"Did she actually show up?"

The whisper bounced off the metal lockers, sharp and loud in the crowded hallway.

I kept my chin raised, gripping the frayed straps of my backpack. My clothes from yesterday clung to my skin, smelling faintly of hospital antiseptic and stale sweat. Every student I passed pressed their backs against the walls, creating a wide, empty path for me as if I carried a contagious disease.

"Look at her hair," a boy muttered to my left. "Guess the billionaire princess couldn't afford a shower."

I swallowed the lump in my throat and forced my legs to keep moving. I just needed to find Joseph. He walked out on me at the hospital, but he was panicked. He was scared of the college scouts. Once I talked to him, once I explained that my dad was framed, he would understand.

A figure stepped directly into my path, blocking the corridor.

Chloe.

Mia stood right beside her, holding my gold-trimmed cheer megaphone. The captain's megaphone.

"Move, Chloe," I demanded, keeping my voice steady.

"You do not belong here anymore, Ivy," Chloe stated, crossing her arms. "My mother called the principal this morning. Half the parents threatened to pull their donations if you stayed enrolled."

"I go to school here. I am the cheer captain."

"Not anymore," Mia snapped. She tapped the plastic megaphone against her thigh. "Coach gave this to me an hour ago. We took a squad vote."

"You voted without me?" I asked, the betrayal stinging my chest.

"We do not associate with criminals," Chloe replied. She reached into her designer tote bag and pulled out my varsity uniform jacket.

"Give that back," I ordered, stepping forward.

"It belongs to the squad." Chloe gripped the Velcro captain's patch sewn onto the front. "And you do not."

She yanked her hand back. The tearing sound ripped through the quiet corridor. She dropped the embroidered patch onto the linoleum and ground her white sneaker directly over my name.

My hands curled into tight fists. "My dad died yesterday. He shot himself, and you are standing here acting like this?"

"He stole millions from our families," Chloe shot back, her eyes narrowing. "He deserves exactly what he got."

A shadow stepped up beside me.

Before I could turn my head, a paper cup tilted toward me. Hot, dark liquid splashed directly across my chest. The coffee soaked instantly through my cotton shirt, burning my collarbone and staining the fabric a muddy brown.

"Oops," Sabrina purred, tossing the empty cardboard cup at my feet. "My hand slipped."

I gasped, frantically wiping at the scalding stain.

"Watch where you are going, Ivy," Sabrina sneered. "Though I guess trash belongs in the gutter anyway."

Laughter erupted around me. Dozens of students held up their phones. Camera flashes blinded my vision, capturing every humiliating second of my ruined clothes and shaking hands.

"You did that on purpose," I choked out, fighting the tears pricking the corners of my eyes.

"Prove it," Sabrina challenged, stepping closer. "Who is going to believe a thief's daughter?"

I shoved past her shoulder, ignoring the burn on my skin. I refused to cry in front of them. I refused to give them the satisfaction.

I pushed through the heavy double doors and burst out onto the campus quad. The cold morning air hit my wet shirt, making me shiver.

I needed Joseph.

I sprinted toward the outdoor bleachers, scanning the athletic field.

"Joseph!" I yelled, spotting his letterman jacket near the chain-link fence.

He turned around.

My heart leaped, then immediately plummeted violently into my stomach.

Sabrina had beaten me there. She stood entirely too close to him, her arms wrapped tightly around his neck, her fingers playing with the collar of his shirt.

"What are you doing?" I asked, my voice cracking.

Joseph did not push Sabrina away. He let his hands rest comfortably on her waist. "Living my life, Ivy."

"It hasn't even been twenty-four hours!" I pointed at Sabrina, who wore a vicious, victorious smirk. "We were together for two years! Why so fast? Why her?"

"You lost everything, Ivy." His tone held absolutely no warmth. "I need someone who can stand beside me."

"I am standing right here!" I yelled, taking a desperate step forward. "We can fight this together."

"There is no 'we' anymore," Joseph replied, his jaw tightening. "My dad's campaign donors are already pulling out just because we took photos together at homecoming. You are a sinking ship, and I refuse to drown with you."

"So you are punishing me for my father's mistakes?"

"I am protecting my future."

He leaned down and pressed his mouth hard against Sabrina's.

My chest caved in. I watched the boy who promised me forever kiss my absolute worst enemy, right in the middle of the school yard.

He kissed her deeply, pulling her closer, making sure I saw every single second of it.

"Was everything between us a lie?" I asked, the words scraping my throat raw.

Joseph broke the kiss. He did not even look at me.

He laced his fingers through Sabrina's and walked toward the fieldhouse, leaving me completely alone on the damp grass.

***

"Card declined."

The housing administrator pushed my plastic debit card across the wooden counter.

"Try it again," I pleaded, resting my palms on the desk. "There has to be a mistake. That account is in my name."

