Johana stared at the tinted glass. The engine was so quiet she couldn't hear it over the wind. For a second, she thought maybe they were going to offer her a ride.

Then the rear window slid down.

The man inside was looking at his phone. He was young-maybe late twenties-with sharp cheekbones and dark hair pushed back from his face. He wore a dark suit that probably cost more than her tuition. He was handsome, but it was a cold kind of handsome, like a marble statue.

He wasn't looking at her. He was talking, rapidly, in German. His voice was low, clipped, and authoritative. He sounded angry.

Johana stood there, snow piling on the edge of the umbrella, waiting for him to notice her.

He didn't. He just kept talking, his thumb swiping across the screen of his phone.

Finally, he ended the call. He looked up. His eyes were a pale, piercing blue. They landed on her, and he frowned.

"Who are you?" he asked. His voice was flat, devoid of any curiosity.

Johana bristled. "I'm Johana Neal. The new tutor. I just finished interviewing with Mrs. Black."

His gaze moved down. He looked at her damp hair, her red nose, the cheap boots that were leaving wet marks on the pristine driveway. His lip curled slightly.

"Do they let high schoolers interview for jobs now?" he asked, not to her, but to the driver. "Or is this some new intern program?"

Johana's face burned. The cold suddenly felt worse. "I'm a student at Georgetown University, sir. A senior."

He didn't seem to hear her. He pressed a button, and the window slid back up, sealing him inside the warm, quiet luxury.

Johana stood there, her mouth open, the humiliation settling in her stomach like a stone. She had never been spoken to like that. Like she was dirt on his shoe.

The car didn't move. The front door of the house opened again. Arthur hurried out, holding a large black golf umbrella over his head.

"Miss Neal," Arthur said, his voice a little breathless. "Mrs. Black asked me to tell you that there are no cars available. She wants to arrange a driver for you."

Johana glared at the tinted window of the Bentley. "Is that his idea?"

Arthur followed her gaze and shook his head quickly. "No, miss. That is Mrs. Black's idea. The young master, Dalton, just returned from New York. He is... stressed."

Dalton. The name fit him. Cold and hard.

The Bentley's door clicked open. Dalton stepped out. He was even taller than she'd thought. He adjusted the cuffs of his suit jacket, the silver links catching the light from the porch. He didn't look at her.

"I need the car tonight, Arthur," Dalton said, his voice carrying over the wind. "Have someone else take her home."

He walked past her. As he did, the scent of him hit her-sandalwood, vetiver, and something sharp, like ozone. It was expensive and cold. He brushed past her shoulder, a whisper of fabric, and climbed the steps.

"Dalton." Karon's voice floated out from the open doorway. "This is Johana Neal. Alistair's new tutor."

Dalton paused at the top step. He turned his head, just enough to look down at her. His expression didn't change. He gave a single, curt nod.

"Charmed," he said, his tone implying the exact opposite.

He turned back to his mother. "I need the Moody file. All the negative press. Have it in my study in thirty minutes."

Karon's perfect smile flickered. Just for a second. Her eyes tightened. "Of course, dear."

Dalton didn't wait for an answer. He walked into the house, the door closing heavily behind him.

Johana stared after him. The Moody file. Negative press. The way Karon's face had tightened. There was something wrong in this house, something beneath the polished surface.

"I will have the car brought around immediately, Miss Neal," Arthur said gently, breaking her trance.

"Thank you," Johana whispered.

She stepped back into the warmth of the foyer, but the chill in her bones had nothing to do with the snow outside. It was the feeling of being completely, utterly out of her depth.

"Please, sit a moment longer."

Karon Black glided back into the foyer, carrying a silver tray with a steaming cup of tea. She set it down on a small table beside the velvet chair.

"I apologize again for Dalton's behavior," Karon said, her voice soothing. "He runs our venture capital arm in New York. The pressure is immense, especially with this Moody situation. It makes him short-tempered."

"I understand," Johana said. She took the cup, the heat seeping into her frozen fingers. "I won't let it affect my work with Alistair."

"I'm glad to hear that." Karon's eyes were sharp, searching. "I hope you don't have any second thoughts about the position, Miss Neal."

"None at all," Johana said firmly. She needed this job. She wasn't going to let an arrogant rich boy scare her off.

A black Cadillac Escalade pulled up to the front door. Arthur appeared with her coat-dry again-and held it open for her.

"Safe travels," Karon said, her smile back in place. "And welcome to the family."

Johana climbed into the back of the Escalade. The seats were heated leather. Classical music played softly from the speakers. The partition was up, separating her from the driver. The silence was absolute.

She leaned her head back against the rest, closing her eyes. The adrenaline was fading, leaving her exhausted. She had done it. She had gotten the job.

She watched the Georgetown streets slide past the window. The snow was still falling, but inside the car, she was untouchable. It was a strange feeling, being insulated from the world by money.

She pulled out her phone. A text from her roommate, Chloe Galloway, glowed on the screen.

