The rain was cold, but Ivana was numb.

She walked with her head down, shielding her face with the tote bag.

Every step was a reminder of four years ago.

Flashback.

The Sharpe Estate study. The smell of old leather and cigar smoke.

Hampton Sharpe, Gannon's grandfather, sat behind the mahogany desk. He looked like a vulture.

He slid two papers across the desk.

"Sign the NDA, Ivana. Leave him. And I will authorize the experimental treatment for your brother."

Ivana was crying. "I can't leave him. He needs me. He's still in the ICU."

"Hampton sneered. "He is in the ICU because of you. Because of your reckless driving. You are poison to this family."

It wasn't true. She had swerved to avoid a deer. She had pulled Gannon out of the wreckage. She had cut her arm to the bone saving him.

But Hampton controlled the narrative. And he controlled the hospital board.

"Sign, or Leo dies."

She signed. She signed away her life to save Leo. And it hadn't mattered. Leo had died six months later, his body rejecting the treatment. The money Hampton sent had evaporated into medical bills and funeral costs. Now, Elena was all she had left. She couldn't fail her too.

End Flashback.

Ivana stepped into a puddle, the water soaking through her canvas sneaker.

She shivered.

A car slowed down beside her.

She didn't look up. She kept walking.

The car honked. A short, polite beep.

She turned. It was a generic black sedan. Not a Maybach. A Toyota.

The passenger window rolled down. An older woman with gray hair looked out.

"Miss?" she called out.

Ivana stopped. "Yes?"

The woman held out a large black umbrella.

"Here," she said. "Take this."

Ivana hesitated. "Why?"

The woman shrugged. "You looked like you needed it."

Ivana took the umbrella. It was heavy. Expensive. The handle was solid wood.

"Thank you," she said.

The woman nodded and the window rolled up. The car drove away.

Ivana opened the umbrella. It was huge, creating a dry sanctuary around her.

She looked at the handle. There was no logo. But near the release button, there was a small, intentional groove carved into the dark wood. It was shaped like a crescent moon.

Ivana's breath hitched. She ran her thumb over it. She had carved this herself, four years ago, while they sat on a park bench in Central Park. It was his umbrella. The one he kept in the foyer of the penthouse.

She looked down the street. The black sedan turned a corner.

He had sent someone.

He had kicked her out into the rain, screamed at her, and then sent a stranger to give her his umbrella.

She didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

She gripped the handle tighter.

He still cared.

And that was the most dangerous thing of all.

Breann Carlson sat in her penthouse living room. The view of Central Park was obscured by the rain.

She held a glass of Pinot Noir in one hand and her phone in the other.

A photo appeared on the screen.

It was grainy, taken through a telephoto lens.

It showed Gannon's Maybach stopped on a street in Brooklyn. It showed a woman getting out.

Breann zoomed in.

She recognized the hoodie. She recognized the posture.

Ivana.

Breann's grip on the wine glass tightened. The stem snapped.

Red wine spilled over her white silk robe and onto the cream carpet. It looked like a gunshot wound.

She didn't flinch.

She dialed a number.

"Silas," she said. Her voice was calm, sweet.

"Hey, Bree," Silas Vance answered. He was Gannon's best friend, and Breann's useful idiot.

"I'm worried about Gannon," she said. She let a tremor enter her voice. "He... he's been acting strange. I think the stress of the wedding is getting to him."

"What happened?" Silas asked.

"I think... I think he went to see her. Ivana."

Silas was silent. "She's back?"

Breann sniffled. "Yes. I'm so scared, Silas. She hurt him so badly last time. If she's back for money..."

"Don't worry, Bree. I'll look into it. I won't let her near you guys."

"Thank you, Silas. You're the best."

She hung up.

Her face went blank. She dropped the broken glass onto the floor.

She typed a message to another number. An unlisted one.

Find out where she is staying. And find out if she brought the brat.

She looked at the photo of Ivana again.

"You should have stayed dead," she whispered.

Back in the motel room, Ivana peeled off her wet clothes. The room smelled of mildew and stale cigarettes. She leaned the black umbrella against the wall. It looked like an alien object in the shabby room.

She went into the bathroom. The tiles were cracked.

She turned on the shower. The water sputtered, then came out lukewarm.

She stepped in.

As she washed the city grime off her skin, she looked at her left arm.

On the inside of her wrist, extending up her forearm, was a scar.

It was jagged. Ugly.

It wasn't a clean cut. It was a tear.

The glass from the windshield had sliced her open as she dragged Gannon's unconscious body through the window of the burning car.

The doctors had stitched it up, but the nerves were damaged. Sometimes, when it rained, it ached.

Like tonight.

She traced the scar with her soapy finger.

Hampton had told Gannon that Ivana had fled the scene. That she had left him to die. That the paramedics found him alone.

Ivana had been in the second ambulance, drifting in and out of consciousness from blood loss. But Hampton had been thorough. He used her vulnerable status-her visa was expiring, and her sponsorship was tied to the company-to erase her presence. He paid off the EMTs, buried the police report, and deported her record before she even woke up from surgery. To the world, and to Gannon, she had simply vanished.

She turned off the water.

She dried herself with a scratchy towel.

She sat on the edge of the bed and opened her laptop. It was an old model, heavy and slow.

She logged into Skype.

Mrs. Higgins answered.

Cohen was eating a bowl of oatmeal. He looked up and beamed.

"Mommy! Look! Bunny is eating too!"

