Across the city, in a marble-floored bathroom, Cleora Goff's phone buzzed.

She was getting a pedicure. She picked up the phone with her free hand. The screen lit up with Pringle's message.

She brought a man home. Bloody. Secret.

Cleora smiled. It was a slow, venomous expression. She waved the nail technician away.

She dialed a number.

"Auntie Felicity," Cleora said. Her voice pitched up an octave, sounding sweet and concerned. "I heard the most terrible rumors... Ivy might be in trouble. With bad men."

In the basement of a warehouse in the Meatpacking District, Deondre Pittman sat in a leather chair. He held a scalpel, turning it over and over in his fingers.

Quincy, his second-in-command, stood by the door.

"Pierce failed," Quincy said. "He said he encountered... a bearer of the Serpent's Eye."

Deondre stopped spinning the scalpel. The blade nicked his thumb. A drop of blood welled up.

He had only given that coin to one person. A child who had saved his life five years ago. He had lost track of her when her father went into hiding.

"Find out who saved the Lancaster heir," Deondre said softly.

Back at the Goff estate, the sun was rising.

Ivy was asleep at her desk. Her head rested on an open anatomy textbook. Her hand still loosely gripped a pair of surgical scissors.

Braylon woke up.

He felt stiff. His chest burned. He looked down. His torso was wrapped in professional-grade bandages.

He looked around the room. It was a paradox. Pink curtains, stuffed animals, and romance novels on the shelves. But on the walls were detailed diagrams of the human circulatory system.

He sat up. The bed frame creaked.

Ivy moved instantly.

She didn't wake up groggy. She woke up attacking. She spun in the chair and threw the scissors.

They thudded into the wooden headboard, an inch from Braylon's ear.

Braylon looked at the vibrating metal. He raised an eyebrow.

"Good morning to you too," he said.

Ivy rubbed her eyes behind her glasses. She looked annoyed that he was awake.

"You are alive," she said. "Unfortunately."

Braylon smirked. The pain in his side was sharp, but his charm was a reflex.

"You saved my life. How can I repay you? My body?"

Ivy stood up. She walked to the bed and looked down at him. Her expression was clinical.

"Money. Lots of it. And silence."

Braylon paused. He wasn't used to women looking at him like he was a specimen in a jar.

The doorbell rang downstairs. It was loud.

Then came Mrs. Pringle's voice, shrill and projecting.

"Oh, Mrs. Miles! What a surprise!"

Ivy stiffened. She walked to the window and peered through the blinds.

Three luxury sedans were in the driveway. Jared Miles, her fiancé, was there with his parents. And Cleora, clutching Felicity Miles's arm like a dutiful niece.

Ivy turned back to Braylon.

"Stay here. Don't make a sound."

Braylon heard the commotion downstairs. He put the pieces together.

"Trouble with the in-laws?" he asked.

Ivy ignored him. She stripped off her bloody uniform shirt. She had a tank top on underneath. She pulled on a oversized, gray hoodie. It swallowed her figure completely.

She opened the door.

Braylon watched her leave. The playful look in his eyes vanished. He reached for the cheap flip phone Ivy had left on the nightstand.

He dialed a number from memory.

"Douglas," he said. "Locate me."

One hour earlier, inside a soundproof room at the Syndicate headquarters.

A man named Quentin was tied to a chair. His face was swollen.

Deondre stood in front of him. He was wearing an immaculate cream-colored suit. He held the black and gold coin between his thumb and forefinger.

"You tried to kill a Lancaster without my permission," Deondre said. His voice was gentle, almost affectionate.

Quentin sobbed. "They paid double! Terrence Lancaster paid double!"

Deondre sighed. He looked disappointed.

"It is not about the money, Quentin. It is about the rules."

He flipped the coin.

"And you made her use this. You put her in danger."

Deondre nodded to Quincy. Quincy stepped forward with a plastic sheet.

Deondre walked out of the room. He picked up a tablet Quincy had left on the table. It displayed a profile.

Ivy Goff.

