in the mirror. The blue dress made her skin look like porcelain. She looked regal. She looked dangerous.

Julian's jaw tightened. A muscle feathered in his cheek.

"No," he said abruptly.

Elara blinked. "What? It fits perfectly."

"It's too..." He struggled for the word, his eyes dark. "It makes you a target. Connor will see that dress and think you're playing a game. You cannot afford to be hunted tonight."

He turned and grabbed a black, high-necked gown from the rack. He shoved it at her.

"Wear this one. It's appropriate. It's armor."

"Appropriate?" Elara felt a flush of anger. "You just said I looked like a refugee. Now I look too good?"

"You look like bait," Julian growled. "And I don't have time to extract you from Connor's teeth."

He turned on his heel and grabbed the door handle. "Two minutes. Change."

He walked out.

Elara stood there, confused and breathless. She looked at the blue dress in the mirror. It made her feel powerful. And he hated it.

Outside the door, she heard Julian's voice, low and dangerous.

"Liam."

"Sir?"

"Have the blue dress archived. Put it in the secure storage at the firm. Do not let it come to the house."

"Sir? The firm? Not the wardrobe?"

"It's evidence, Liam. Evidence of a liability. Lock it away."

"Yes, sir."

Elara's breath hitched. He wasn't returning it. He was hiding it.

She quickly unzipped the dress, her fingers trembling. She pulled on the severe black gown he had chosen. It covered her from chin to wrist. It was armor.

But she knew, and he knew, what was underneath.