"I ran it three times, Miss Montgomery. The bank locked the account." The woman adjusted her wire-rimmed glasses, refusing to meet my frantic gaze. "Your tuition and dorm fees are tied to your father's estate. The federal government seized all of it."

"I just need a few days," I begged. "Let me stay in my room until Friday. I will figure out a way to pay you."

"Your access card has already been deactivated," she stated coldly. "The school board made their decision this morning."

"Where am I supposed to sleep?"

"That is not our problem. You have one hour to clear out your belongings before security escorts you off the premises."

I backed away from the desk, pulling my phone from my pocket.

My hands shook violently as I dialed the customer service number on the back of my credit card.

"Global Bank, how can I help you?" a robotic voice answered.

"My card isn't working. My name is Ivy Montgomery."

Keyboard clacking echoed through the speaker. "Miss Montgomery, your accounts are frozen by federal mandate."

"All of them?"

"Every single one. Have a good day."

The line went dead.

***

Rain slashed against the dark pavement.

I dragged my single rolling suitcase down the cracked sidewalk. The plastic wheels rattled over the concrete, the only sound in the dead of night.

My phone battery had died hours ago. My friends blocked my number. My boyfriend replaced me. The school kicked me out into the storm.

Water plastered my hair to my cheeks. The freezing rain soaked through my thin jacket, chilling my bones and making my teeth chatter uncontrollably.

I stopped under the flickering neon light of a closed gas station awning.

"I can survive this," I muttered, biting my lower lip until it tasted heavily of copper. "I will survive this."

My dad gave me one emergency card last year for my birthday. He told me to never use it unless it was an absolute crisis. It was registered under a different shell company. A secret account the feds couldn't possibly know about.

I unzipped my damp wallet and pulled out the smooth silver plastic.

An ATM stood in the corner of the gas station lot, its screen glowing bright blue in the darkness.

I walked over, my wet sneakers squeaking on the cement.

I slid the card into the glowing slot.

*PROCESSING...*

I held my breath. Just give me enough for a cheap motel room. Just fifty bucks to get out of the rain.

A harsh beep pierced the quiet night.

A red triangle flashed aggressively on the screen.

*ACCOUNT FROZEN. CONTACT YOUR FINANCIAL INSTITUTION.*

I hit the buttons, slamming my palm against the metal keypad. "No! Please! Work!"

The machine spit the card back out, rejecting my final lifeline.

I stared at the silver plastic in my trembling hand, the reality of my situation finally crashing down on me. I had zero dollars. Zero friends. Zero shelter.

Headlights suddenly cut through the heavy rain, blinding me.

A sleek black car pulled up to the curb, stopping inches from my suitcase.

The tinted window hummed as it slowly rolled down.

"You need to buy something or leave."

I looked up. The convenience store clerk stood over me, holding a push broom. He wore a stained yellow apron and a deep scowl.

"I just need a few more minutes," I rasped, my throat raw.

"You have been sitting on this curb since midnight. Scram." He nudged my suitcase with the broom bristles. "Before I call the cops."

The word 'cops' sent a violent jolt of panic through my chest. I couldn't deal with the police. Not after yesterday.

I grabbed the handle of my bag and forced myself up. Black spots danced across my vision. My knees buckled instantly.

I braced my hand against the cold brick wall, fighting a massive wave of nausea. Hunger twisted my stomach into tight, painful knots. I hadn't eaten since lunch yesterday, right before the federal agents swarmed my front lawn.

I stumbled forward, dragging the plastic wheels over the cracked pavement.

A horn blared.

Tires screeched against the wet asphalt. A sleek black Bentley Continental swerved into the parking lot, stopping mere inches from my toes.

The driver’s side door swung open.

Polished leather dress shoes stepped onto the pavement.

Bentley Mercer. Thirty-eight years old. My father’s most trusted business partner.

He buttoned his charcoal suit jacket, his icy blue eyes locking onto my shivering frame. He showed zero pity. No sympathetic frown. No comforting words.

"Get in," he commanded.

"Go to hell," I croaked, spitting on the asphalt near his shoe.

He didn't flinch. "Your father didn't kill himself."

My head snapped up. The dizziness instantly vanished. "What did you just say?"

"The police are lying. The federal agents are lying." Bentley stepped closer, invading my space. "Richard didn't pull that trigger."

"How do you know?" I lunged forward, grabbing his suit lapel.

"Because I have proof." He clamped his hand over my wrist, peeling my fingers off his expensive wool jacket. "The people who framed him are powerful. They cornered him. They forced his death."

"Who?" I yelled, ignoring the clerk watching us from the glass door. "Give me a name!"

"Get in the car, Ivy."

"I don't need a man's charity." I yanked my arm back, rubbing my wrist.

Bentley leaned down, his face inches from mine. "Then don't call it charity. Call it a deal."

"What kind of deal?"

"I keep you alive. You help me flush out the rats who murdered my partner." He opened the passenger door. "Decide right now. Stay here and starve, or get in and fight."

