Araminta woke to the sound of the lock turning. She had curled up on a pile of moth-eaten curtains, her body stiff and aching.

The door opened, and a maid threw a bundle of clothes onto the floor. It was a grey tracksuit, stained and worn.

"Master Javen says put these on," the maid sneered. "He doesn't want you walking around in that ruined dress. It's embarrassing."

Araminta didn't argue. She stripped off the damp, ruined evening gown and pulled on the tracksuit. It smelled of bleach and old sweat.

She didn't wait for permission. She pushed past the maid and stormed into the hallway.

"Hey! You can't-"

Araminta ignored her. She marched toward the main wing of the house. She knew where they would be. Richard Doyle's study.

She stopped outside the heavy mahogany doors. Voices drifted out.

"Alfonse is a lunatic," Javen was saying. "He signed the deal, but look at page forty. The penalty clauses are insane. If we miss a single quarterly projection, Wolfe Corp gets controlling interest."

Araminta pushed the doors open. They banged against the walls.

Richard Doyle sat behind his massive desk, a cigar clamped between his teeth. Javen was pacing by the fireplace. They both looked up.

"I want access to my trust," Araminta said, her voice steady and cold. "The education fund my parents left for me."

Richard took the cigar out of his mouth. He looked at her with genuine amusement. "What fund? We liquidated that ten years ago to pay your father's debts."

"Liar," Araminta said. She pulled her phone out. She had a photo of an old document she had found years ago, hidden in her mother's bible. "I have a copy of the original charter. It was supposed to be protected."

She held the screen up.

Javen moved fast. He crossed the room in two strides and snatched the phone from her hand.

"Javen!"

He didn't look at the screen. He turned and threw the phone directly into the roaring fireplace.

Araminta screamed. She lunged toward the fire, reaching for the device.

Javen grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked her back. "Don't be stupid."

She watched as the plastic casing bubbled and melted. The screen blackened, then cracked. The battery exploded with a small pop.

"There," Javen said, releasing her hair. He shoved her away. "No evidence. That fund belongs to the Doyle family now. Possession is nine-tenths of the law, Araminta."

"And as your legal guardians," Richard added smoothly, tapping ash into a crystal tray, "we have full authority to manage your... negative assets."

Araminta stood panting, staring at the fire. The law. They owned the judges, the lawyers, the police. She couldn't win this way.

She took a deep breath. She had to pivot.

"Fine," she said. "Keep the money. I don't care. Just let me take Griffin. I want to take him out of the state facility."

Javen laughed. It was a cruel, incredulous sound. "Take the cripple? With what money? You have nothing. Without us paying the bill, he's on the street in twenty-four hours. He'll be dead in three days."

The door opened behind her. Victoria walked in, holding a single sheet of paper.

"Sign this," Victoria said, sliding the paper onto the desk. "A voluntary renunciation of all claims to the Donaldson estate and any future inheritance. You sign, and we agree to pay for Griffin's care for another month."

Araminta looked at the paper. It was slavery. It was signing away her freedom, her past, and her future.

"One month?" she asked.

"Take it or leave it," Javen said, leaning against the desk, crossing his arms. He looked so smug. So untouchable.

Araminta picked up the heavy fountain pen from the desk. Her hand trembled. She looked at Javen. He was grinning.

Rage, white-hot and blinding, exploded in her chest.

She didn't sign.

She swung her hand and drove the nib of the pen into the back of Javen's hand, right where it rested on the mahogany.

Javen howled.

Blood spurted over the papers. He flailed back, clutching his hand, the pen still sticking out of his skin. "You bitch! You crazy bitch!"

"Get her!" Richard roared, standing up.

Araminta grabbed the edge of a heavy bookshelf near the door and pulled with all her weight. It tipped. Books cascaded down, creating a chaotic barrier between her and the men.

She turned and ran.

She sprinted down the hall, hearing Javen's shouts behind her. "Seal the exits! Don't let her leave!"

She ducked into a guest bedroom and slammed the door, twisting the lock. It wouldn't hold them for long.

Thud.

Something heavy hit the door from the outside. The wood splintered.

"Open this door, Araminta! I'm going to kill you!" Javen screamed.

Araminta looked around wildly. Second floor. The window looked out over the back gardens. It was a twenty-foot drop.