He held up a tattered stuffed rabbit.

Ivana smiled. It hurt her face.

"Hi, baby. Is Bunny hungry?"

"Yes! He likes oats."

Ivana watched him. He had Gannon's nose. The exact slope.

Mrs. Higgins stepped into the frame. "He's been good. But we're almost out of the special lotion for his eczema."

"I know," Ivana said. "I'm working on it."

She hung up after five minutes. She couldn't bear to watch him any longer. Every second she wasn't with him felt like a failure.

She needed a job. A real job.

She opened the browser. She went to the job board.

She typed in "Biotech."

She was MOON. She held three patents for nutritional algorithms. She was a genius.

But her doctorate degree was in a safe deposit box in Zurich, and she couldn't access it without alerting the lawyers who were monitoring her assets. Any ping on her real credentials would alert Hampton's estate lawyers, and they would come for her.

She had to apply as Ivana Becker. High school graduate. Some college.

She scrolled past the Senior Researcher roles. Past the Lab Director roles.

She stopped at a listing for Sharpe BioCorp.

Data Entry Clerk. Entry Level. Benefits from Day One.

Sharpe BioCorp. Gannon's company.

It was suicide. It was walking into the lion's den.

But the benefits included full family health coverage. No waiting period.

It would cover Elena. It would cover Cohen.

She stared at the "Apply" button.

If she got the job, she would be invisible. Just a name in a database. A body in a cubicle farm. Gannon would never see her. He worked on the top floor. She would be in the basement.

She clicked Apply.

She filled out the application. Under "Previous Employment," she listed "Private Caregiver." It was the same lie she had told Gannon. Consistency was key.

The next morning, Ivana put on her only "professional" outfit. A black pencil skirt she had found at a thrift store and a white blouse that was slightly yellowed at the collar.

She used concealer to hide the bruise on her cheek where Aleta had slapped her.

She took the subway to Manhattan.

Sharpe Tower was a glass needle piercing the sky.

She stood in the lobby, feeling small.

She had an interview with HR. A woman named Joyce Madden.

Joyce was a woman who clearly hated her job and hated everyone who tried to get a job.

She looked at Ivana's resume.

"Gap in employment?" Joyce asked, popping gum.

"I was... working as a private caregiver for a family in Europe," Ivana said smoothly.

"Skills?"

"Typing. Data organization."

Joyce looked at her. "You're overqualified. You did two years at MIT before dropping out?"

"Financial reasons," Ivana said.

Joyce sighed. "Look, normally a background check would flag someone with your... history. The name Becker rings a bell, but I can't place it."

Ivana held her breath. She had used her maiden name, hoping the erasure of her marriage to Gannon was thorough enough to bypass the standard screens.

"However," Joyce continued, "I have a note here from the executive office. Ms. Cortez specifically requested that your application be fast-tracked if you applied."

Ivana felt her blood freeze. Aleta.

"Ms. Cortez?"

"Yes. She's the new Chief Operating Officer. She oversees administrative staffing."

Of course she did.

"I'll take it," Ivana said.

Joyce shrugged. "Okay. You start Monday. Ms. Cortez has assigned you to the Special Projects data team."

Ivana walked out of the office. She had a job. But it was a trap.

She was walking to the elevator when the doors opened.

Gannon stepped out.

He was flanked by three men in suits. He was talking, gesturing with a silver pen.

"...the algorithm is drifting. I need the raw data from the beta test..."

He stopped.

He saw her.

Ivana froze. She was holding her visitor badge.

Gannon stared at her. He looked at the badge. Visitor.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. His voice was low, dangerous. His eyes darted to the umbrella stand by the door, then back to her. Confusion warred with anger. He had just sent her an umbrella last night, a silent admission of care, and now she was here, invading his sanctuary.

The three men stopped, looking back and forth.

Ivana clutched her bag. "I... I had an interview."

Gannon laughed. A harsh, barking sound. "For what? Janitor?"

"Data Entry," she said, lifting her chin.

Gannon shook his head. "You are stalking me. First the hospital, then the street, now my building. Do you think I'm stupid?"

"I need a job, Gannon. I didn't know you would be in the lobby."

"Then go work at Starbucks. Get out of my building."

"I'm hired," she said. "I start Monday."

Gannon stepped closer. He invaded her space. He was furious, not just because she was here, but because seeing her made him want to ask if she was dry, if she was safe.

"I will fire you before you even sit down."

"You can't," she whispered. "It would be discrimination. I passed the interview."

"Discrimination?" Gannon sneered. "Against what? Gold diggers?"

Aleta walked out of the elevator behind him.

"What's going on?"

She saw Ivana. Her eyes widened.

"She's working here," Gannon said. "Fix it."

Aleta looked at Ivana. A slow, predatory smile spread across her face.

"No, Gannon. Let her stay."

Gannon looked at Aleta. "What?"

Aleta walked over to Ivana. She touched Ivana's cheap blouse.

"We need good help," she said. "And Ivana is so... obedient. Aren't you?"

Ivana knew what this was. Aleta wanted a punching bag. She wanted Ivana close so she could torture her.

Ivana swallowed her pride. "Yes," she said.

Gannon looked between them. He looked disgusted.

"Fine," he said. "But if I see you on the executive floor, Ivana, I will have security throw you out."

He walked away.

Ivana let out a breath she didn't know she was holding.

"Welcome to the team," Aleta whispered. "I'm going to make your life a living hell."