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.

Her first stop wasn't the sanatorium. It was a sterile, brightly-lit electronics store. Using the Black Card for the first and perhaps last time on a large, public purchase, she bought a new, untraceable burner phone and the cheapest laptop on display. While the new device charged on the bus, she accessed her cloud backup, a ghost of her old life materializing on the new screen.

Araminta didn't dare use the Black Card for a private car. She took a Greyhound bus to the outskirts of the city, clutching her coat tight around her.

The State Sanatorium smelled of industrial bleach and boiled cabbage. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like trapped flies.

She found Griffin in the common room. He was sitting in the corner, rocking slightly. He was too thin. His collarbones poked against his skin.

Three other patients-rough-looking men-were surrounding him. One of them snatched the apple from Griffin's tray.

"Hey!" Araminta shouted. She dropped her bag and shoved the man. "Back off!"

The man looked at her, then at her clean, expensive coat. He grunted and walked away.

Griffin didn't look up. He was staring at the TV mounted on the wall. It was tuned to a financial news channel.

"Griffin?" She knelt beside him. "It's me."

"I'm a burden," Griffin whispered. He was still staring at the screen. "Javen said I'm a burden."

"No," Araminta said fiercely. She cupped his face. "You are my brother. You are everything."

Griffin pointed a bony finger at the TV. The ticker tape was scrolling red numbers. "They're falling. The red blocks. They have a rhythm."

"You understand that?" Araminta asked.

"The numbers sing," Griffin said, his voice flat but intense. "That shape... the Doyle shape... it's going to break. The line is wrong."

Araminta froze. Griffin had savant syndrome. She knew he was good with math, but this... he was seeing patterns in the chaos of the market.

She stood up and marched to the reception desk. "I need to make a payment for Griffin Donaldson's account," she said, sliding a piece of paper across the counter. On it was an account number and a transfer authorization code Elena had sent to her new phone. A silent, untraceable payment from a ghost account within Wolfe's empire. "I also want to upgrade him to a private room. Immediately."

The receptionist looked bored until she processed the transfer. Her eyes widened at the amount. "Yes, ma'am. Right away."

An hour later, Griffin was in a quiet, clean room with a view of a garden.

"I broke up with Javen," Araminta told him. "It's just us now."

Griffin grabbed her wrist. His grip was surprisingly strong. "Javen is a bad man. He steals numbers."

"What do you mean?"

"I saw his papers once. Before I came here," Griffin said, squeezing his eyes shut as if in pain. "Lots of zeros. Moving to 'Cayman'. He hides the zeros."

Araminta's heart raced. Griffin had seen the actual evidence of embezzlement. That was why Javen kept him medicated and locked away.

Her new phone buzzed. A text from the bank. Daily limit set on card ending in 4490.

She let out a bitter laugh. Alfonse. He was keeping her on a leash. He gave her the card, but he controlled the flow.

She looked out the window. A bright red convertible pulled up to the front entrance.

Araminta ducked behind the curtain.

Blossom Vega stepped out of the car. She was wearing sunglasses and a scarf, trying to be incognito. She carried a thick manila envelope.

Araminta watched as the Sanatorium Director came out to meet her. Blossom handed him the envelope. They shook hands.

A cold chill went down Araminta's spine.

They weren't just going to cut off funding. They were paying the Director to do something else. To make Griffin disappear? To drug him into silence?

"We have to go," Araminta whispered.

"No," Griffin said. "I want to help. I can watch the numbers."

"We can't stay here," she said. "But I can't take you yet. I don't have a safe house."

She needed documents. Passports. Birth certificates. If they needed to run, they needed their identities.

And those were still in the safe at Doyle Manor.