The photo showed a girl with frizzy hair, thick glasses, and a vacant expression. Deondre smiled.

"Still playing hide and seek, little doctor?"

He walked to a wall safe and spun the dial. He took out a velvet box. Inside sat a pink diamond ring, rare and flawless.

He handed it to a guard outside the door.

"Send this to her. Tell her... the debt is acknowledged."

At the Goff estate, the living room air was thick with tension.

Joette was trying to pour tea for Felicity Miles. Her hands shook so badly the china rattled. Felicity ignored the cup.

Jerome Miles stood by the fireplace. He looked at the furniture with disdain.

Cleora sat on the sofa, her posture perfect. She exchanged a glance with Pringle.

"I will go check if Miss Ivy is awake," Pringle announced loudly. "She had a... long night."

Jerome sneered.

Footsteps scuffed on the stairs. Slow. Dragging.

Ivy walked into the room. She was wearing the gray hoodie and baggy jeans. Her hands were shoved deep in her pockets.

She didn't look at anyone. She walked straight to the kitchen area of the open-plan room and poured a glass of water.

Jerome slammed his hand on the mantelpiece.

"Ivy! Have you no manners?"

Ivy took a sip of water. She turned around slowly. Her eyes were unfocused behind the lenses.

"And you are?" she asked.

The room went silent. Cleora covered her mouth to hide a smile.

Jerome's face turned a deep shade of red.

"I am your future father-in-law! Or I was!"

Jared Miles stood in the corner. He looked at Ivy. He hated how she looked-frumpy, messy, uninterested. It made him feel small.

Ivy shrugged.

"Okay. So?"

Jerome pulled a document from his briefcase. He slapped it onto the coffee table.

"Sign this. The Miles family cannot accept a loose woman."

Joette began to cry. "It is a misunderstanding! Pringle is lying!"

Ivy watched her mother's tears. Her jaw tightened. She hated weakness. She hated that these people made her mother cry.

Upstairs, Braylon heard the words "loose woman."

His eyes darkened. He pushed himself off the bed. The stitches pulled tight, burning like fire. He grabbed the doorframe to steady himself.

Downstairs, Ivy picked up the pen. She didn't care about the engagement. Jared was a bore and a coward. She prepared to sign.

The front door burst open.

Two men in black suits marched in. Douglas and Clay. They were huge, taking up space with efficient violence.

"Intruders!" Pringle shrieked. "Call the police!"

Douglas didn't look at her. He looked up the stairs.

Everyone turned.

Braylon stood at the top of the landing. He was shirtless. The bandages wrapped around his torso were stark white against his tan skin. His hair was messy. He leaned heavily against the railing, his face pale and slick with a thin sheen of sweat. He looked like a ruin, but a magnificent one.

Cleora stared. Her breath hitched.

"Who is this man?" Jerome demanded.

"See!" Pringle pointed a shaking finger. "That is the man she was hiding! A criminal!"

Douglas and Clay ran up the stairs. They didn't tackle him. They stopped three steps below him and bowed their heads.

"Sir," Douglas said.

Braylon waved a hand. He leaned heavily on the banister. He looked down at the group in the living room. His gaze landed on Ivy.

A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face.

"Honey," he rasped. "Why are these people bothering us?"

Ivy froze. The pen hovered over the paper. She looked up and glared at him.

Jared took a step back. The man on the stairs radiated power. It wasn't just physical; it was the way he looked at them-like they were insects.

Braylon walked down the stairs. It was a slow descent, each step a visible, agonizing effort. He reached the bottom and walked to Ivy.

He wrapped an arm around her waist. He leaned his weight on her.

To everyone else, it looked like a possessive embrace,but Ivy knew he was about to pass out.

Braylon looked at Jerome.

"You want to annul the engagement? Good."

He reached into the pocket of the pants Ivy had found for him-an old pair of her father's sweatpants.

He pulled out a folded piece of thick, cream-colored paper that Douglas had slipped it to him.

He tossed the check onto the annulment papers.

"You don't deserve her anyway," Braylon said. "Now, get out."