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."

Monday morning.

Ivana sat in a cubicle in the basement of Sharpe Tower. There were no windows. The fluorescent lights hummed.

Aleta had set up a special "overflow" station for her, separate from the main data pool, ensuring Ivana was isolated.

Her job was to type numbers from paper forms into the computer.

It was mind-numbing work.

But as she typed, she noticed something.

The data she was entering... it was for the nutritional supplement formula. The flagship product.

She looked at the chemical ratios.

They were wrong.

Specifically, the lipid binding agent was too high. It would cause malabsorption.

She paused.

This was her algorithm. Or rather, a bastardized version of the algorithm she had written under the pseudonym MOON five years ago.

Someone had tried to copy her work and failed.

She looked around. No one was watching.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.

She could fix it. But she couldn't use her login. IBECKER would be flagged immediately.

She accessed the terminal's command prompt. It was an old system, full of patches. She quickly routed her entry through a background maintenance protocol, making the change look like a system auto-correction triggered by a rounding error.

She changed the ratio from 0.4 to 0.2.

She saved the file.

Upstairs, in the penthouse office, Gannon was looking at a monitor.

His lead scientist, Dr. Vane, was sweating.

"Sir, I don't know why the efficacy projections are down. We're following the MOON protocol."

Suddenly, the graph on the screen spiked. The red line turned green.

"Wait," Vane said. "It just... corrected itself."

Gannon leaned forward. "What happened?"

"I don't know. The system just ran a calibration update."

"Who authorized it?"

Vane checked the log.

"System Auto-Calibrate. Source: Terminal 404. Basement Level."

Gannon stared at the screen. Terminal 404 was the overflow station. The one Aleta had assigned to Ivana.

He felt a chill go down his spine.

Ivana was a college dropout. She barely knew how to use Excel. How could her terminal trigger a high-level algorithm correction?

Unless she wasn't who he thought she was.

He stood up.

"Bring her to me," he said.