The rusted iron door of the sub-basement slammed shut. The heavy deadbolt slid into place with a loud, final clack.

The air down here was thick, smelling of rotting paper and damp concrete. The single fluorescent tube overhead flickered, casting sickly yellow shadows across the mountains of cardboard boxes.

Aubree collapsed onto a filthy, torn leather sofa in the corner.

She pressed both hands hard against her lower belly. The dull, throbbing ache from the doorframe collision was spreading. Her forehead was slick with a layer of cold sweat.

Her hands shook as she unzipped her bag. She dug out a small blister pack of prescription anti-miscarriage pills.

There was no water down here.

She popped a thick white pill out of the foil, tossed it into her mouth, and swallowed hard. The dry chalk scraped down her esophagus, making her gag, but she forced it down.

Suddenly, the massive industrial exhaust fan in the ceiling kicked on. The deafening roar shook the walls, kicking up a thick cloud of gray dust.

Aubree choked. A violent coughing fit tore through her chest. She curled into a tight ball on the sofa, wrapping her arms protectively around her womb.

Hold on, she prayed silently, her nails digging into her own arms. Please, just hold on.

Ten minutes passed. The medication finally kicked in. The cramping in her stomach slowly eased into a dull numbness.

Aubree let her head fall back against the sofa, her chest heaving.

Deep inside her bag, the encrypted burner phone began to vibrate frantically.

Aubree's eyes snapped open. She glanced up at the security camera in the corner. The red light was dead; the lens was covered in thick spiderwebs.

She pulled the phone out and hit the green button.

"Aura," Lucas's panicked voice blasted through the speaker in rapid, fluent French. "We have a massive problem. The Atelier has been hit with a catastrophic plagiarism lawsuit."

Aubree sat up straight. The weak, exhausted woman vanished. Her spine locked into place.

"Who?" she asked, her French accent flawless, her tone dripping with ice.

"A European oligarch," Lucas replied, his voice shaking. "They bought the judge. All of our offshore accounts are frozen."

Aubree's eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. "What is their demand?"

"They want you to unmask. They want Aura to step into the public light and hand over the core design patents, or they will bankrupt the studio by Friday."

Aubree let out a low, dark laugh. It was the laugh of an apex predator.

"I don't bow to capital," she said coldly.

Her brain worked at lightning speed. She needed untraceable liquid cash, and she needed it now. She had to fund the counter-lawsuit and keep her mother's ICU machines running.

"Lucas, initiate Plan B," she ordered. "Liquidate my hidden bonds in the Swiss accounts. Prepare for a full-scale counterattack."

Directly above the archive room, Ell walked through the underground parking garage. Mr. Vance trailed behind him, holding an iPad.

They were inspecting the new security gates. Ell stopped walking. He stood right over the metal grate of the sub-basement ventilation shaft.

The French words were lost in the noise, and the deafening roar of the fan made it impossible to make out any specific vocabulary.

But he clearly heard the tone. It was a cold, commanding, and utterly ruthless cadence-so entirely different from the meek, submissive assistant he knew. It was the voice of someone giving a high-stakes order.

Ell's blood ran cold. His eyes darkened to pitch black. A sharp spike of suspicion pierced through his chest.

He thought about Aubree's sudden defiance. The way she didn't care about the five million dollars. The way she sneered at him.

He turned his head slowly to look at Vance. "Pull Aubree Daniels' communication logs and bank statements. Every single one."

His voice was laced with venom. "She's not just a gold digger. She's selling our voided corporate secrets to our competitors."

Down in the basement, Aubree ended the call. She slipped the phone back into the hidden lining of her bag.

She stood up and dusted off her skirt. The fear was gone. Only war remained.

The heavy iron door suddenly groaned. It swung open violently, hitting the concrete wall.

Ell stood in the doorway. The dim hallway light backlit his massive frame, making him look like a demon stepping out of the dark.

He marched straight toward her, his eyes scanning the dusty room, looking for a laptop, a phone, any piece of espionage equipment.

Aubree's heart gave a hard thump, but her face remained a mask of absolute calm.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, Mr. President?" she asked, her voice flat.

Ell stopped inches from her. He found nothing in the room. He looked down at her, a cruel smirk twisting his lips.

"If you think you can play corporate spy in my building, you are dead wrong. I will bury you in Manhattan."

Aubree looked right into his murderous eyes. She let out a soft, mocking chuckle.

"I'm just a useless assistant about to be fired, Ell. I don't have that kind of power."

Ell stared at her, trying to peel back her skin to see her secrets. He found nothing but dead, cold eyes.

He turned and walked out.

Aubree stood in the dark, her hands curling into tight fists.

The Manhattan sky broke open, dumping a torrential, freezing rain over the city. Traffic gridlocked instantly. Horns blared in the gray gloom.

