Franklin paced the length of his mahogany study. Thick cigar smoke hung in the air, burning Eleanor's eyes.

"She's a liability, Franklin," Eleanor snapped, rubbing her temples. "Elvis Barron is coming to dinner next week. If he sees that freak, he'll call off the engagement with Kaleigh."

Franklin stopped pacing. He adjusted his tie. "The Livingston merger hasn't closed yet. We need every asset we have."

"She's not an asset!"

"Grossman called me this morning," Franklin said, his voice low. "He said her not showing up made her seem... untamed. He offered to double his investment in the media division if I give her to him."

Upstairs in the attic, Francisqui pressed her ear against the floorboards. She couldn't hear their words, but she knew the rhythm of her father's anger.

She stood up and checked the window. Nailed shut from the outside. A shadow moved under the crack of her door. A guard was posted outside.

The lock clicked. A young maid pushed the door open, carrying a tray with a cold turkey sandwich.

The maid wouldn't meet her eyes. She set the tray on the bed. As she pulled her hand back, she left a small folded piece of paper on the mattress.

Francisqui waited until the door locked again. She opened the note.

I heard the master in the study. He mentioned your name and Mr. Grossman. There is a very important dinner tomorrow night. Please be careful, miss.

Francisqui's stomach twisted into a hard knot. Grossman was a known predator. If she stayed in this room, she was dead.

She walked to the diary and pulled out the check. Five million dollars. If she cashed it, Franklin's bankers would flag it instantly.

She needed to use it as a weapon.

She grabbed a black eyeliner pencil from her vanity. She tore a sticky note from her desk and wrote in sharp, jagged letters:

Medical fees for your psychotic break. I don't accept garbage.

She stuck the note directly onto the center of the five-million-dollar check. She placed both inside a blank envelope.

Francisqui opened her laptop. Her fingers flew across the keyboard. As an underground auditor, breaking into the Owen Estate's basic ADT security system took her exactly forty seconds.

She disabled the backdoor alarm. She set a timer for five minutes.

She knocked on the bedroom door. The maid opened it, looking terrified.

Francisqui shoved the envelope into the maid's hands. Then, she pulled a diamond Cartier watch from her pocket-she had stolen it from Kaleigh's bathroom that morning. She pressed the watch into the maid's palm.

Francisqui typed on her phone. Same-day courier. To Burleigh Livingston. Do it now, the backdoor alarm is off.

The maid looked at the watch. Greed flashed in her eyes. She nodded and ran down the hall.

Francisqui closed the door. She sat on the edge of her bed and opened a new browser tab. She typed in Burleigh Livingston.

Articles flooded the screen. Tragic Car Crash. Heir Confined to Wheelchair. Mental Decline.

Francisqui stared at a photo of Burleigh sitting in his chair. She remembered the way he swung that golf club. The sheer kinetic force. The muscle control in his core.

A paralyzed man could not swing a club like that.

She stared deeper into the screen, her mind calculating the odds. If she could get inside the Livingston empire, she would have unrestricted access to their private intelligence network. The exact network that held the buried police reports from the night her mother's car was run off the road.

"You're faking," she mouthed to the empty room.

Her pulse pounded in her ears. He was faking his madness. He was faking his paralysis. He was hiding something massive.

She didn't need to run from Grossman. She needed to sell herself to the devil next door.

The air in Burleigh Livingston's office was freezing. He kept the thermostat at sixty degrees to keep everyone uncomfortable.

Burleigh sat behind his massive desk, reviewing the short-sell documents for the Owen Group's media subsidiary.

Lewis walked into the office. He looked pale. He held a standard manila envelope.

"Boss," Lewis said, his voice tight. "The girl from last night. She sent something back."

Burleigh stopped tapping his pen. He looked up. No one returned five million dollars.

He took the envelope and ripped it open. The check fluttered onto his desk. It was perfectly intact.

A yellow sticky note drifted down next to it.

Burleigh picked up the note. He read the black eyeliner handwriting. Medical fees for your psychotic break. I don't accept garbage.

Burleigh stared at the words. A strange pressure built in his chest. A second later, a deep, rough laugh ripped from his throat.

Vance stepped forward, his hand resting on his holstered weapon. He thought Burleigh was having a real episode.

Burleigh laughed until his ribs ached. He rubbed his thumb over the eyeliner ink. "Interesting. Very interesting."

He looked at Vance. "Who is she?"

"Francisqui Noel," Vance said, reading from an iPad. "Franklin Owen's illegitimate daughter. She's a mute. They keep her hidden."

Burleigh's eyes narrowed. He tilted his head. "An Owen? Is Franklin sending a spy into my house?"

He looked at the check again. He shook his head. "No. Franklin is too stupid for a play like this. This is her."

Burleigh's mind raced, connecting dots that didn't exist. He assumed she was playing the ultimate game of hard-to-get. She returned the money because she wanted the whole bank. She wanted to be Mrs. Livingston.

