The ringing continued. It sounded like a siren.

Ivy's hand trembled so badly she almost dropped the phone. Bruno watched her, his expression unreadable, his hand resting heavy and hot on her thigh.

She swiped the green icon. She hit the speaker button.

"Ivy?" Clive's voice filled the car. It was impatient. Sharp. "Where the hell are you? Catrina said you left the party early because you were 'sick'."

Ivy closed her eyes. She forced air into her lungs.

"I… yes. I wasn't feeling well."

Her voice sounded thin.

"Where did you go? I called the apartment, you weren't there."

"I stayed at a friend's house," Ivy lied. "I didn't want to be alone."

Bruno leaned in. His teeth grazed the shell of her ear. He bit down, gently but with enough pressure to send a shockwave down her spine.

Ivy gasped. She slapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide.

Clive paused. "What was that?"

"Nothing," Ivy choked out. "I… I stubbed my toe."

Bruno's hand moved. He slid his fingers under the hem of the shirt. His touch was deliberate. Teasing.

Clive sighed. "God, you're clumsy. Look, just get back to the city. We have the family dinner tonight at the manor. Don't be late."

Ivy grabbed Bruno's wrist, trying to stop him. It was like trying to stop a hydraulic press. He didn't budge.

"I'll be there," she said.

"Wear the blue dress," Clive ordered. "Mom likes that one. It makes you look… respectable."

Bruno's eyes darkened. The playfulness vanished. He pinched the soft skin of her inner thigh. Hard.

Ivy bit her lip so hard she tasted copper. A whimper escaped her throat before she could stop it.

"Clive? Are you there?" she asked quickly, covering the noise.

"Yeah. Just don't embarrass me tonight, Ivy. I'm hanging up."

The line went dead.

Ivy dropped the phone. She slumped back against the leather seat, gasping for air as if she had just run a marathon.

Bruno pulled away. He looked at her with a mix of disgust and fascination.

"A friend's house? Stubbed your toe?" He scoffed. "You're a natural liar, Ivy."

"You forced me," Ivy whispered.

Bruno reached out and grabbed her face, squishing her cheeks between his fingers.

"Remember this feeling," he said. His voice was low. "Every time you lie to him. Every time you play the good little wife. You'll think of me."

The car slowed down.

"Boss, we're here," Hank's voice came over the intercom.

Bruno released her. He sat back and adjusted his tie. In a split second, the lust and the darkness were hidden behind the mask of the CEO.

He reached down and picked up a paper shopping bag from the floor. He tossed it into her lap.

"Change. I don't want you walking into your building wearing my shirt. It sends the wrong message. Or maybe the right one, but too early."

Ivy opened the bag. Inside was a dress. A pale cream sheath dress. It was simple, elegant, and looked incredibly expensive.

She looked at him. "How…?"

"I have sisters," Bruno said dismissively. "I know sizes."

He opened the door and stepped out onto the curb.

Ivy scrambled to change in the back of the car. Her fingers fumbled with the zipper. She felt exposed, even with the tinted windows.

She stepped out of the car. They were two blocks away from her apartment building. A safe distance.

Bruno was lighting another cigar. He didn't look at her.

"See you tonight, Ivy."

He got back in the car. The door slammed.

Ivy stood on the sidewalk, clutching the paper bag with his shirt inside. She watched the black car disappear into the New York traffic.

She felt dirty. She felt terrified.

And for the first time in her life, she felt alive.

The water was scalding.

Ivy stood under the showerhead, scrubbing her skin with a loofah until it turned raw and red. She was trying to wash him off. The smell of cedar. The feel of his hands. The phantom sensation of his teeth on her ear.

It wasn't working.

She stepped out and dried off. She put on the blue dress Clive had demanded. It was high-necked, long-sleeved. Modest. Boring.

She looked in the mirror. The woman staring back was a stranger. Her eyes were too bright. Her mouth looked swollen.

Her phone buzzed on the bathroom counter.

She picked it up. An unknown number.

A picture loaded.

It was a photo of a grey suit jacket. It was draped over the back of a beige sofa.

Ivy recognized the sofa. It was in the Hamptons villa.

A text followed.

Hank: Boss says you left a souvenir.

Ivy stopped breathing.

The jacket. Bruno had worn it this morning. He must have sent Hank into the villa after they left, planting it there for Clive and Catrina to find. It wasn't a mistake. It was a setup. A test.

The phone buzzed again. Another text, this time from Clive.

GET DOWN HERE. NOW.

Ivy's stomach bottomed out.

Clive Fitzpatrick was pacing in the hallway outside Ivy's apartment door. His face was a mask of fury.

Catrina was leaning against the wall, checking her nails. She looked bored, but there was a glimmer of excitement in her eyes.

The door opened. Ivy stood there. She was perfectly put together. Hair in a chignon. Minimal makeup.

Clive didn't say hello. He shoved a bundle of fabric into her chest.

"Explain this!" he shouted.

Ivy caught it. It was the grey jacket.

She held it. The fabric was soft. Cashmere blend. She could smell the faint scent of Bruno on it.

"Where did you get this?" she asked. Her voice was calm. Unnaturally calm.

"We found it at the villa," Catrina piped up. "On the sofa. It was there when we walked in!"