Aubree walked down Fifth Avenue, her cheap black flats splashing through deep puddles.

The administrative manager had threatened her with immediate termination without severance if she didn't hand-deliver the emergency merger contracts to the CEO. They hadn't even given her an umbrella.

She hugged the thick, waterproof document folder tightly against her chest, hunching her shoulders against the biting wind.

The freezing rain soaked through her thin blazer and white blouse, plastering the fabric to her skin. The cold seeped into her bones, making the dull ache in her lower abdomen flare up again.

Twenty minutes later, she pushed through the heavy revolving doors of Le Bernardin.

The warmth of the three-Michelin-star restaurant hit her, but she was shivering too violently to feel it. Water dripped from her hair, pooling on the pristine marble floor.

The maître d' rushed forward, his face twisting in horror at her ruined appearance. "Miss, you cannot be in here-"

"Ell Steele," Aubree interrupted, her teeth chattering so hard the words barely came out.

The manager's face instantly drained of color. He bowed his head and quickly led her down a quiet, carpeted hallway.

He opened the heavy carved wooden door to the VIP dining room.

Soft, golden light spilled out. Ell sat at the table, elegantly slicing a piece of wagyu beef. Across from him sat Brittany, wearing a breathtakingly expensive white silk haute couture gown, laughing at something he said.

Ell looked up. His knife stopped scraping against the porcelain plate.

He took in Aubree's pathetic, drowned-rat appearance. A deep, ugly frown carved into his forehead.

Aubree ignored the intense shivering in her limbs. She walked to the edge of the table and placed the perfectly dry, waterproof folder next to his wine glass.

"The merger documents," she said, her voice completely devoid of inflection.

Brittany's eyes flashed with pure malice. She stood up, pretending to reach for the folder.

As she leaned over the table, her heel intentionally twisted.

Brittany's hand knocked violently into her crystal glass. The deep red Domaine de la Romanée-Conti flew through the air in a violent arc, splashing directly toward Aubree.

Aubree flinched backward, but she wasn't fast enough.

The dark red wine hit her chest, soaking into her wet white blouse. It looked like a massive, bleeding wound spreading across her heart.

"Oh my god!" Brittany shrieked, throwing her hands over her mouth. She collapsed back into her chair, panting as if she had just survived an attack.

Ell threw his napkin onto the table and stood up immediately. He walked around the table and placed a hand on Brittany's shoulder, his eyes scanning her for injuries. He didn't even glance at the wine dripping from Aubree's chin.

Brittany pointed a shaking finger at the tiny drop of wine that had splashed onto the hem of her white dress.

"Ell, she bumped the table on purpose!" Brittany cried.

Aubree stood frozen. The freezing rain on her skin mixed with the sticky, warm wine. She looked at Ell. She didn't even have the energy to open her mouth to defend herself.

Ell finally turned to look at Aubree. His eyes were like chips of dirty ice.

"Apologize to her. Now."

Aubree stared at the man who was legally her husband.

Inside her chest, the very last ember of feeling she had for him hissed and died.

She didn't feel angry. She didn't feel wronged. She felt absolutely nothing.

"There are cameras in the corners of this room," Aubree said, her voice a flat, dead monotone.

Ell didn't even look up at the ceiling. "I don't care about the cameras. That dress is worth one hundred and twenty thousand dollars. I am deducting it from your salary."

Aubree looked at him. A slow, incredibly dark smile spread across her face.

She reached into her soaked pocket and pulled out a crumpled, wet twenty-dollar bill. She dropped it onto the white tablecloth.

"That's for the dry cleaning," Aubree said, her voice dripping with absolute contempt. She looked directly at Brittany. "And you'd better make sure you have the real receipts for that dress. It would be a massive, humiliating scandal if the PR Director of the Steele Group was caught wearing a cheap fake just to impress the boss."

Brittany's face turned a violent shade of purple. She lunged forward, her hand raised to slap Aubree.

Ell caught Brittany's wrist, stopping her.

He looked at Aubree. The dead, empty look in her eyes sent a sudden, uncontrollable spike of irritation straight into his bloodstream. It felt like an itch he couldn't scratch.

He pointed at the door. "Get out."

Aubree didn't hesitate. She turned her back on him, keeping her spine perfectly straight, and walked out of the room.

Back out in the freezing rain, she flagged down a yellow cab.

She sank into the cracked leather seat, shivering violently. She pulled out her phone and sent a text to her lawyer.

Speed up the divorce. I want it done.

Back in the warm VIP room, Ell stared at the wet twenty-dollar bill on the table. A dark, heavy cloud settled over his chest. Suddenly, the wagyu beef tasted like ash in his mouth.