How did it go? Did you slay the dragon?

Johana typed back a quick Got the job and a thumbs-up emoji. She didn't mention Dalton. She didn't want to think about him.

A picture popped up on the screen. Chloe at a restaurant, holding a martini, leaning against a guy in a suit. The background was full of people in expensive clothes, laughing.

Johana sighed. Chloe was always chasing the next rich boyfriend. It was exhausting just to watch.

The Escalade pulled up to the curb outside her dorm. "Thank you," Johana said to the driver as she got out.

The driver just nodded and pulled away, the black car disappearing into the snow.

Johana walked up the stairs to her room. It was quiet. Too quiet. Chloe's bed was empty, which wasn't surprising. But Hazelle's bed was also untouched.

Hazelle Olson was always home by now. She was the studious one, the quiet one. She didn't go to parties.

Johana pulled out her phone and sent a text.

Hey, where are you? It's nasty out. Come home.

She waited. No reply. She called. It went straight to voicemail.

"She's probably in the library," Johana muttered to herself.

She kicked off her wet boots, peeled off her socks, and soaked her feet in a basin of hot water in the small bathroom. The heat stung, then soothed.

She sat on her bed and opened her laptop. She had work to do. She pulled up her notes and started building the syllabus for Alistair Black. She spent two hours crafting a detailed, ten-page PDF. She outlined the reading schedule, the essay prompts, and the focus on political strategy during the Reconstruction era.

She attached it to an email, addressed to Karon Black, and hit send.

It was past midnight. Chloe still wasn't home. And Hazelle hadn't answered.

Johana called Hazelle again. Voicemail.

A knot formed in her stomach. It wasn't like Hazelle to disappear. Not without a word.

"She's an adult," Johana told herself, turning off the lamp. "Her phone died. That's all."

She lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling. But every time she closed her eyes, she saw Dalton Black's pale blue eyes, looking right through her. And the feeling of his cold, dismissive voice echoed in her ears, mixing with the worry gnawing at her insides.

The clock on the wall read 12:15 AM. Dalton Black sat behind his mahogany desk, the glow of three monitors illuminating his face in the dark room. Outside, the snow was falling silently over Washington.

He rubbed his temples. The video call with London had just ended. A leveraged buyout of a German biotech firm. It was a brutal deal, the kind that left people jobless and made investors millions. He loved it, usually. Tonight, it just felt like noise.

A message popped up on his secure terminal from his assistant, Taylor Reed.

Moody file sent. Preliminary evidence points to market manipulation in their flagship fund.

Dalton opened the file. He scrolled through the documents, his expression unchanged. It was dynamite. Enough to blow the Moody family's reputation to pieces. He typed back.

Leak the relevant sections to our friend at the SEC. Make it look like an accident. I want it trending before the opening bell.

He closed the window and leaned back. He needed a distraction. Out of habit, he opened the family's internal mail server. He monitored his mother's inbox. It was a control thing. Karon was meticulous, but she was also sentimental. Dalton was neither.

An email caught his eye. The subject line: Alistair Black History Tutoring Plan.

The sender was Johana Neal. The girl from the snow. The one who had looked at him like he was a cockroach.

He almost deleted it. He should have. But he clicked the attachment anyway.

The PDF was ten pages long. He started reading, expecting a generic list of textbook chapters. Instead, he found a highly structured, analytical breakdown of the Civil War. She had linked military strategy to political fallout. She had referenced obscure primary sources that even he recognized as impressive.

He read it twice. It was brilliant.

He remembered her standing in the snow, shivering, her nose red, her jaw set in a defiant line. He had called her a high schooler. He had dismissed her. But this document was written by a mind that was sharp, disciplined, and thorough.

"Georgetown," he murmured, staring at the screen.

His phone buzzed. It was Kamren Hubbard.

"What?" Dalton answered.

"Don't bite my head off," Kamren said, his voice light and lazy. "Zane's party in the Hamptons just started. Get on a chopper and come out. You've been staring at spreadsheets for three days."

"I'm busy."

"The Moody deal is done, Dalton. You told me yourself. Come on. Zane got a shipment of that Pappy Van Winkle you like. Twenty-three years."

Dalton glanced at the Bloomberg terminal. The numbers were still ticking. The pressure in his skull was building. He needed a drink. He needed to not think about leveraged buyouts or his mother's secrets for a few hours.

"Send the address," Dalton said. "I'll be there in an hour."

He hung up. He closed the laptop, but the image of that tutoring plan stayed in his head. He stood up and changed out of his suit into a black cashmere sweater and dark jeans.

He walked out of his study and down the hall. He paused outside Alistair's door. Light spilled from under it, and the sound of gunfire from a video game echoed faintly. He didn't go in. He just stood there for a second, thinking that maybe, just maybe, that girl could actually get through to his brother.

He walked down the stairs and out the front door, into the waiting car that would take him to the helipad. He left the snow and the silence behind, heading straight for the storm of a different kind.