The bathroom door frame splintered. A large chunk of wood flew inward, skittering across the tile floor. Through the gap, Dylan could see Jax's face, red and twisted with rage.

I'm gonna make you wish you were dead! he screamed, slamming his shoulder against the wood again.

Dylan curled into the empty bathtub, pulling the shower curtain down to cover herself, as if a thin sheet of plastic could stop a monster. She clutched the dead phone to her chest like a prayer bead.

Crash. The lock gave way.

Jax stumbled into the small room, breathing hard. He grinned, a predator cornered his prey.

Found you.

He reached for her.

Suddenly, a series of soft, heavy thuds echoed from the living room, followed by a sharp, muffled cry from Tara.

Jax froze. His hand hovered inches from Dylan's face. What the hell?

Before he could turn, the front door of the apartment didn't explode-it was opened with chilling silence.

Three men in dark, unmarked tactical gear, not police uniforms, swept into the apartment. They moved with the silent, efficient brutality of corporate mercenaries. One subdued Tara with a hand over her mouth before she could scream. The other two moved toward the bedroom.

Red laser dots danced across the walls, settling in a cluster on Jax's chest.

"On your knees. Hands behind your head," one of the men said, his voice low and devoid of emotion. His weapon was suppressed.

Jax raised his hands, his tough-guy facade crumbling instantly. "Who are you? Cops?"

The lead operative stepped on Jax's foot, grinding his heel down, and twisted his arm behind his back with practiced force. Jax buckled, hitting the floor face-first. Zip ties cinched his wrists behind his back.

Tara was hyperventilating in the corner, held firmly by the third man.

Dylan peeked over the edge of the bathtub, her body shaking so violently her teeth chattered.

A man in a sharp charcoal suit walked into the apartment. He moved calmly through the silent, controlled chaos, stepping over the debris of the broken door. It was Carter, Garland's head of security.

He didn't look at Jax. He didn't look at Tara. He walked straight to the bathroom.

He saw Dylan in the tub, bruised, terrified, clutching a shower curtain.

Carter did not take off his jacket. He simply stood in the doorway, his expression clinical.

Miss Maxwell, he said, his voice low and steady. I am Carter. Mr. Brennan sent me. You are being relocated.

The name Brennan broke the dam. Dylan let out a sob, a raw, ugly sound that had been trapped in her throat for hours.

She stood on her own, her legs like jelly.

As they walked her through the living room, Jax lifted his head from the floor.

You bitch! he yelled, spitting blood. You set me up! I have rights! I have a lawyer!

Carter stopped. He looked down at Jax with the indifference one might show a cockroach.

Carter knelt and showed Jax the screen of his phone. It was a live feed of Jax's own mother's house, with two more men in dark gear standing silently on her porch.

"You have the right to remain silent," Carter said smoothly. "If you do, your mother will continue to enjoy her Tuesday night bingo. If you don't, we will forward evidence of your loan-sharking operation to the IRS. They are far more creative than the police."

"Take them," Carter ordered the operatives.

They dragged Jax and a weeping Tara out a back entrance.

Carter guided Dylan down the stairs and out onto the street. The block was quiet, with no red and blue lights. Just a few neighbors peering curiously from windows.

A black SUV waited at the curb. Not a police car. A private sanctuary.

Dylan's heart skipped a beat. She thought Garland would be inside. She wanted to see him. She needed to see the man who had summoned a ghost army for her.

Carter opened the rear door. The interior was empty.

Where is he? Dylan asked, her voice raspy.

Mr. Brennan is in a video conference with Tokyo, Carter said, closing the door after she climbed in. He has arranged for you to stay at a secure location.

Dylan sank into the leather seat. Of course. He was working. She was just a problem to be solved, a logistics issue.

But as the car pulled away, leaving the sirens and the squalor behind, she hugged herself tightly.

Carter typed a message on his phone in the front seat.

Asset secured. Minor physical injuries. Emotional shock high.

