Blake reached for the brass doorknob. The metal was cool under her palm.

"You can't leave! You're a Harrison!" Carissa yelled. Her voice was shrill, desperate to regain control of the narrative.

Blake paused. She didn't turn her body, just looked back over her shoulder. Her eyes narrowed.

"And you, Carissa? What are you?"

Carissa flinched. She pulled the sheet tighter around her throat.

"I'm the woman he loves," Carissa said defiantly.

Blake laughed. It was a dry, humorless sound that scraped against her throat.

"You're a PR nightmare waiting to happen."

Hardin struggled to his feet, clutching the robe closed. He was still wheezing slightly.

"Don't talk to her like that," he growled.

Blake stepped away from the door and moved closer to the bed, invading Carissa's bubble.

"Does the press know about your mother, Carissa?"

Carissa's face drained of all color. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.

"The housekeeper? In the guest wing?" Blake continued, her voice low and dangerous.

She recited an address. A small, rundown apartment complex in Queens.

"Shut up!" Carissa screamed. She covered her ears with her hands.

Hardin looked between them. His brow furrowed. Confusion replaced the anger. He didn't know.

Blake caught the look. A small, cruel smile touched her lips.

"Oh, she didn't tell you? She's an illegitimate child."

"A bastard posing as a debutante," Blake clarified.

Hardin's expression shifted. He looked at Carissa, really looked at her, and Blake saw the disgust curdle in his eyes. Status was everything to a Harrison.

Carissa began to sob. Real, ugly tears this time.

A wave of dizziness hit Blake. The awakening came with a cost. Her brain felt like it was expanding against her skull.

She stumbled slightly, gripping the doorframe to stay upright.

Hardin saw the weakness. He took a step forward.

"You're sick. You need a doctor," he said, reaching for her.

Blake forced her spine straight. She bit the tip of her tongue until she tasted copper. The pain focused her.

"Just a headache from the trash fumes," she quipped.

She stepped into the hall and slammed the heavy oak door in their faces.

She leaned against the corridor wall for a second, exhaling sharply. Her system was rebooting, but she had to move.

Blake pushed off the wall. She moved rapidly down the corridor, her bare feet silent on the runner rug.

Heavy boots thudded on the stairs. Security.

Hardin must have hit the panic button by the bed.

She calculated quickly. The main exit was compromised. The grand staircase would be swarming in thirty seconds.

She ducked into a servant's alcove just as a beam of light swept past the hallway entrance.

Two guards ran past, heading toward the Master Bedroom. Their radios crackled.

Blake slipped out. She moved low.

She reached the end of the hall. A window overlooked the garden.

Second floor. Fifteen-foot drop. Soft turf landing.

She undid the latch. It was stuck with layers of old paint.

She used her elbow. A sharp, jarring strike. The paint cracked. The window slid up.

A guard at the far end of the hall turned at the sound.

"Hey!"

Blake didn't hesitate. She vaulted onto the sill.

"Stop her!" the guard yelled. The distinct zap of a Taser charging filled the air.

Blake jumped.

She tucked her body into a tight roll. Gravity took over. The wind rushed past her ears.

She hit the lawn. She rolled instantly to disperse the impact. Mud stained the white silk of her nightgown.

She sprang up. Her left ankle stung, but it held weight.

Searchlights swept the grounds from the roof, cutting through the darkness like blades.

She stuck to the shadows of the manicured hedges.

She reached the perimeter wall. Eight feet of stone.

She found the trellis she used to stare at sadly during her lonely afternoons.

Now, it was a ladder. She climbed swiftly, ignoring the thorns tearing at her palms.

At the top, she paused. She surveyed the road.

A black SUV with tinted windows patrolled the perimeter.

She timed the gap. Ten seconds.

She dropped down the other side to the public sidewalk.

She merged into the darkness of the tree line across the street.

Rain began to fall. Cold, heavy drops that washed away her tracks and soaked her to the bone.

She disappeared into the night, leaving the Duchess persona behind in the mud.

Blake shivered in the back of the taxi. She had paid the driver with emergency cash she had sewn into the hem of her nightgown weeks ago-a subconscious preparation she hadn't understood until now.

The driver looked at her suspiciously in the rearview mirror. She feigned a drunken giggle, playing the part of a party girl who had a rough night.

She got out at a desolate corner in the Meatpacking District. The smell of old grease and saltwater hung in the air.

She walked two blocks, checking reflections in shop windows to verify she wasn't followed.

She approached a condemned brick building. Her mother's secret asset.

She pried loose a loose brick near the foundation. The physical key was there, cold and rusted.

She climbed the fire escape to the third floor.

Inside, the air was thick with dust and neglect. It smelled of abandonment.

She locked the heavy steel door behind her.

Sniff.

Beneath the dust, there was a metallic tang. Fresh blood.

Her muscles tensed. Someone was here.

She grabbed a rusted length of pipe from the floor.

She moved silently toward the living area.

A figure lay on the moth-eaten sofa.

A man. Dressed in black tactical gear. Blood soaked the side of his abdomen.

She approached cautiously, the pipe raised.

He was unconscious. His skin was pale, his dark hair matted with sweat.

She checked his pulse. Weak. Thready.

She saw a gun on the floor. A modified Sig Sauer.

She kicked the gun away, sending it skittering across the floorboards.

She recognized the face. It was plastered on tabloids and intelligence briefings. Crown Prince Elias.

"Of all the gin joints," she muttered.

Logic dictated she leave him. Or call 911.

But 911 meant ID checks. She couldn't afford that. And a Prince... a Prince was a powerful asset.

She found a dusty first-aid kit in the bathroom.

She boiled water on a portable stove found in the pantry. The blue flame hissed.

She returned to him. She ripped his shirt open. Gunshot wound. Through and through. Clean exit, but bleeding heavily.

She cleaned the wound with a bottle of vodka she found in a cabinet.

He groaned in his sleep, his body twitching, but he didn't wake.

She stitched him up. Her hands were steady. Every loop of the thread was an investment in her future.