"I have to go into the office," Campbell said. "Make yourself at home. Your room is down the hall to the left."

She nodded. She needed space to process this. The 'room' was bigger than her entire dorm. It had an en-suite bathroom with a soaking tub.

Campbell disappeared.

He didn't go to an office. He went to the study at the far end of the apartment. He locked the door.

Three men were waiting for him. Or rather, waiting on the large screens mounted on the wall.

"So," Preston said, swirling a glass of amber liquid. "You actually did it. Civil Union?"

Wyatt, the one with the restless eyes, tapped a keyboard. A feed popped up on the side screen. It showed the living room. It showed her.

She was dusting a vase, moving with careful, terrified precision.

"That's her?" Wyatt asked. "The one you've been tracking for ten years?"

Campbell loosened his tie. He looked exhausted. "She is Mrs. Dunlap now."

"She's a patient, Cam," Xavier said. He was the doctor of the group. "Selective mutism. PTSD. You're taking advantage."

"I'm protecting her," Campbell snapped. "She doesn't talk. She's safe. She won't leak to the press."

"Bullshit," Preston said. "You married her because you're obsessed. Does she know you own the building? Does she know you own the bank that holds her aunt's mortgage?"

"No," Campbell said. "And she won't. To her, I'm just a guy with a decent job."

On the screen, she stopped moving. She was staring at a painting. A Rothko.

"Shit," Campbell muttered. "I forgot to cover the Rothko. She'll know it's real."

"She thinks it's a print," Wyatt said. "Look, she's checking for dust."

She wasn't checking for dust.

She was looking at the frame. There was a tiny disturbance in the air. A faint heat signature. She ran her finger along the edge.

Ventilation for electronics.

A camera.

She didn't react. She kept her face blank. She dusted the frame and walked away.

She went to her room. She locked the door. She opened her laptop. It was an old, heavy machine, but the software inside was military-grade.

She logged into the forum. The Surgeon.

A new message blinked.

Client: C.D. Symptoms: Severe migraine, resistance to triptans. Offer: 50k.

C.D.

Campbell Dunlap?

No. Too obvious. Probably just a coincidence.

She typed her reply. Accepted. Send medical history. No face-to-face.

In the study, Campbell's phone pinged.

"The Surgeon took the job," Wyatt said.

Campbell rubbed his temples. The pain was starting. A rhythmic thumping behind his eyes.

"Good," he said. "Wire the money."

He had no idea he was wiring fifty thousand dollars to the girl in the next room.

The card lay on the kitchen counter. It was black titanium.

Buy a dress. We see Lydia tonight.

The note was written in his sharp, angular handwriting.

She picked up the card. It was heavy. A Centurion card. She had heard of these. They were for billionaires.

"He's insane," she whispered. "This has to be a high-risk line of credit." Her mind raced, trying to fit this piece of data into the puzzle of the 'middle manager' he was pretending to be. It didn't fit.

She took the subway to Fifth Avenue. Campbell had texted her the address of a boutique. Not a department store. A maison.

She walked in. The air conditioning was set to a temperature that felt like money.

A sales assistant looked up from her phone. She saw her grey wool dress. She saw her canvas tote bag. She looked back at her phone.

She walked to the racks. She found a black dress. Simple. Elegant. She looked at the tag. $3,000.

She almost dropped it. She squinted. Maybe it was $300? No. Three zeros.

She tried it on. It fit like a second skin. It made her look... formidable.

She walked to the counter. The assistant sighed.

"We don't do layaway," she said.

She pulled out the black card.

Her eyes widened. She actually stopped breathing for a second. She looked from the card to her, then back to the card.

"Ms... Dunlap?" Her voice went up three octaves.

"Just run it," she whispered. "Before it declines."

She suppressed a laugh. "It won't decline, ma'am."

She swiped it. The machine beeped. Approved.

Suddenly, the manager was there. "Champagne? Truffles? We can close the store for you."

"No," she said. She grabbed the bag. "I have to go."

She ran out. They were too eager. It felt like a trap.

Back at the apartment, she Googled the card.

Centurion Card: Invite only. Initiation fee $10,000.

She stared at the screen.

This wasn't a scam. It was proof. He was lying about everything. She closed the laptop, her mind cold and clear. She would play along. For now.

Campbell came home an hour later. He looked tired.

"Did you get the dress?"

She held out the card. "Cam, you have to cut this up. These companies prey on people like you. The interest rates must be criminal."

He took the card. He looked at it. He looked at her.

For a moment, his face went blank. Then, the corner of his mouth twitched.

"You're right," he said gravely. "I... I got carried away. I wanted to impress you."

A terrible actor, she thought. But she nodded, playing the part of the concerned, naive wife. "I'll pay you back for the dress," she said. "Put it on my tab."

He looked at her with a softness that made her knees weak.

"Okay," he said. "But tonight, you have to wear it. And you have to act like you don't care about the price. We need to bluff Lydia."

"Act like a rich snob?"

"Exactly."

Campbell pulled a bottle of wine from the rack.

It looked like garbage. The label was peeling. The glass was covered in dust.

"We're giving this to Lydia?" she asked. "She'll throw it out."

He wiped the neck of the bottle with a cloth. "It's a 1945 Romanée-Conti. She'll know what it is."

She pulled out her phone. She typed the name.

$558,000.

She dropped her phone on the couch.

"Cam! Is this a joke?"

He didn't look up. "It's a prop," he lied, his voice perfectly even. "The bottle is a good replica. I filled it with some decent Cabernet. Just for show."

She exhaled, feigning relief. "Oh. Thank god. Your commitment to this bluff is terrifying." She watched him, cataloging another lie. This man built his life on deception.

"Strategic packaging," he said. "Ready?"

They took the elevator down. The car was different today. A grey Mercedes. Nice, but not a spaceship like the Bugatti she'd heard about on the phone.

The drive to the Hamptons was long. Her stomach twisted into knots.

"Remember," Campbell said. The classical music on the radio was soft. "Tonight, you are untouchable. You are Mrs. Dunlap."

"What if they attack you?" she asked. "Mason is... volatile."

"Let him try."

They arrived at the gates of the Blankenship estate. The iron bars were rusted. The family fortune was rotting, just like the house.

The guard leaned out of the booth. He saw her.

"Look who it is," he sneered. " The mute. And her driver."

Campbell didn't get angry. He picked up his phone. He dialed a number.

"This is Dunlap. Who manages the security contract for this property? Yes. I'm at the gate. Fix it."

Ten seconds later, the guard's phone rang. He answered. His face went white. He looked at Campbell with pure fear.

The gates opened. The guard saluted.

"What did you do?" she asked.

"Customer service complaint," Campbell said.

They drove up the long, winding driveway. The house loomed ahead. It was a gothic monstrosity.

Lydia and Mason were waiting on the steps. They looked like vultures in designer clothes.

Campbell got out. He held the dusty bottle.

Mason's eyes locked onto the wine. He was a gambler. He knew the price of everything. His eyes bulged.