A moment later, the reply came from Garland.

Period.

Just a single dot. It was the most Garland Brennan thing she had ever seen.

The safe house was a penthouse on the Upper East Side, overlooking the river. It was sterile, white, and silent.

Dylan woke up in a bed with sheets that felt like spun clouds. For a moment, she forgot. Then the pain in her cheek throbbed, bringing it all back.

She walked into the living room. Carter was there, standing by the window like a statue. He pointed to a table where a new iPhone sat next to an ice pack.

Your new number, he said. It is encrypted.

Thank you, Dylan said. She picked up the ice pack and held it to her face. Where is Garland?

Mr. Brennan is busy, Carter replied automatically.

Dylan scoffed. Busy. Right.

Her phone rang. It was a number she recognized-the nursing home where her grandmother, Rose, lived.

Miss Maxwell? The nurse's voice was panicked. You need to come. There are men here. They are shouting at Mrs. Maxwell.

Dylan's blood ran cold. I'm coming.

She looked at Carter. I have to go. Now.

Carter frowned. You are advised to rest.

My grandmother is in trouble. If you try to stop me, I will jump out this window.

Carter sighed. I will drive you.

The ride was tense. When they arrived at the assisted living facility, Dylan didn't wait for Carter to open the door. She sprinted into the lobby.

She heard the shouting from the solarium.

Gordon Vance, one of her father's biggest creditors, was standing over Grandma Rose's wheelchair. He was a vulture of a man, balding and sweaty.

Sign the release, Rose! Vance yelled. That ring on your finger is bought with stolen money!

Grandma Rose, confused and frail, clutched her left hand to her chest. No, she whimpered. It's my wedding ring.

Dylan burst into the room. Get away from her!

She shoved Vance. It was a pathetic shove, given her size, but her fury gave it weight. Vance stumbled back.

Well, look who it is, Vance sneered. The little thief. I should sue you too.

You are harassing a senile woman, Dylan spat. Get out.

I'm taking the ring, Vance said, reaching for Rose's hand again. And I'm freezing her trust fund tomorrow.

Rose looked up, her eyes suddenly clearing. Dylan, she whispered. She pressed something into Dylan's palm. A small, cold key.

Dylan closed her fist around it.

Vance stepped closer, his face red. You Maxwells are finished. You are garbage.

Dylan looked around the room. In the corner, a TV was playing CNBC. The headline scrolled across the bottom: BRENNAN GROUP ACQUIRES TECH GIANT.

An idea, reckless and desperate, formed in her mind.

She saw Carter standing at the entrance of the solarium. He was watching, his arms crossed, his face unreadable.

Vance saw him too. He recognized the suit. He recognized the pin on the lapel. Brennan Security.

Vance's eyes darted from Carter to Dylan.

Dylan straightened her back. She channeled every ounce of arrogance she had learned in boarding school.

"You really want to do this, Gordon?" she asked, her voice dropping an octave. "My... situation is currently under review by Brennan Capital's legal department. Mr. Carter here is handling the asset assessment. This ring, as part of the Maxwell estate, is now a component of that assessment. Your actions constitute interference with a pending corporate merger."

Vance blinked. What?

"My father's debt is being restructured," Dylan lied, her heart pounding so hard she thought it would burst. "Brennan Capital has taken over the portfolio. They are auditing everything. Including the provenance of every asset. If you touch her, you aren't stealing from me. You are stealing from Garland Brennan. Do you want to explain that to his lawyers?"

Vance looked at Carter. Carter didn't move. He didn't speak. But he slowly, deliberately, raised an eyebrow.

The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.

Vance swallowed hard. He wiped sweat from his forehead.

I... I didn't know, he stammered. I thought...

You thought wrong, Dylan snapped. Leave. Before I call Mr. Brennan.

Vance grabbed his briefcase. This isn't over, he muttered, but he retreated, practically running out of the room.

