Allison pushed the dorm room door open.

Her other roommate, Claire, was sitting cross-legged on the cheap rug, typing furiously on her laptop.

Allison's desk was covered in glossy brochures and thick application packets for the London School of Economics.

Allison walked straight to her desk.

She didn't hesitate. She scooped up the entire pile of expensive, carefully prepared application materials and shoved them forcefully into the plastic trash can.

The heavy paper hit the bottom of the bin with a loud thud.

Claire's head snapped up. She pushed her thick black-rimmed glasses up her nose.

"Are you insane?" Claire asked, her eyes wide with shock. "You've been working on those for six months."

Allison pulled out her desk chair and sat down. Her posture was rigid.

"I'm not going to Europe for grad school," Allison announced. Her voice was terrifyingly calm.

Zoe closed the door behind them and leaned against it.

Allison looked at her two best friends. She gave them a highly sanitized, surface-level summary of her brutal confrontation with Judd at the company today. She left out the marriage, but she made it clear she was going to war.

Zoe walked over to the mini-fridge. She pulled out a freezing can of Diet Coke, popped the tab, and handed it to Allison.

"We are behind you one hundred percent for this Manhattan revenge tour," Zoe said fiercely.

Allison took a sip of the cold soda. The carbonation burned her throat.

She opened her laptop and logged into SSOL, Columbia's notoriously terrible course registration system.

The screen loaded slowly.

"I need to move all my classes to the early morning and late evening," Allison muttered, her fingers flying across the trackpad.

"Why?" Claire asked.

"Because I need my core daytime hours completely free to intern at the Lee Group's Wall Street headquarters," Allison explained. "I have to be inside the building to find the financial rot."

Claire slid across the rug and looked over Allison's shoulder at the glowing screen.

"Look," Claire pointed at a row of text. "The Advanced Finance Seminar has exactly one spot left."

Allison stared at the screen.

"That class is worth a massive amount of credits," Claire warned. "And it's basically the golden ticket into top-tier investment banks."

Allison's eyes moved to the instructor column.

It read, in cold, black pixels: E. Dillard.

Allison remembered the conversation in the hallway just three minutes ago.

"Hey, Zoe," Allison called out without looking away from the screen. "What is Professor Dillard's full first name?"

Zoe shrugged, tossing her jacket onto her bed.

"Nobody knows," Zoe said. "The university website only lists his first initial. They haven't even uploaded a faculty photo yet."

Allison chewed on her lower lip.

The coincidence was strange, but New York was full of elite men with the last name Dillard. It meant nothing.

She moved the cursor and aggressively clicked the 'Register' button. She claimed the final, highly coveted seat in the class.

Instantly, a bright red warning box popped up on the center of her screen.

WARNING: This course maintains a zero-tolerance attendance policy. One unexcused absence will result in an automatic failing grade.

Allison scoffed. She confidently clicked 'Accept'.

She firmly believed she had the perfect time management skills to balance a hostile corporate takeover and a demanding Ivy League schedule.

She closed the laptop with a sharp snap.

She walked over to her narrow closet and pulled the folding doors open. She needed armor for her first official day infiltrating the company.

She pulled out a sharp, impeccably tailored black Tom Ford suit. She hung it carefully on the back of her door.

Suddenly, her phone chimed.

She picked it up. It was an encrypted text message from an unknown number.

Remember the confidentiality clause in section four of our agreement.

The message was brutal in its brevity.

Allison knew immediately who it was. It was Elliot, her cold-blooded contract husband.

She typed back a single 'OK' emoji.

She saved his number in her contacts under the name Cold-blooded Partner.

Hours later, the dorm was pitch black.

Allison lay in her narrow twin bed. She stared at the ceiling. Her brain was hyperactive, refusing to shut down.

Images flashed behind her eyelids. The dense text of her father's will. The cold, sharp line of Elliot's jaw as he sat across from her at City Hall.

She tossed and turned, tangling her legs in the thin sheets.

At exactly 6:00 AM, her alarm went off. The shrill electronic beeping cut through the quiet room like a knife.

Allison sat up violently.

Her heart was pounding. Her eyes were wide open, burning with raw ambition and a desperate hunger to conquer the Wall Street battlefield.

Allison stepped out of the elevator and onto the forty-eighth floor of the Lee Group headquarters.

She was wearing her sharp black Tom Ford suit. Her heels clicked against the polished hardwood floors.

The atmosphere here was suffocating.

The air was thick with tension. The relentless ringing of multi-line phones and the aggressive, rapid-fire clacking of mechanical keyboards created a wall of chaotic noise.

Naomi Kent, a senior HR manager with tired eyes, met her at the reception desk.

Naomi handed Allison a cheap plastic intern badge on a blue lanyard. It had the lowest possible security clearance.

"Follow me," Naomi said, not smiling.

Naomi led her through a massive maze of gray cubicles. Junior analysts were screaming into headsets, ignoring them completely.

They walked toward a row of massive glass-walled executive offices in the far corner.