Clive stepped into Ivy's personal space. "Who were you with, Ivy? Who did you bring to my house?"

Ivy looked at him. She saw the vein bulging in his forehead. She saw the doubt in his eyes.

She looked at Catrina.

She threw the jacket back at Clive. It hit him in the chest and slid to the floor.

"I don't know what kind of game you two are playing," Ivy said coldly. "But I don't appreciate you bringing your trash to my doorstep."

Clive blinked. "What?"

"You think I brought a man to the villa?" Ivy laughed. It was a harsh sound. "With what keys, Clive? I don't have a key to the Hamptons house. You never gave me one."

Clive froze.

He looked at the jacket on the floor.

"That's…"

"The code," Ivy pressed. "You change the alarm code every month. I don't know it. So unless I broke a window-which I assume you would have noticed-how did I get in?"

Clive opened his mouth, then closed it. The logic was sound. Ivy didn't have access.

He turned slowly to Catrina.

Catrina's smug expression faltered. "Wait. No. It was there. It smelled like…"

"Like what?" Ivy cut in. "Like the cologne of one of the men you pick up at the club, Catrina?"

Catrina gasped. "You bitch!"

Clive looked at his cousin. His eyes narrowed.

"Did you bring someone there before I arrived?" Clive asked.

"No!" Catrina shrieked. "It's hers! I know it's hers!"

Clive kicked the jacket. "Damn it!"

He ran a hand through his hair. He looked from Ivy to Catrina. He didn't know who to believe, but Ivy's logic was harder to break.

"Whatever," he muttered. "I don't care whose it is. Just get rid of it."

He looked at Ivy.

"We're leaving for the manor in ten minutes. Fix your face. You look pale."

He turned and stormed down the hall toward the elevator.

Catrina glared at Ivy. "This isn't over," she hissed.

Ivy didn't flinch. "Bye, Catrina."

Catrina stomped after Clive.

Ivy closed the door. She locked it. She leaned her forehead against the cool wood.

Her legs gave out. She slid down to the floor.

She looked at the grey jacket lying on her rug.

She crawled over to it. She picked it up.

She took a picture of it. She sent it to the unknown number.

Your trash is in my apartment. Come get it.

The reply came ten seconds later.

Keep it. It matches the blue dress.

Ivy stared at the screen.

He knew. He knew about the blue dress. Was he listening? Was there a bug in her apartment? Or in the jacket?

She stood up. She walked to her closet and shoved the jacket into the very back, behind her winter coats.

She was playing a game with a grandmaster. And she had just made her first move.

Ivy's hands were shaking as she applied her lipstick.

She stared at her reflection. Gaslighting. That's what she had just done. She had taken the truth, twisted it into a pretzel, and shoved it down Clive's throat until he choked on it.

It felt… intoxicating.

She had spent six months being the victim. Taking the insults. Taking the emotional abuse. Agreeing that she was boring, that she was lucky to be a Wallace, lucky to be chosen by a Fitzpatrick.

Today, she had fought back.

She grabbed her purse. She checked the mirror one last time. Ivy had chosen the blue dress deliberately. It was the color of obedience, the dress of a dutiful fiancée. It was a perfect camouflage for the predator she was becoming, a way to lower their guard before she struck.

She walked out of the apartment.

Clive was waiting in the car downstairs. The limo driver held the door open.

Clive didn't look up from his phone when she got in.

"Did you throw it away?" he asked.

"Yes," Ivy lied.

"Good."

He finally looked at her. His eyes swept over the blue dress.

"Better. You look like a lady now. Not like that cheap mess you were last night."

Ivy didn't bite. She just smiled. A small, tight smile.

"Where's Catrina?" Ivy asked.

"She's meeting us there. She took her own car."

Ivy nodded. She turned to look out the window.

The city rolled by. Ivy's mind was racing.

Bruno hadn't just left the jacket to test her. He had left it to arm her. He knew Clive wouldn't recognize the custom tailoring-Clive bought off the rack from Armani, thinking the label meant class. Bruno wore bespoke.

The jacket was a physical object of chaos. And Bruno was the god of chaos.

Her phone buzzed in her purse.

She glanced down. It was a notification from her bank app.

A deposit. $50,000.

The sender was anonymous.

Ivy frowned. She opened the message attached to the transfer.

"Consulting fee. For the entertainment."

Ivy felt her face heat up. He was paying her. The initial sting of shame was sharp, a branding iron of humiliation searing her pride. It felt like being paid for a service, a transaction that reduced her to a commodity. But then, a colder, harder emotion pushed through the shame. Anger. If he saw her as an asset, a consultant in his game of chaos, then she would be the most expensive one he'd ever hired. This wasn't a whore's payment. It was seed money.

She typed a reply to the unknown number.

I don't want your money.

Reply: Then donate it. Or buy a new dress. That blue one is tragic.

Ivy almost laughed. A hysterical bubble of laughter rose in her throat. He was insulting her while paying her while saving her while ruining her.

She looked at Clive. He was texting Catrina. She could see the reflection in the window. "Can't wait for tonight, baby."

Ivy gripped her phone.

She transferred the $50,000 to an anonymous trust she'd established through a series of offshore shell corporations-a ghost in the financial system named after a forgotten childhood street.

It was her escape fund. Her war chest.

She looked back at the window.

Game on, Bruno.