The red carpet was a river of blood and flashbulbs. The air crackled with the frantic energy of a thousand cameras.

Dylan's car-a rented sedan, not a limo-pulled up to the curb. The doorman hesitated. He didn't rush to open it.

Dylan didn't wait. She pushed the door open herself.

She stepped out.

The silence that fell over the press pit was immediate.

She was wearing black. Not velvet, not silk. It was a structured, architectural chaotic mess of industrial fabric. It absorbed the light rather than reflecting it. It was jagged, sharp, and dangerous. Her makeup was severe-pale skin, dark eyes, and that signature blood-red lip.

She looked like a widow mourning the death of capitalism.

Is that... a trash bag? someone whispered.

Then, the shutters went crazy. Click-click-click-click.

Before she could take a step, a reporter from a notorious gossip site, prompted by a subtle nod from Ivana Mcknight further up the stairs, shoved a microphone in her face.

"Dylan! Is it true your father used the pension funds of widows to buy your first pony?" he shouted.

Dylan walked. She didn't smile. She moved with a predatory grace, her chin tilted up.

At the top of the stairs, blocking the entrance, stood Ivana Mcknight. She was wearing gold. So much gold she looked like a walking bullion bar. Feathers, sequins, excess.

Ivana saw Dylan and laughed. She gathered her entourage of socialites.

Oh my god, Ivana shouted, her voice carrying over the crowd. Did you get lost, Dylan? The sanitation department entrance is around the back.

The crowd tittered. A camera crew zoomed in on Dylan's face, waiting for the tears.

Dylan stopped on the step below Ivana. She looked up.

It's called deconstruction, Ivana, Dylan said, her voice calm and projecting perfectly. Although I suppose you wouldn't understand irony. You look like a deep-fried canary.

A gasp rippled through the crowd. A fashion blogger near the front typed furiously on his phone.

Ivana's face turned purple. You insolent little-

Security! Ivana shrieked. Get this trash out of here!

Before the guards could move, a hush fell over the bottom of the stairs. A heavy, respectful silence.

A Rolls Royce Phantom had pulled up.

Garland Brennan stepped out.

He was wearing a midnight blue tuxedo, cut so sharply it could slice skin. He didn't look at the cameras. He didn't wave. He walked up the red carpet with the inevitability of a tide.

He reached the stairs. Ivana instantly changed her expression. She beamed, pushing her chest out.

Garland! she cooed. So good to see you!

Garland didn't even break stride. He walked past Ivana as if she were a potted plant.

He stopped next to Dylan.

He turned his head and looked at her. He looked at the black tarp dress. His eyes traveled from the hem to her face.

Dylan held her breath. This was it. He could end her right here. One look of disgust, and she was done.

Garland looked her in the eye. And then, he nodded.

It was a small movement. A microscopic dip of the chin. But in the language of power, it was a knighthood.

Nice dress, he murmured, so only she could hear. Very... economical.

Then he turned and walked into the museum.

The press went wild.

Did you see that?

Brennan acknowledged her!

They are together! It's true!

Ivana stood there, her mouth open, ignored and forgotten.

Dylan let out a breath. She had gambled everything on that nod. And she had won.

She walked past Ivana, brushing shoulders with her.

Excuse me, Dylan said softly. I have a date.

Inside the museum, the air was thick with perfume and judgment. The Great Hall had been transformed into a cocktail lounge.

Dylan grabbed a glass of sparkling water from a passing tray. Her hand was shaking again. The adrenaline from the red carpet was fading, leaving her exposed.

She stood near a pillar, scanning the room. Garland was in the VIP section, surrounded by men in gray suits. He was holding a tumbler of whiskey, looking bored.

Ivana wasn't done. She marched over, flanked by three women whose husbands had lost millions in the Maxwell scheme.

You have some nerve, Ivana hissed.

One of the women bumped into Dylan, hard. Dylan's clutch fell to the floor, spilling her cracked iPhone and a tube of drugstore lipstick.

Oops, the woman sneered. Clumsy.

Laughter. Cruel, high-school laughter.

Dylan crouched down to pick up her things. Her face burned.

A hand appeared in her vision. A man's hand, holding a silk handkerchief.

Harrison Sterling. Garland's best friend and a notorious playboy.

Allow me, Harrison said, helping her gather her things. He stood up and winked at her. That dress is genius, by the way. Garland was just telling me he liked the... structural integrity.

He said it loud enough for Ivana to hear. The women stepped back, wary.