"Listen to me carefully," Naomi whispered, leaning close to Allison. "The Executive Vice President of Investments is Godwin Wheeler. He is a notorious workaholic. Do not waste his time."

Naomi pushed open the heavy glass door and stepped back.

Allison walked in.

Godwin Wheeler stood behind a massive mahogany desk. He was staring intensely at six different Bloomberg terminal screens, his eyes tracking the scrolling red and green numbers.

He slowly turned around.

His sharp, calculating eyes scanned Allison from head to toe. He was evaluating the so-called princess of the Lee empire.

He didn't offer his hand. He didn't say hello.

"If a private equity firm executes a leveraged buyout using a sixty-forty debt-to-equity ratio, how does a sudden two percent interest rate hike impact their year-one cash flow projections?" Wheeler fired the question at her like a bullet.

Allison didn't flinch. She took a deep breath.

She tapped into the brutal financial modeling drills she had memorized at Columbia.

She delivered a flawless, mathematically perfect breakdown of the cash flow destruction within thirty seconds.

Wheeler's eyes narrowed. A tiny, almost invisible flicker of genuine respect crossed his face.

He nodded once.

He pointed a thick finger at a massive stack of thick binders on the corner of his desk.

"Those are due diligence reports for the tech merger," Wheeler said. "I want the risk summaries cross-referenced and on my desk by five o'clock."

Allison walked over, picked up the heavy stack of binders, and carried them to a small, cramped desk outside his office.

She sat down and started working at a frantic pace.

Hours blurred together.

During the lunch hour, the other interns gathered in the breakroom eating expensive salads. Allison stayed at her desk, her eyes burning as she stared at spreadsheets, desperately hunting for Cheryl's hidden financial traps.

At 12:30 PM, Wheeler walked out of his office holding an empty coffee mug.

He stopped by her desk.

"How are your classes at Columbia?" Wheeler asked casually, taking a sip of the air.

"Intense," Allison replied without looking up from her screen. "I just registered for the Advanced Finance Seminar. I need the practical combat experience."

Wheeler let out a low chuckle.

"Good luck with that," Wheeler said. "My nephew just started teaching there. He has a terrible temper. He eats unprepared students alive."

Allison offered a polite, distracted smile. She completely failed to connect the dots between Wheeler's nephew and her own schedule.

At 1:00 PM, Naomi rushed over.

"The risk assessment meeting got moved up," Naomi said. "Get in there and take the minutes."

Allison grabbed her notepad and hurried into the massive glass boardroom.

The room was packed with senior executives. Judd's top loyalist, a sweaty man named Peterson, was presenting a quarterly asset report.

Peterson pointedly looked at Allison and asked her to verify a highly complex depreciation metric on page forty. He was trying to humiliate her.

Allison didn't even open the packet.

Relying purely on her photographic memory, she loudly pointed out a massive, hidden calculation error in Peterson's formula that artificially inflated the asset value.

The room went dead silent.

Wheeler, sitting at the head of the table, hid a smirk behind his hand. He was extremely satisfied with her aggressive counterattack.

But the victory was short-lived.

The meeting dragged on. Executives argued in circles over meaningless budget cuts.

Allison felt a cold sweat break out on the back of her neck. She glanced frantically at the large silver clock on the wall.

It was 1:45 PM.

Her Advanced Finance Seminar-the class that failed you for one absence-started at exactly 2:00 PM.

Her hand cramped as she scribbled the final line of the meeting summary on her legal pad.

The second Wheeler called the meeting to a close, Allison shot out of her chair.

She abandoned all professional decorum and stepped quickly out of the boardroom.

She power-walked down the long carpeted hallway, nearly jogging as she skillfully navigated around groups of investment bankers. Despite her efforts to avoid collisions, her hurried pace still drew several annoyed, questioning stares from the senior staff.

She slammed her hand against the elevator call button.

The doors opened instantly. She threw herself inside and punched the lobby button repeatedly.

The elevator plummeted to the ground floor.

The doors slid open. Allison sprinted out into the massive marble lobby.

Suddenly, she slammed on the brakes. Her boots skidded against the polished floor. She froze in absolute horror.

Allison stood frozen in the center of the Lee Group lobby.

Trevor was standing right next to the front reception desk.

He was wearing a cheap, poorly fitted navy blue suit. He was holding a crumpled resume in his hand.

Trevor turned his head and saw her. His eyes lit up with a desperate, manic energy.

"Allie!" Trevor shouted, his voice echoing off the high marble ceiling.

He sprinted across the lobby toward her, completely ignoring the shocked stares of the corporate employees.

Allison felt her blood boil. Pure, unadulterated rage flooded her veins.

"Get out of this building right now," Allison hissed, keeping her voice low but lethal.

Trevor didn't stop. He lunged forward and grabbed the sleeve of her expensive wool coat. His grip was tight and desperate.

"You have to get me an interview here, Allie," Trevor begged, his eyes wide. "I know you have connections. You owe me for the years I wasted with you!"

