Returning with the cigarettes and a pack of matches, I placed them on the table. Jaden didn't bother to look up from her phone.

"Light it," she said.

I stood there, motionless.

"I said light it."

She looked up then, her eyes heavy with bored malice.

I struck a match. The flame flared to life, smelling sharp of sulfur. I held it out. She leaned in, inhaling deeply, before blowing smoke directly into my face.

"See?" she smirked. "You can be useful."

I didn't cough. I didn't blink. I just turned and walked back to the service station.

Ten minutes later, the bartender handed me the Espresso Martini. It wasn't in a chilled glass; steam curled from the dark liquid.

"She sent the last two back," he muttered, wiping the counter aggressively. "Said they were too cold. How can a martini be too cold? So I steamed the damn thing. Let's see her complain now."

"She's not drinking them," I said. "She's playing."

"She asked for you specifically," he warned. "Said she wanted the incompetent one."

I took the tray. My hand was steady, but inside, I was tallying the debt. Every insult. Every violation of protocol. It was all going into a ledger that would be paid in blood.

I walked down the VIP corridor. Jaden saw me coming and stood up, blocking my path. She swayed a little, feigning more intoxication than she felt.

"Finally," she slurred.

I held the tray out. "Your drink."

She didn't take the glass. Instead, she reached out and grabbed my free hand. Her fingers dug into my palm with unnecessary force. She flipped my hand over, inspecting the calluses on my fingertips.

"Look at these rough hands," she laughed, loud enough for the nearby tables to turn and look. "Working hands. Peasant hands."

They were creator's calluses. From paintbrushes. From charcoal. From sculpting clay. Things she would never understand, nor possess the soul to appreciate.

"You're nothing," she whispered, leaning close enough that I could smell the expensive wine on her breath. "I own this city. You're just the help."

"Let go," I said.

"Make me."

She looked at the steaming martini on the tray. Then she looked at me. A cruel smile spread across her face.

She brought her hand up and slapped the bottom of the tray. Hard.

The glass tipped. The scalding coffee and vodka splashed over my hand. The tray shattered on the floor.

The pain was instant-a white-hot shock that stole the air from my lungs. My skin blistered immediately under the assault of the liquid heat.

I didn't scream. Shaws don't scream.

I dropped the tray, clutching my wrist, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The lounge went silent.

Jaden jumped back, pantomiming horror.

"Oh my god!" she shrieked. "She threw it at me! Did you see that? She tried to burn me!"

I looked at my hand. The skin was seared angry red, peeling in spots. The smell of burnt coffee and scorched flesh filled the air.

Mark came running. He looked at the broken glass. He looked at Jaden, who was clutching her pearls, completely dry. Then he looked at me. He saw the burns. He saw the steam rising from my skin.

But he looked back at Jaden.

"Are you okay, Miss Juarez?"

"She's crazy!" Jaden yelled. "Fire her! I want her gone!"

Mark turned to me. His eyes were hard. He made his choice. Politics over truth. Revenue over decency.

"Clean this up," he barked at me. "And get out. You're done."

"She burned me," I said. My voice was quiet. Deadly.

"Don't lie," Mark spat. "I saw you trip. You're clumsy and you're a liability. Get to the kitchen. Get out of my sight."

He didn't offer ice. He didn't call a medic. He ordered the victim to hide so the aggressor could be comfortable.

I looked at Mark. I memorized the lines of his face. I would remember him when the purge began.

"Okay," I said.

I walked toward the kitchen. My hand was on fire. But my spine had turned to steel.

I shoved my hand under the cold water tap in the prep sink, hissing through my teeth.

But the relief was minor.

The damage was done.

The kitchen was a chaotic symphony of shouted orders and sizzling pans, a machine running at full steam.

But everything stopped dead when Jaden Juarez walked in.

She pushed through the swinging doors like she owned the building.

"It smells disgusting in here," she announced, wrinkling her nose as if she'd stepped into a sewer.

She walked right up to the pass, ignoring the frantic workflow around her.

"I want a steak," she said to the line cooks. "Wagyu. And put my caviar on it."

She slammed a small, warm jar of caviar onto the stainless steel counter.

It was cheap caviar.

A personal stash she'd dragged in from God knows where.

Austin Gordon stepped out from the back.

He was the Executive Chef, a giant of a man with arms covered in ink that disappeared under his pristine chef's whites.

He didn't move like a cook.

He moved like a predator.

Silent.

Efficient.

Lethal.

He looked at the jar of caviar, his expression unreadable.

"No," Austin said.

His voice was a deep rumble that vibrated through the floorboards.

"Excuse me?" Jaden asked, blinking.

"That's a health code violation," Austin said, crossing his massive arms. "And it's an insult to the meat. I won't serve it."

Jaden's face turned purple.

She whipped out her phone.

"I'm calling Connor."

She hit FaceTime and held the phone up, panning it around the kitchen to expose the staff.

"Say hello to your boss," she sneered.

Connor's face appeared on the screen.

He looked beyond stressed.

He was in a boardroom, and I could see men in suits behind him.

Investors.

The Apex Cartel.

"Jaden, honey, I'm in a meeting," Connor said, his voice tight.

"Your staff is abusing me!" Jaden wailed, turning on the waterworks instantly. "The chef won't cook my food, and that waitress attacked me!"

She turned the camera on me.

I was still at the sink, clutching my wet, burned hand.

I looked directly into the lens.

I held up my hand.

The blisters were bubbling now, angry and red.

Connor saw it.

I saw his eyes widen, a flicker of genuine worry passing through the pixelated image.