Her eyes landed on the heavy, damask curtains. They were old, but the fabric was thick, woven for a bygone era of quality. She tore them from the rod, the sound of ripping fabric a counterpoint to the splintering of the door.

She worked with frantic speed, knotting the thick velvet panels together, her knuckles raw. She tied one end around the heavy, cast-iron radiator, pulling on it with all her weight. It held.

The door frame cracked. A fist punched through the wood.

Araminta climbed onto the sill. The night air was cold. Below her, the dark bushes looked like jagged teeth.

She had one chance. One person in the world who had enough power to crush the Doyles.

She closed her eyes, reciting the number she had memorized from the contract cover on the yacht.

Alfonse Wolfe.

She gripped the knotted curtains and jumped.

The velvet was slippery. Araminta's hands burned as she slid down, the thick fabric tearing at her palms. The makeshift rope ended five feet above the ground. She let go.

She landed hard in the rose bushes. Thorns tore through the thin fabric of the tracksuit, scratching her legs and arms. Pain shot up her ankle as she rolled onto the wet grass.

She bit her lip to keep from crying out.

Flashlight beams cut through the darkness near the house. "Check the perimeter!" a guard shouted.

Araminta scrambled to her feet, limping heavily. She kept to the shadows, moving toward the rear wall of the estate. She knew a spot where the ivy had loosened the bricks.

She clawed her way up the wall, her fingernails breaking against the stone. She tumbled over the top and hit the asphalt of the public road.

She was out. But she was bleeding, limping, and penniless.

She saw a figure walking a dog a hundred yards down the road. She limped toward them. "Please," she gasped. "Please, can I use your phone? My car broke down."

The stranger eyed her suspicious appearance but handed over the phone.

Araminta's fingers shook as she dialed the number.

One ring. Two rings. Three.

"Who is this?" A voice like gravel and ice.

"It's me. Araminta," she wheezed. "I want to make a deal."

Silence stretched on the line. "Where are you?"

"Route 9. Near the Doyle estate back gate."

"Wait."

The line went dead.

Ten minutes later, a black SUV with tinted windows screeched to a halt in front of her. The back window rolled down.

Elena Vance, Alfonse's executive assistant, looked at her with zero emotion. She held out a black velvet blindfold.

"Get in. Put this on."

Araminta climbed in. The leather seats were warm. She tied the blindfold over her eyes. Her world became darkness and the smell of the car's interior.

The drive took thirty minutes. When the car stopped, she could smell the ocean. Salty, sharp air.

Elena's hand was firm on her elbow, guiding her a few steps forward onto what felt like a smooth, stone floor. "You can stand here," Elena said, her voice echoing slightly. "Take it off."

Araminta pulled the blindfold down. She was standing in a massive living room with floor-to-ceiling glass walls overlooking a churning black ocean. It was a fortress of glass and steel perched on a cliff. Obsidian Manor.

Alfonse stood by the window. He was cleaning an antique pistol with a white cloth. He didn't turn around.

"You escaped," he said. "Faster than I expected."

Araminta stood tall, despite her limp and the mud on her face. "Doyle Industries is cooking their books for the tender bid tomorrow."

Alfonse turned slowly. He placed the gun on the table. The metal clicked against the glass. "Sit." He pointed the barrel of the gun vaguely at a sofa. "That information is worth a glass of water. Nothing more."

Araminta didn't sit. "I know how they do it. I know the offshore accounts they use to hide the losses. I can prove they are insolvent."

Alfonse raised an eyebrow. "What do you want? Money? Or do you want me to make Javen disappear?"

Araminta clenched her fists. "I want the Doyles to lose the bid tomorrow. And... I want you to marry me."

Elena, standing by the door, let out a sharp intake of breath.

Alfonse stared at her. Then he laughed. It wasn't a happy sound. He walked toward her, towering over her. He used the barrel of the gun to tilt her chin up. The cold metal pressed against her skin.

"Marry you? A cast-off played out by Javen Doyle?"

"I am the only one who knows where the Donaldson legacy funds are hidden," Araminta lied. Her voice didn't shake. "That money can help Wolfe Corp swallow half of Wall Street."

It was a gamble. A massive one.

Alfonse's eyes narrowed. They were dark, intelligent, and dangerous. "If you are lying to me, Araminta, I will throw you off this cliff myself. The sharks are hungry."

