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.

Araminta waited until 2:00 AM. She knew the patrol schedules of the Doyle estate better than anyone.

She scaled the trellis on the east wing, her muscles screaming in protest. She slipped through the window she had escaped from the night before-the curtains were gone, but the window was still boarded up with plywood. She pried the wood loose with a rusted garden trowel she found.

She crept into her old room. It had been tossed. Drawers were pulled out, clothes slashed.

She went to the closet. Behind the loose floorboard in the back, the small metal box was still there. Javen hadn't found it.

She grabbed the passports and birth certificates.

The door to the bedroom kicked open.

Light flooded the room from the hallway. Javen stood there, swaying slightly. He held a bottle of whiskey in one hand. A bandage was wrapped around his other hand where she had stabbed him.

"I knew it," he slurred. "I knew the rat would come back for her cheese."

Araminta backed up against the wall. "These are mine, Javen. Let me go."

"You cost me a billion-dollar contract today," Javen snarled. He dropped the bottle. It didn't break; it rolled on the carpet.

He lunged at her.

His hands closed around her throat. He slammed her head back against the wall. Stars exploded in her vision.

"Is it Alfonse?" he shouted, spit flying into her face. "Are you screwing him? Is that how you got the intel?"

Araminta clawed at his bandage. He screamed but didn't let go. His thumbs dug into her windpipe. Black spots danced in her eyes.

"I'm going to kill Griffin," he whispered. "Slowly."

Panic, primal and overwhelming, surged through her.

Her hand flailed out, searching for a weapon. Her fingers brushed cold metal on the dresser.

It was the "Young Entrepreneur of the Year" trophy. A heavy, bronze eagle. A fraud award for a fraud man.

She gripped the wings.

With a guttural cry, she swung it.

CRACK.

The heavy bronze base connected with Javen's shoulder, not his head. The sound was a sickening crunch of bone. He screamed, a raw, animal sound, his grip on her throat vanishing as he staggered back, clutching his now useless arm.

Blood began to pool dark and fast on the carpet.

Araminta gasped, sucking in air. She dropped the trophy. It landed with a dull thud next to his body.

She stared at him. Was he dead? His chest rose shallowly. Not dead. But out cold from the shock and pain.

"Oh god," she whispered.

She stepped over his body. She grabbed the metal box.

She ran.

She didn't care about noise now. She sprinted down the stairs, past the startled night maid, and out the front door.

She ran until her lungs burned, until she was blocks away in a dark alley.

She pulled out her phone. She clutched the Black Card in her pocket. Using it would be like sending up a flare, instantly revealing her location to Alfonse. She was a fugitive now, and she couldn't be sure if he saw her as an asset to protect or a liability to cut loose. She was a fugitive now. Assault with a deadly weapon.

She needed a shield. A legal shield that even the Doyles couldn't penetrate.

Marriage. The trust fund. If she married, the trust unlocked. She could hire the best defense lawyers in the city.

But Alfonse had said no.

She scrolled through her contacts. Harper Lee. Her college roommate.

"Harper," she sobbed when the call connected. "I... I think I killed him. No, I broke his arm. I need to get married. Tomorrow."

"What?" Harper shrieked. "Where are you? I'm coming to get you."