She didn't.

Sunlight hit the room like a nuclear blast.

The floor-to-ceiling windows, devoid of curtains because Julian demanded absolute visibility, channeled the morning sun directly onto the bed.

Julian woke up with a gasp. The headache was gone, replaced by a dry mouth and a sense of disorientation. He felt heavy. Rested. For the first time in months, he hadn't woken up screaming.

He shifted. His arm was numb. He looked down.

There was a woman in his bed.

Panic, cold and sharp, pierced his chest. He scrambled backward, his heart hammering against his ribs.

What the hell?

He kicked out, a reflex born of fear. His foot connected with the woman's hip.

Get out!

Serena, who had been in a light doze, didn't scream. She didn't flail. She simply rolled with the force of the kick, falling off the edge of the massive mattress and landing on the thick carpet with a muffled thump.

She sat up immediately. She didn't look scared. She looked annoyed. She rubbed her elbow, her hair a messy halo around her face.

Julian stared at her, his chest heaving. He recognized her now. The flannel shirt on the floor. The dossier photos.

You, he breathed. "The charity case."

He pulled the sheet up to cover his bare chest, feeling absurdly exposed. "What are you doing in my bed? Did you sneak in? Is this some kind of... seduction attempt to secure the alimony before the wedding?"

Serena stood up. She was fully dressed in her flannel and jeans, which made his nakedness even more ridiculous. She looked at him with eyes that were far too calm for a girl who had just been kicked out of bed by a billionaire.

Your sister, Serena said, her voice flat. "Stella. She told me this was my room."

Julian froze. The pieces clicked into place. Stella. The prank. The humiliation.

He closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Stella," he muttered. A vein throbbed in his temple. He didn't apologize. Sterlings didn't apologize for being tricked; they managed the fallout.

He reached for the intercom on the nightstand.

Martha, he barked. "Guest room. Prepare it. Now."

He glared at Serena. "Get your things. Get out. If I ever find you in here again, the contract is void."

Serena bent down and picked up her canvas bag. She slung it over her shoulder. She looked at him, her gaze dropping to his waist, then back to his eyes.

Nice boxers, by the way, she drawled. "Very... executive."

She turned and walked out, closing the door with a soft click.

Julian sat there, stunned. She hadn't cried. She hadn't begged. She had mocked him.

He looked down at his Calvin Kleins. He felt a strange heat rise up his neck.

Downstairs, Stella was waiting in the breakfast nook, sipping coffee, waiting for the screaming match. She had her phone ready to record the audio of the "hillbilly" crying.

Instead, Serena walked down the grand staircase. She was calm. She looked bored.

Morning, Serena said, walking past Stella to the coffee pot.

Stella blinked. "Did... did you sleep well?"

Like a log, Serena said, pouring a cup of black coffee. "Julian is a very... aggressive cuddler."

Stella choked on her latte.

Five minutes later, Julian descended. He was dressed in a charcoal suit, his hair wet and slicked back, his face a mask of icy indifference. He walked into the dining room, the temperature seeming to drop ten degrees.

He stopped behind Stella's chair. He didn't raise his voice.

We need to talk about boundaries, Stella, he said softly.

Stella went pale. She looked from Julian to Serena. The plan had backfired. The mouse hadn't been eaten by the snake. The mouse was drinking their coffee.

Breakfast at the Sterling penthouse was a blood sport played with silverware.

The dining table was a slab of Italian marble long enough to land a small plane on. Victoria sat at the head, Julian at the foot. Stella and Serena sat on opposite sides, a demilitarized zone of floral arrangements between them.

The silence was deafening. The only sounds were the scrape of silver against china and the ticking of a grandfather clock that cost more than Serena's supposed childhood home.

Victoria watched Serena eat oatmeal. She watched it with the intensity of a hawk watching a field mouse.

That outfit, Victoria said, finally breaking the silence. She gestured vaguely at Serena's jeans and t-shirt with her fork. "It's an eyesore. We have a dress code in this house, dear. You look like the help. Actually, the help dresses better. Martha wears a uniform."

Serena swallowed a spoonful of oats. "Comfortable," she said simply.

Victoria let out a sharp breath through her nose. She reached into her Hermes bag sitting on the table and pulled out a wallet. She extracted a single, crisp bill.

One thousand dollars.

She flicked her wrist. The bill fluttered across the table, landing squarely in Serena's bowl of oatmeal. The beige sludge soaked into the corner of the expensive paper.

Buy something that covers your... poverty, Victoria sneered. "I won't have you embarrassing Julian at the office today."