Dylan watched him go. Her knees gave out, and she grabbed the back of the wheelchair to steady herself.

Grandma Rose patted her hand. Good girl, she murmured. Just like your grandfather.

Dylan looked at Carter. He was walking toward her.

She braced herself for the scolding. For him to call Garland and tell him she was a liar.

Carter stopped in front of her. He looked at the door where Vance had fled.

That was... creative, Carter said.

Dylan let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. Please don't tell him.

Carter adjusted his cuffs. Mr. Brennan hates being used, Miss Maxwell. But he hates losing assets even more.

He offered her his arm. Let's get your grandmother settled.

The drive back to the safe house was quiet. Dylan stared out the window, watching the city lights blur. She had bought herself time, but she had also painted a target on her back. Vance would check. He would make calls.

I have to make it real, she said to the glass.

Carter glanced at her in the rearview mirror. Make what real?

The lie. I have to make people believe Garland and I are... aligned.

Carter didn't respond, which was the closest thing to encouragement she was going to get.

She pulled out her phone. The Met Gala was in three days. It was the biggest social event of the year. The entire city would be watching.

She dialed a number. Mrs. Vane, the chair of the gala committee.

Mrs. Vane, it's Dylan Maxwell.

There was a pause. Oh. Dylan. Dear. I'm afraid your invitation was... rescinded. Due to the... unpleasantness.

I know about the funds you siphoned from the charity auction last year, Mrs. Vane, Dylan said, her voice pleasant but deadly. I managed the books, remember?

Silence.

I want my ticket back, Dylan said.

Fine, Mrs. Vane hissed. But you're sitting by the kitchen. Table 40.

I don't care where I sit. Just send the QR code.

She hung up. Step one complete.

Now, the dress. All her couture was locked in an FBI evidence locker. She had nothing to wear.

She directed Carter to a warehouse in the Meatpacking District. Alessandro's studio.

Alessandro was a genius designer who had fallen out of favor because of his drug habit. He owed Dylan a favor. She had paid for his rehab twice.

He opened the metal door, looking disheveled. Dylan? You look like hell.

I need a dress, Ale. For the Met.

He laughed. I have no silk. I have no chiffon. I have nothing.

Dylan walked into the studio. It was filled with industrial junk. Rolls of black, heavy-duty construction tarp lay in the corner.

She pointed to it. That.

Alessandro looked at the tarp. That is dust cloth. For construction sites.

The theme is 'Gilded Glamour,' Dylan said. We are going to deconstruct it. We are going to show them the rot underneath the gold.

Alessandro's eyes lit up. He grabbed a pair of shears.

For the next forty-eight hours, Dylan didn't sleep. She stood still while Alessandro pinned and cut the stiff, black fabric directly onto her body. It was rough against her skin.

While he worked, she had her encrypted phone propped against a stack of books, cross-referencing the Gala's guest list with a leaked database of offshore accounts from Panama. "Planning a party or an assassination?" Alessandro asked, snipping a jagged edge near her shoulder. "A merger," she replied without looking up, her eyes tracing the connections between a board member of Brennan Media and a shell corporation in the Virgin Islands.

Back at the tower, Garland sat at his desk. Carter stood before him.

She threatened Gordon Vance with your name, Carter reported.

Garland stopped typing. He looked up. Did she?

Yes. And she is going to the Met Gala. She is wearing a dress made of... construction tarp.

Garland leaned back in his chair. A slow smile spread across his face. It wasn't a nice smile. It was the smile of a man watching a gladiator enter the arena with a wooden sword.

Javion stepped forward. Sir, we should issue a denial. This could damage the brand. Her un-denied presence will be seen as a sign that she has leverage over you.

No, Garland said. Don't deny it.

Sir?

Clear my schedule for Monday night, Garland said. I'm going to the Gala.

But you hate the Gala, Javion protested.

I do, Garland said, turning back to his screen. But this is no longer a party. It's a press conference. And I intend to control the narrative.