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.

The Fitzpatrick Manor was less a home and more a mausoleum for the living. Stone walls, gargoyles, and enough ivy to strangle a small village.

Ivy took Clive's arm as they walked up the steps. Her grip was light, formal.

Inside, the air was stale, smelling of beeswax and old money.

The main hall was full of people. Aunts, uncles, cousins. The extended family. They were vultures in silk and velvet.

Catrina was there. She had changed into a gold dress that was even tighter than the red one. She was holding a martini glass, holding court with a group of younger cousins.

When she saw Ivy, her eyes narrowed. She whispered something to the girl next to her. They both giggled.

Ivy kept her head high.

Clive pulled her toward a corner, away from the main group.

"My father is going to ask about the merger papers," Clive hissed. "Your father still hasn't signed the asset transfer."

Ivy looked at him. "My father is waiting for the final valuation."

"Your father is stalling. Tell him to sign it, Ivy. Or this wedding is off."

He grabbed her wrist. His fingers dug in. It was a familiar pain. A warning.

Ivy looked down at his hand. Then she looked up at his face.

She thought of the jacket. She thought of the villa. She thought of Bruno.

"Let go of me," she said.

Clive blinked. "Excuse me?"

"I said, let go."

She leaned in closer.

"If you bruise me, Clive, I'll have to explain it to your mother. And then I might accidentally mention the withdrawals you've been making from the company operating account."

Clive's face went slack. He dropped her wrist as if it burned him.

"What… how do you know about that?"

Ivy didn't know. Not for sure. But she had seen papers on Bruno's desk in the hotel room. Just a glance. A spreadsheet with highlighted rows. Clive's name was on one.

"I know a lot of things," Ivy bluffed. "Like how Catrina's new apartment in SoHo was paid for by a shell company listed under Fitzpatrick Holdings."

Clive looked terrified. That was embezzlement. That was prison time. Or worse-disownment by Silas.

"What do you want?" he whispered.

Ivy smoothed her sleeve.

"First, stay away from me tonight. Second, get her out of here."

She nodded toward Catrina.

Clive looked at his mistress. Then back at Ivy.

"She's family. I can't just-"

"Figure it out. Or I go talk to your father."

Clive gritted his teeth. "Fine."

He turned and walked over to Catrina. Ivy watched. She saw the argument. Catrina's shocked face. The angry gestures.

Finally, Catrina slammed her drink down on a waiter's tray and stormed out of the front door.

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

She had won.

"Well done."

The voice came from behind her. It was sharp. Cold.

Ivy turned.

Claudia Wallace stood there. Her adoptive mother.

She was wearing black. She always wore black. It made her look like a chic undertaker.

"Mother," Ivy said.

Claudia didn't smile. She reached out and pinched the soft flesh of Ivy's upper arm. It was a vicious, twisting pinch.

"Don't think you're clever," Claudia whispered. "I saw that. You're making a scene."

"I was handling it," Ivy said through the pain.

"You were risking the merger. If Clive calls off the wedding, we lose everything. And if we lose everything…"

Claudia's eyes bore into Ivy's.

"You know what happens to your sister."

Ivy froze. The victory evaporated.

"Don't," Ivy whispered.

"Then behave. Go upstairs and fix your hair. You look disheveled."

Claudia released her arm.

Ivy rubbed the spot. It would bruise.

She turned and walked toward the stairs. She felt small again. Helpless.

The front door opened. A gust of wind blew through the hall.

Silence fell over the room.

Bruno walked in.

He was wearing the suit. The grey suit.

He scanned the room. His eyes landed on Ivy on the stairs.

He winked.