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.

The guest powder room on the second floor was quiet.

Ivy locked the door. She leaned against the sink, staring at herself.

The pinch on her arm throbbed.

The door handle rattled.

"Open it," Claudia's voice came from the other side.

Ivy closed her eyes. She unlocked the door.

Claudia slipped inside. She locked it behind her.

She didn't say a word. She raised her hand and slapped Ivy across the face.

The sound was like a gunshot in the small tiled room.

Ivy's head snapped to the side. Her cheek burned.

"Stupid girl," Claudia hissed. "Threatening Clive? Are you insane?"

"He was hurting me," Ivy said, her hand cupping her cheek.

"He owns you!" Claudia shouted, though she kept her voice to a whisper-scream. "Until that ring is on your finger and those papers are signed, you are property. You don't threaten the buyer!"

Claudia pulled out her phone.

She tapped the screen and held it up.

It was a video. A grainy feed from a room. A hospital room? Or a dorm room.

A young girl was sitting on a bed, staring out the window. She looked thin. Frail.

"Lucia," Ivy breathed. Her real sister, the only other survivor of the Maldonado family's ruin. Claudia had "rescued" her from the foster system years ago, a supposed act of kindness that had turned into a gilded cage. Lucia was her heart, and Claudia held it in her fist.

"She hasn't been eating well," Claudia said casually. "The doctors say she needs… specialized care. Very expensive care."

Ivy grabbed Claudia's wrist. "Don't hurt her. Please. I'll do anything."

"Then stop fighting back," Claudia snapped. She put the phone away.

She reached into her purse and then turned to the ornate vanity. She opened a small, lacquered drawer and pulled out a thin, black riding crop. It was clearly kept here for this purpose.

"Turn around."

Ivy's stomach twisted. No. Not here.

"Turn around!"

Ivy turned. She gripped the edge of the marble sink. She lowered her head.

Claudia unzipped the back of the blue dress.

The first strike hit her shoulder blades.

Ivy bit her tongue to keep from screaming.

The second strike hit lower.

It wasn't about the pain. It was about the humiliation. The reminder that she was a child. A stray dog that had been taken in and could be beaten at will.

Five strikes.

"That's enough," Claudia said. She was breathing hard.

She zipped up the dress.

"Fix your face. You have two minutes."

Claudia left.

Ivy sank to the floor. She wrapped her arms around her knees. Her back was on fire.

She wanted to burn the world down.

She stood up. She splashed cold water on her face. She applied concealer to the red mark on her cheek.

She opened the door.

Hank was standing there.

Ivy jumped.

Hank held out a small silver tube.

"Boss says this helps with the swelling," he grunted.

Ivy stared at the tube.

Bruno knew?

How?

Cameras? Or did he just know Claudia?

She took the tube. It was cold metal.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Hank nodded and walked away.

Ivy unscrewed the cap. It smelled of arnica and mint.

She reached back and dabbed it on her shoulder where the crop had cut the skin.

It stung, then cooled.

Bruno wasn't saving her. He was patching her up so she could go back into the ring.

He wanted a fighter.

Ivy capped the tube and put it in her clutch.

She walked down the stairs.