"Blake?" he said.

"She burned me," I said.

My voice carried clearly over the kitchen noise.

"She threw a drink at me!" Jaden screamed over me. "Connor, look at these people! They don't respect you! They don't respect who I am!"

The men behind Connor shifted.

One of them checked his watch.

I saw Connor's gaze dart to the investor. Panic flared in his eyes.

He had to look in control.

He had to look like a boss who could manage his house.

"Give her what she wants," Connor snapped.

"Connor," I said, my voice low. "She assaulted me."

"I don't care!" he roared. "I have five million dollars on the table right now! Jaden is a guest! Fix it!"

Austin stepped into the frame, blocking out the kitchen lights.

"You want us to apologize to the assailant?" Austin asked.

"I want peace!" Connor screamed. "Blake, apologize to her. Now."

The kitchen went dead silent.

"What?" I asked.

"Kneel if you have to," Connor said.

"Beg her pardon. Kiss her ring. I don't care. Just make her happy so I can finish this deal."

Kneel.

He told the daughter of David Shaw to kneel to a badge bunny.

He told his future wife to bow to his mistress.

I felt something snap inside me.

It wasn't my heart.

It was the leash I had placed on myself.

"Are you sure, Connor?" I asked.

"Do it!" he yelled. "That is a direct order!"

I looked at the phone.

I looked at Jaden, who was smirking, triumphant.

"Okay," I said.

I walked over to Jaden.

She puffed out her chest, waiting for the apology.

I reached out and snatched the phone from her hand.

"Hey!" she yelled.

I looked at Connor one last time.

"You failed," I whispered.

I ended the call.

Then, without breaking eye contact with Jaden, I dropped the phone into a pot of boiling pasta water.

Jaden screamed.

I turned to Austin.

My voice changed.

The waitress was gone.

The Principessa was here.

"Austin," I said. "Lock the doors."

The lock bolted shut with a final, heavy thud.

The metallic sound ricocheted off the stainless steel appliances, sealing us in.

Jaden stared at the pot of boiling water where her phone was sizzling into silence.

"You're dead," she hissed at me, her voice trembling with rage. "Connor is going to kill you."

I ignored her.

Reaching beneath the stained fabric of my apron, I withdrew my burner phone.

I dialed one number.

It rang once.

"Report," a deep, gravelly voice answered. Instant. Alert.

David Shaw.

My father.

"Code Black," I said.

The line went silent for a heartbeat, the air shifting on the other end.

"Location?"

"The Gilded Cage. Kitchen."

"Status?"

"Hostile civilian. Personnel compromised. Treaty violated."

"Are you hurt?"

I looked down at my hand, watching the angry red welt forming.

"Yes."

"The Wolves are en route," he said, his tone clipped. "Five minutes."

"I want Connor here," I said. "And I want Lina with the papers."

"Principessa," my father said, his voice softening with a lethal, terrifying promise. "Burn it down."

I severed the connection.

I turned to face the room.

The line cooks were frozen, statues in grease-stained whites.

Mark was banging on the kitchen door from the outside, throwing his weight against the metal.

"Open this door!" Mark yelled.

"Start praying, Mark," I said to the vibrating steel.

Jaden laughed.

It was a brittle, high-pitched sound that cracked under pressure.

"Who do you think you are?" she asked, sneering. "Calling your daddy? Does he drive a truck?"

"He drives the city," I said.

I walked over to the prep table, moving with a calm that unsettled them.

Austin was watching me.

He didn't look confused.

He looked like a man who finally remembered a ghost.

He grabbed a clean towel, filled it with crushed ice, and handed it to me.

"For the hand," he said softly.

"Thank you," I said.

"Code Black," Austin murmured, his eyes distant. "Haven't heard that since the '98 war."

I looked at him sharply.

"You're not just a cook."

"And you're not just a waitress," he replied.

We understood each other.

Soldiers recognize their own.

Suddenly, the banging on the door stopped.

A commotion erupted outside.

Shouting.

The rhythmic thud of heavy tactical boots.

Then, absolute silence.

The kitchen doors swung open.

Connor Bishop burst in.

He was sweating, a sheen of panic on his brow.

His tie was crooked, yanked loose in haste.

He looked wild-eyed.

"What is going on?" he screamed. "Why are there Shaw soldiers surrounding my club?"

Jaden ran to him, clutching his arm.

"Baby! She threw my phone in the water! She's crazy!"

Connor pushed her aside without glancing at her.

He was looking at me.

He was looking at the way I stood, spine straight, chin high.

The way I held myself.

I reached behind my back and untied the apron.

I let the dirty fabric drop to the floor.

It landed in a puddle of dirty water with a wet slap.

I smoothed my black dress.

"You failed," I said again.

Connor blinked, disoriented.

"Failed what?"

"The Test."

Behind him, the doors opened wider.

Lina walked in.

She was my father's Consigliere.

She was wearing a sharp white suit and holding a black leather folder, a vision of corporate lethality.

Two armed soldiers flanked her.

They wore the Shaw crest gleaming on their lapels.

Lina didn't look at Connor.

She walked straight to me.

"Principessa," she said, bowing her head slightly.

Connor went pale.

All the blood drained from his face, leaving him ashen.

He looked from Lina to me, the realization crashing over him.

"Principessa?" he whispered. "No. You're... you're Bella."

"I am Blake Shaw," I said, my voice ringing in the silence. "And you just ordered me to kneel."

Lina handed me the folder.

I took it with my good hand.

I threw it at Connor's feet.

It landed with a heavy slap.

"Now," I said. "You crawl."