Allison tried to yank her arm away, but he held on tighter.

"Let go of me," Allison demanded, her chest heaving.

"If you don't help me," Trevor yelled, his voice rising to a hysterical pitch, "I will stand right here and tell everyone in this lobby about your disgusting fake marriage!"

The two massive security guards stationed by the doors heard the commotion. They immediately grabbed their radios and began walking swiftly toward them.

Allison didn't hesitate. She looked directly at the head guard.

"This man is trespassing and harassing me," Allison ordered, her voice ringing with absolute authority. "Throw him out of the building."

The guards moved in fast.

They grabbed Trevor by both arms. They lifted him almost entirely off the floor.

Trevor thrashed wildly like a caught fish.

"You bitch!" Trevor screamed, his face turning bright red.

As he struggled, the cheap fabric of his suit jacket caught on the guard's radio clip. The sleeve ripped open with a loud, ugly tearing sound.

The guards dragged him backward through the revolving doors and tossed him onto the cold concrete sidewalk.

Allison stood in the lobby, breathing hard.

She looked down at her watch. Her stomach dropped to her knees.

That disgusting encounter had cost her exactly ten minutes.

She sprinted out of the building and ran to the edge of the curb. She waved her arm frantically, desperate to hail a cab.

A yellow Ford taxi screeched to a halt in front of her.

She threw the door open, dove into the backseat, and slammed the door shut.

"Columbia University, Morningside campus! Step on it!" she yelled, pulling a fifty-dollar bill from her wallet and waving it at the plexiglass divider.

The driver looked at her through the rearview mirror and sighed heavily.

He pointed a thick finger at the windshield.

"Look ahead, lady," the driver grumbled.

Allison looked. Fifth Avenue was a sea of glowing red brake lights.

There was a massive, multi-car pileup blocking all three lanes. The traffic was completely paralyzed.

The cab crawled forward at a torturous, agonizing pace. It moved inches per minute.

Allison stared at the digital clock on the dashboard.

It flipped to 2:05 PM.

A wave of pure despair crashed over her. She was officially late. She was going to fail the class on the first day.

Her hands shook as she pulled out her phone.

She opened the browser and logged into the encrypted, underground Columbia student mutual aid forum.

Her fingers flew across the keyboard. She created a new post in the emergency bounty section.

URGENT: Need a stand-in for Advanced Finance Seminar right now. $100 Venmo immediately. Must answer roll call.

She hit post and stared at the screen, her heart hammering against her ribs.

Three agonizing minutes later, a notification popped up.

A business school junior named Mike accepted the job.

Allison quickly typed out her student ID number and her exact assigned seat number in the lecture hall. She hit send and prayed to any god that would listen that this desperate plan would work.

Miles away, inside the massive, amphitheater-style classroom at Columbia, the air was freezing cold.

Elliot Dillard stood behind the heavy wooden podium.

His face was a mask of pure ice. His dark eyes scanned the rows of terrified students.

He held his Montblanc pen in his right hand. He looked down at the printed roster.

He began the roll call. His voice was deep, resonant, and completely devoid of warmth.

"Allison Lee," Elliot called out, his eyes not leaving the paper.

In the back row, Mike, a large guy wearing a backward baseball cap, cleared his throat.

"Here," Mike grunted in a deep, undeniably masculine voice.

Elliot stopped.

His hand froze on the paper.

He slowly lifted his head. His eyes locked onto Mike with the precision of a sniper laser.

The entire classroom held its collective breath.

"Well, Ms. Lee," Elliot said, his voice dropping an octave, dripping with dangerous sarcasm. "Since you are present, please stand up and explain the mathematical flaws in the Black-Scholes option pricing model when applied to extreme market volatility."

Mike's face drained of all color. His legs shook as he slowly stood up.

He opened his mouth, but only pathetic, stuttering sounds came out. He couldn't name a single financial term.

Elliot stared at him for five agonizing seconds.

"It appears 'Ms. Lee' is exceptionally unprepared for today's session," Elliot noted, his voice dripping with icy condescension. "Sit down. This unexcused absence will be officially recorded as a zero."

Mike's face burned with humiliation. He didn't sit. Instead, he grabbed his backpack and practically ran out of the room, his head hung in shame.

Elliot looked back down at the roster.

He pressed the nib of his pen against the paper. He drew a massive, brutal red 'X' right next to the name Allison Lee.

Back in the taxi, Allison's phone vibrated.

It was a Venmo refund notification from Mike, followed by a text: Bro, your professor is a psycho. I got kicked out. Sorry.

Allison dropped her head against the cold window glass. She closed her eyes.

A second later, her email app chimed.

She opened it. It was a message from the university server.

Sender: E. Dillard.

Subject: Mandatory Meeting.

Message: My office. Tomorrow morning. 8:00 AM sharp.

Allison stared at the screen, feeling physically sick. She had to face the tyrant tomorrow. But worse, she had to face her husband tonight.