"Test the merchandise," she said. "I mean... the intel."

Alfonse tossed the gun onto the sofa. He reached out and grabbed her waist, pulling her flush against his hard body. The sudden contact knocked the breath out of her.

"I want the intel," he growled. "And I want you. But marriage? You haven't earned that."

He spun her around and shoved her toward a hallway.

"Go to the bathroom. Wash off the stench of Javen Doyle. If you can please me tonight... maybe I'll make the Doyles cry tomorrow."

Araminta stumbled, catching herself on the doorframe. She looked back at him. He was already pouring a drink, dismissing her.

She walked into the bathroom. It was larger than her old bedroom. She looked in the mirror. Her lip was split. Her hair was a rat's nest. Her eyes were wild.

She turned on the shower. As the steam rose, she peeled off the tracksuit. She was making a deal with the devil. But right now, the devil was the only one offering her a sword.

Araminta stepped out of the bathroom wearing one of Alfonse's dress shirts. It swallowed her frame, the cuffs hanging past her fingertips. Her hair was wet, slicked back from her face.

Alfonse was sitting on the edge of the massive bed. He had loosened his tie. Two glasses of whiskey sat on the nightstand.

He held one out to her. "Drink. I don't like women who shake."

Araminta took the glass. The amber liquid burned all the way down, settling like a hot coal in her stomach. It gave her a buzz of artificial courage.

She set the glass down and stepped between his legs. Her hands moved to the buttons of the shirt, fumbling slightly.

Alfonse caught her wrists. His grip was iron.

"Don't act like a cheap whore," he said, his voice rough. "I want you to come to me because you want to. Not because you're paying a debt."

"I have nothing else to offer," she whispered.

"You have yourself."

He pulled her down.

The encounter was a battle. There was no romance, no gentle words. It was a reclaiming. Alfonse touched her as if he were memorizing her, erasing the invisible fingerprints Javen had left on her soul.

At the peak of it, overwhelmed by the intensity and the sheer, raw power of him, Araminta buried her face in his neck and bit down on his shoulder. Hard.

Alfonse groaned, a guttural sound against her ear. He didn't pull away. He pressed closer, driving into her with a renewed, possessive fury.

Afterward, Araminta lay curled at the edge of the bed. Her body hummed with a strange, aching exhaustion.

Alfonse sat up and lit a cigarette. The smoke curled blue in the dim light. He picked up his phone, tapped a few times, and then tossed it onto the duvet.

"Intel verified," he said, smoke drifting from his lips. "Doyle Industries is leveraging debt they didn't disclose. They will lose the bid."

Araminta sat up, clutching the sheet. Her eyes gleamed. "When will you destroy them?"

"Patience," Alfonse said. "The cat plays with the mouse before the kill."

He reached for his wallet on the nightstand and pulled out a sleek, black metal card. He flicked it toward her. It landed on the sheets.

"Payment," he said. "You can go."

Araminta stared at the card. The name ALFONSE WOLFE was embossed in silver. Shame flushed through her, hot and prickly. "I'm not a prostitute."

"Everything has a price," Alfonse said coldly. "You need money for your brother. Take it."

The mention of Griffin silenced her pride. She picked up the card. It felt heavy.

"Can I stay here?" she asked quietly. "Just for tonight?"

"No." Alfonse crushed his cigarette out. "Obsidian Manor doesn't house strays. Unless you prove you have more value than just a warm body."

Araminta stood up. She felt hollowed out.

Elena entered moments later with a set of clean clothes-jeans, a sweater, a coat. Araminta dressed quickly.

She looked at Alfonse one last time. He was apparently asleep, his arm thrown over his eyes. But she knew he was awake.

She walked out of the manor into the grey dawn light. The wind was biting.

As she waited for the car Elena had called, she took out the black card. This was her weapon, but it was also a leash. Every transaction would be a report back to him. She had to be smart.

A news alert popped up on the burner phone she'd borrowed earlier.

BREAKING: DOYLE INDUSTRIES STOCK PLUMMETS 10% AFTER FAILED BID.

Araminta smiled. It was a small, cold smile.

She looked at the black card in her hand. Alfonse had given her a weapon.

She hailed a cab on the main road. "State Sanatorium," she told the driver.

She had to get to Griffin. Javen was wounded, and wounded animals lashed out.