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.