"Greedy," Burleigh whispered. A dark thrill shot down his spine. "She knows I need a wife to unlock the trust. She's pitching herself."

Miles away, the door to the attic unlocked.

Franklin walked in, holding a blood-red silk dress. He threw it on the bed.

"Put it on," Franklin commanded. "Grossman is downstairs. If you embarrass me tonight, I will cut off the maintenance payments for your mother's grave."

Francisqui's breath hitched. Her fists clenched so hard her nails broke the skin of her palms. She looked at the dress. It was cut low, designed to make her look like a piece of meat.

She forced her muscles to relax. She gave Franklin a slow, obedient nod.

Franklin smiled. "Good. The cage taught you a lesson."

Back in the freezing office, Burleigh picked up his secure phone. He dialed Vance's number.

"Get me an invitation to the Owen dinner tonight," Burleigh said.

"Sir?" Vance asked. "You haven't left the estate for a social event in two years. It ruins the medical narrative."

Burleigh traced the edge of the sticky note. "A madman needs fresh air."

He folded the note and slid it into his breast pocket, right over his heart. He wasn't going to the dinner to socialize. He was going to claim his asset.

The Owen dining room smelled of roasted lamb and expensive perfume.

Francisqui sat rigid in her chair. The red silk dress clung to her skin like a second layer of sweat.

Mr. Grossman sat directly across from her. He was sweating through his suit. He chewed with his mouth open, his eyes glued to Francisqui's chest.

Kaleigh sat next to Grossman. She held a glass of Merlot. "Oops," Kaleigh said, flicking her wrist.

Red wine splashed across Francisqui's lap, staining the silk.

"Oh no, did my hand slip?" Kaleigh smirked.

Grossman immediately reached across the table. He grabbed a cloth napkin. "Let me help you with that, Francisqui."

His thick, damp hand pressed onto her bare thigh.

Francisqui's stomach violently rejected the contact. She shot out of her chair. Her hand gripped the silver steak knife next to her plate.

Franklin slammed his fist on the table. He glared at her. Sit down. For the family.

Francisqui's lungs tightened. She couldn't breathe. She looked at the door. Where was he?

The heavy dining room doors flew open. The butler stumbled backward, his face drained of color.

"Sir," the butler stammered. "Mr. Livingston is here."

The room went dead silent. Franklin dropped his fork. It clattered against his plate. "Which Livingston?"

"Burleigh."

Vance pushed the custom wheelchair into the room. Burleigh wore a tailored black velvet suit. A cashmere blanket covered his legs. His skin was pale, but the energy radiating from him sucked the oxygen out of the room.

Grossman snatched his hand back from Francisqui's leg as if he had been burned. Every man on Wall Street feared Burleigh Livingston.

Franklin scrambled out of his chair. He forced a sickeningly sweet smile. "Burleigh! What an unexpected honor."

Burleigh ignored him. He didn't look at Franklin. He didn't look at Kaleigh.

His dark eyes locked onto Francisqui. He saw the wine stain. He saw Grossman's sweaty face.

"Am I interrupting a transaction, Owen?" Burleigh's voice was smooth, but it carried a lethal edge.

Francisqui felt a shiver run down her spine. She stared back at him, her face a mask of ice.

Burleigh turned his head toward Franklin. "I hear the Owen Group is bleeding cash. Selling your bastard daughter to plug the holes?"

Franklin wiped sweat from his forehead. "Burleigh, please, this is a family dinner-"

"How much is Grossman paying?" Burleigh asked. He didn't wait for an answer.

Burleigh reached into his jacket. He pulled out a solid metal Centurion Black Card. He tossed it onto the center of the dining table. It landed with a heavy thud.

"I'll double it," Burleigh said. "She's mine tonight."

Kaleigh gasped, her face turning purple with jealousy.

Francisqui's heart hammered against her ribs. This was her opening. She walked to the table. She picked up the Black Card. The metal was cold against her skin.

She walked over to Burleigh's wheelchair. She leaned down. Her lips hovered an inch from his ear.

She opened her mouth. Her throat tightened, the familiar suffocating paralysis clamping down like a vice. She dug her fingernails into her palms, using the sharp, grounding pain to fight the psychological block. Her jaw trembled. A single, agonizingly raspy syllable tore its way up her throat.

"Deal."

She couldn't manage another word. Her chest heaved as she pulled out her phone, her fingers flying across the screen. She held it up so only he could see the text: But I don't sleep with clients.

Burleigh's muscles went completely rigid. His pupils dilated. She wasn't entirely mute.

He tilted his head, his face inches from hers. "Fascinating," he murmured. "Let's see what you do instead."

Francisqui grabbed the handles of his wheelchair. She turned him around and pushed him out of the dining room, leaving her family in stunned, humiliating silence.