Come with me, Harrison said. Let's look at the art.

He led Dylan toward the centerpiece of the exhibit-a massive 19th-century oil painting of a seascape.

Ivana followed, desperate to regain control. This is the Mcknight donation, she announced loudly. It's a Turner. Valued at forty million dollars.

A crowd gathered. Garland drifted over, standing at the back, swirling his drink.

Dylan looked at the painting. She squinted. She had spent four years studying art history at the Sorbonne. She knew Turners. She knew the brushstrokes, the light.

And she knew the pigments.

She stepped closer to the canvas.

Problem, Miss Maxwell? Ivana challenged. Or is it too sophisticated for you?

Dylan looked at Garland. He was watching her. His eyes were dark, intense. He was waiting.

He wanted to see if she was just a pretty face in a tarp dress, or if she had teeth.

It's a fake, Dylan said.

The chatter stopped instantly. The museum curator, standing nearby, turned pale.

Excuse me? Ivana laughed nervously. You're delusional.

"I'm not," Dylan said, her voice steady and clear. "I interned at the Sotheby's restoration department in London for a summer. This exact piece came through for appraisal. The real one. The provenance records show it was sold to a private collector in Dubai three years ago. What you have here is the Mcknight family's very expensive, forty-million-dollar tax-deductible forgery. I'd check the customs declarations from their last family trip to Geneva, curator. The FBI certainly will."

The room was silent.

Ivana looked like she was going to vomit. If the painting was fake, the tax deduction her father had claimed for the donation was fraud. Federal fraud.

Garland took a sip of his whiskey. He looked at Harrison and smirked.

Interesting, he said.

The curator cleared his throat. We... we will have to run some tests.

Ivana glared at Dylan with pure, unadulterated hatred. You will pay for this, she mouthed.

Dylan turned and walked away, heading for the sanctuary of the ladies' room. Her legs were trembling. She had just declared war on the Mcknight family.

But as she passed Garland, he didn't look away. He raised his glass to her.

Dylan bypassed the restrooms and slipped out onto the terrace. The cool night air hit her flushed skin. She leaned against the stone balustrade, closing her eyes.

She had done it. She had survived. But the cost was mounting.

A lighter clicked behind her. The smell of tobacco smoke drifted on the breeze.

She spun around.

Garland was leaning against the wall, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He looked relaxed, dangerous.

You put on a good show, he said.

Dylan straightened. You owe me a consulting fee. Mcknight stock will dip tomorrow when the IRS opens an inquiry.

Garland chuckled. A low, rumble of a sound. He walked toward her.

You are bold, Dylan. Using my name to scare off creditors. Wearing a dress that mocks the very people you want to accept you. And now, destroying a family's reputation for sport.

It wasn't sport, she said. It was survival.

He stopped in front of her. He was close. Too close. She could smell the whiskey and the smoke and the expensive soap.

I can make it go away, he said softly. Vance. The debts. Ivana.

Dylan looked up at him. What is the price?

Garland reached out and touched the rough fabric of her dress near her shoulder. His fingers brushed her skin, sending a jolt of electricity down her spine.

Marriage, he said. But not the partnership you pitched in my office.

He dropped his hand.

Total submission, Dylan. You sign the prenup as is. No equity. No voting rights. You are an employee. Your job is to be Mrs. Brennan. You smile, you host, and you do exactly what I say. If you step out of line, you are fired. And you leave with nothing.

It was a slave contract. It was humiliating.

But then she thought of her father, crying in his cell. She thought of Grandma Rose and the ring. She thought of the encrypted files on her laptop. This was her way in. The ultimate Trojan horse. Total submission, she thought. Good. A contract this one-sided is legally vulnerable. It borders on duress. Let him think he has all the power. The more arrogant he is, the more mistakes he'll make. In her clutch, her thumb discreetly double-tapped the side of her phone, starting a voice recording.

I... she started.

The terrace doors burst open. A group of drunk investment bankers stumbled out, laughing loudly.

Garland stepped back instantly. The intimacy vanished. The mask was back in place.

Tomorrow morning, 8:00 AM, he said, his voice cold. My office. Bring your ID.

He turned and walked back inside, leaving her alone in the dark.

Dylan shivered. She looked out at the city skyline. It looked like a mouth full of jagged teeth, waiting to chew her up.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Carter.

Ivana just left the building. She took the service elevator to the parking garage. She has her security team. Be careful.

Dylan's stomach dropped. She wasn't safe yet.

She gathered her skirts and ran for the elevator.