Julian stopped eating. He held his coffee cup mid-air, watching. He wanted to see this. He wanted to see if the girl had a breaking point. Would she cry? Would she throw it back? Would she pocket it greedily?

Serena looked at the money in her food. She didn't look angry. She looked at it like one might look at a dead fly.

She reached into the bowl with two fingers. She pinched the dry corner of the bill and lifted it out, dripping oatmeal onto the table.

Martha? Serena called out, her voice calm.

The maid hurried in from the kitchen. "Yes, Miss?"

Serena held out the soggy thousand-dollar bill.

For your trouble, Serena said. "Sorry about the mess on the table."

Martha's eyes widened. She looked at Victoria, then at the money. "I... Miss, I couldn't..."

Take it, Serena insisted gently. "Buy something nice. Or pay rent. Whatever."

Martha took the bill with trembling fingers, whispering a thank you before fleeing back to the kitchen.

Silence fell over the table again. But this time, it was different. It was shocked.

Victoria's face turned a shade of puce that clashed with her dress. Stella's mouth hung open.

Serena wiped her fingers on a napkin. Just then, a vibration buzzed against her thigh.

She slipped her hand under the table and checked her "dumb phone." It was a burner, but the encrypted app running on it was state-of-the-art.

Notification: Vane Trust Quarterly Dividend. Deposit Confirmed: $5,000,000.00.

Serena suppressed a smirk. She took a sip of her black coffee. It tasted bitter and perfect.

Julian stood up abruptly. His chair scraped loudly against the floor.

Let's go, he commanded, looking at Serena. "Grandfather wants you at the office. To 'learn the ropes.' Which means you sit in a corner and don't touch anything."

Serena stood. "Ready when you are, boss."

They went down to the garage. It was a showroom of automotive excess. Ferraris, Bentleys, a vintage Porsche. Julian walked toward a black Maybach.

The driver held the back door open. Julian slid in. Serena moved to follow him.

Julian put his hand up, blocking her.

Don't touch anything, he warned. "Don't speak to anyone unless spoken to. You are invisible today. Understand?"

Crystal, Serena said, sliding onto the leather seat.

She sat as far to the left as possible, pressing herself against the door. Julian sat on the far right. The distance between them was filled with tension and the hum of the engine.

Julian opened his laptop immediately. He began typing furiously, reviewing a merger spreadsheet.

His phone rang. He groaned, seeing the caller ID. It was the London partners. He answered it, his voice switching to a crisp, professional baritone. He placed the laptop on the center armrest, the screen still glowing, as he gestured with his free hand while arguing about equity splits.

Serena glanced sideways. The screen was angled just enough. Her eyes, sharp and trained, scanned the dense grid of numbers.

Row 45. Column G.

There was a discrepancy. Not a typo, but a logic error in the formula reference that was pulling data from the wrong fiscal quarter. It was subtle-a difference that would compound into a massive valuation gap.

He's using Q3 projections for Q4 actuals, she noted silently. That's a three hundred million dollar overestimation.

It was a trap laid by whoever built the sheet, or just incompetence.

Serena's lips parted. She almost said, Your valuation is inflated.

She stopped herself. Stop. You are a hillbilly. You don't know what Excel is. You think a spreadsheet is something you put on a horse.

She looked out the window, biting the inside of her cheek. Letting him lose money was painful to her obsessive-compulsive need for accuracy, but blowing her cover was worse. She forced herself to focus on the passing grey blur of the city.

The car pulled up to Sterling Corp, a skyscraper that dominated the skyline.

They entered the lobby. The air changed. People stopped and stared. They stared at Julian with fear and reverence. They stared at Serena with confusion. Who was this girl in flannel walking beside the God of Commerce?

Julian didn't introduce her. He walked straight to the elevator, swiping his key card.

They went to the 40th floor. Marketing and PR.

He marched her to the office of the Executive Assistant to the VP, a woman named Scarlett. Scarlett was beautiful, sharp, and one of Vanessa's best friends. She looked at Serena like a cat looks at a wounded bird.

This is the intern, Julian said, not even using Serena's name. "Keep her busy. Keep her invisible. If I hear she caused trouble, it's your head."

Scarlett smiled, a predatory baring of teeth. "Understood, Mr. Sterling. I have just the thing."

Julian turned and left without a backward glance.

Scarlett pointed to a desk in the corner, piled high with paper that needed shredding.

Sit, Scarlett ordered. "And don't make eye contact with the creatives. You might infect them with... mediocrity."

Serena sat. She looked at the shredder.

Game on, she thought.