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.

The door of the stretched Lincoln Town Car slammed shut. The soundproof glass separated them from the driver.

Francisqui sat on the leather bench opposite Burleigh. She still gripped the Black Card in her hand. Her knuckles were white.

Burleigh stared at her. He tapped his index finger against his knee. "If you are going to be my asset, you need to look the part. Take the card. Buy clothes that don't make you look like a cheap escort."

He pressed the intercom. "Bergdorf Goodman."

When the car pulled up to Fifth Avenue, Burleigh didn't move. "You have two hours," he said.

Francisqui opened the door and stepped onto the pavement. She didn't look back.

Inside the massive department store, Francisqui ignored the evening gowns. She walked straight to the high-end tailoring section. She bought three razor-sharp black suits, silk blouses, and wide-leg trousers that allowed her to run.

She was buying armor.

Next, she walked three blocks down to a specialty antique shop she knew from her auditing days.

She placed the Black Card on the glass counter. "I need the titanium walking cane," she typed on her phone. "The one with the weighted grip."

The shop owner smiled. He handed her a sleek, black cane. Hidden inside was a solid titanium core, designed to shatter bone. "A gift for an older relative?"

Francisqui typed. For an enemy.

While she waited for the transaction to clear, she pulled up a secure banking application. Using the Black Card's infinite limit, she wired a fifty-thousand-dollar retainer to a ghost-operative private investigator in Berlin, attaching a single encrypted file: her mother's autopsy report. The investigation was finally funded.

She walked back to Bergdorf to pick up her tailored suits. As she entered the shoe department, three women blocked her path.

Kaleigh stood in the center, flanked by her friends. She had tracked the location through the family's VIP shopper network.

"Maxing out a cripple's credit card?" Kaleigh sneered. "Is that how you afford these?"

Francisqui was trying on a pair of black stilettos with needle-sharp metal heels. She stood up. She was three inches taller than Kaleigh now.

Kaleigh stepped closer, pointing a finger at Francisqui's chest. "You are nothing but a-"

Francisqui lifted her right foot. She brought the metal stiletto heel down squarely onto Kaleigh's toes with all her body weight.

Kaleigh let out a blood-curdling scream and collapsed to the floor, clutching her foot.

Francisqui pulled out her phone and hit the text-to-speech button.

"Excuse me," the robotic voice said. "The shoes don't fit."

A security guard rushed over. He saw the Black Card in Francisqui's hand. He immediately turned to Kaleigh. "Ma'am, you need to leave. You are disturbing a VIP client."

Francisqui walked out of the store, carrying her bags and the long, rectangular box containing the cane.

She got back into the Lincoln. She set the bags down.

Burleigh looked at the sharp suits and the long box. He raised an eyebrow. "Interesting taste. Are you going to war?"

Francisqui typed on her phone. I have to dress for the madness.

Burleigh let out a sharp laugh. He leaned forward, grabbing her chin with his large hand. His grip was bruising.

"Remember," Burleigh whispered, his breath warm against her lips. "This card comes with a price. Tomorrow night, I expect a return on my investment."

Francisqui stared into his dark eyes. She gripped the box with the titanium cane. She was ready to give him exactly what he deserved.

The Metropolitan Museum of Art was drowning in camera flashes.

Franklin Owen forced Francisqui to attend the charity gala. He wanted to parade her around as proof of his new connection to the Livingston empire.

Francisqui stepped onto the red carpet. She wore the black Le Smoking suit she bought yesterday. The sharp lapels and plunging neckline made her look lethal. Beside the pastel ballgowns of the other women, she looked like a predator.

Franklin grabbed her elbow, his fingers digging into her nerve. "Smile. And go talk to Grossman. Burleigh hasn't proposed yet. We need a backup."

Francisqui felt the bile rise in her throat. She scanned the massive hall. She couldn't see Burleigh's wheelchair anywhere.

Grossman materialized from the crowd. He held two glasses of champagne. His face was flushed with alcohol.

"Francisqui," Grossman slurred. "You look... expensive tonight."

He stepped into her personal space. His hand reached out, resting heavily on the curve of her waist.

Francisqui's muscles locked. She wanted to break his wrist. But she saw Franklin glaring at her from across the room. The graveyard maintenance. If she hit Grossman, Franklin would let her mother's grave rot.

She forced her body to go limp. She stood still, letting Grossman's hand burn against her suit.

Two floors up, behind a pane of one-way glass in the VIP viewing box, Burleigh Livingston watched the floor.

Vance stood behind him. "Grossman is touching her, sir."

Burleigh gripped the armrests of his wheelchair. His knuckles turned white. He saw Francisqui's body stiffen, then relax into submission.

A cold, calculating fury ignited in Burleigh's chest. It wasn't jealousy; it was the absolute disgust of seeing his property handled by a lesser player. His asset, his perfectly positioned pawn, was being tainted by a sweaty, low-level pig. It ruined the clean aesthetics of his chessboard.

"She's letting him compromise her," Burleigh sneered, his voice dropping to a lethal register. "She thinks she needs his cheap capital."

He hated it. He hated that a piece belonging to the Livingston board was allowing itself to be smeared by Owen-level trash.

Burleigh pulled out his phone.

Down on the floor, Francisqui's phone vibrated in her pocket. She pulled it out.

Come up to VIP Box 4. Now. Unless you want that pig to take you home.

Francisqui felt a rush of relief. She shoved Grossman backward, spilling his champagne down his shirt. She turned and walked toward the grand staircase.

She pushed open the heavy door to Box 4. The room was pitch black, except for the faint glow from the gala below.

Burleigh sat in the shadows. The air in the room felt thick, suffocating.

"Do you enjoy being auctioned off?" Burleigh's voice was a low growl.

Francisqui pulled out her phone. I was waiting for your bid.

Before she could hit play, Burleigh lunged. He grabbed her wrist with terrifying speed. He yanked her forward. She stumbled, falling onto the armrest of his wheelchair.

"I already bid," Burleigh whispered, his lips brushing the skin of her neck. "Five million. Remember?"

His chest was hard against her shoulder. Francisqui's heart hammered. She slid her free hand up her sleeve, her fingers brushing the cold plastic of her backup micro-stun gun.

Suddenly, a piercing scream echoed from the gala floor below.

Burleigh released her wrist. Francisqui jumped back, gasping for air, her hand still hovering over her weapon. The moment was broken, but the danger in the room had just multiplied.