I stared at the leather interior. I looked back at the cold, empty street.

I tossed my suitcase into the backseat and climbed in.

The interior smelled of rich leather and dark roast coffee. Bentley slid behind the steering wheel and hit the gas.

"Where are we going?" I asked, gripping the door handle.

"My house."

"I don't even know where you live."

"You don't need to know." He kept his eyes on the road. "You just need to stay out of sight."

"Who are 'they', Bentley? The people who framed him."

"A syndicate. They use legitimate businesses to wash dirty money."

"And my dad found out?"

"Your dad refused to play ball." Bentley gripped the steering wheel tighter, his knuckles turning white. "They cornered him. Falsified bank records. Paid off the federal agents."

"So we go to the police," I urged. "We take your proof to the chief."

Bentley let out a harsh, humorless laugh. "The chief of police plays golf with the man who ordered the hit. You go to the cops, you end up floating in the river."

I shrank back into the passenger seat, the reality of the danger finally sinking in. "Then what do we do?"

"We wait. We gather more evidence. And then we strike."

Twenty minutes later, the massive iron gates of his hillside estate locked behind us.

A maid quickly ushered me into a sprawling guest room. Silk sheets covered a king-sized bed. A walk-in closet held rows of designer clothes in my exact size. A silver tray of roasted chicken, garlic potatoes, and steaming rolls waited on the glass coffee table.

I devoured the food. I scraped the plate clean, my hands shaking as I held the silver fork.

The heavy oak door swung open without a knock.

Bentley walked in, holding a digital tablet.

"You look less like a stray dog," he remarked, dropping the tablet onto an armchair.

"Did you buy these?" I asked, pointing toward the open closet.

"My assistant did. Throw away those rags you are wearing."

"They aren't rags. It's my cheer uniform."

"It smells like a dumpster, Ivy."

I flushed, crossing my arms over my chest. "Where is the proof? Show me what you have."

"Not yet." He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. "You live under my roof now. That means you follow my rules."

"I am not a child."

"You act like one." He crossed the room, towering over me. "Rule one. You are inside this house by eight o'clock every night. No exceptions."

"Fine."

"Rule two. You do not investigate your father's death on your own. You leave the digging entirely to me."

"It is my father!" I stood up, knocking my chair backward. "I have a right to know!"

"And you are a massive target," Bentley fired back, his voice dropping to a dangerous rumble. "If they know you are looking, they will eliminate you just like they did him."

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry.

"Rule three," he continued, his gaze darkening. "You do not contact that quarterback boy. Joseph."

"Joseph broke up with me," I muttered, looking at the floor.

"Good. Keep it that way. He is a liability." Bentley turned toward the exit.

"Why do you care who I talk to?" I challenged.

He paused at the doorway, glancing over his shoulder. "Because distractions get people killed. Rest. We start planning tomorrow."

***

Midnight.

I stared at the vaulted ceiling, the expensive silk sheets tangled around my legs. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the black body bag rolling down my front steps.

A soft knock broke the silence.

The door opened before I could answer.

Bentley stood in the doorway, holding a steaming ceramic mug. He wore a dark gray Henley shirt, the cotton stretching tightly across his broad chest.

"Drink this," he ordered, setting the mug on my nightstand.

I sat up, pulling the thick blanket to my chin. "What is it?"

"Warm milk. It helps with insomnia."

"I never said I couldn't sleep."

"You didn't have to."

He didn't leave. He stood by the edge of the bed, his imposing figure casting a long shadow over the mattress.

"Are you going to stand there and watch me drink it?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"If I have to."

"I'm not a prisoner, Bentley."

"You are a survivor. There is a difference."

I reached out and wrapped my hands around the warm ceramic. The heat seeped into my freezing palms, chasing away the chill that had settled in my bones since yesterday.

"Why are you really doing this?" I asked, staring at the white liquid.

"Richard was my partner," he replied flatly.

"That is a lie. You are hiding something."

He stepped closer. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight as he rested a hand on the bedpost. "Do not push me, Ivy."

"You never liked me. You always told my dad I was spoiled and reckless."

A muscle feathered in his jaw. "You were."

"And now?"

"Now you are my responsibility."

He turned and walked out, pulling the door shut with a soft click.

I took a sip. A strange, heavy sense of security settled over my chest. For the first time in two days, I didn't feel like I was drowning. Bentley was dangerous, strict, and entirely too controlling. But he was here. He hadn't abandoned me.

Down the hall, inside the master study, Bentley locked his oak double doors.

He walked to his mahogany desk and opened a hidden steel drawer. He pulled out a small, silver digital recorder.

He pressed play.

Static hissed through the quiet, dimly lit room.

Then, my father's voice, frantic and terrified, echoed from the tiny speaker.

"Bentley, they're outside the office. You have to protect Ivy. Promise me you will—"

A loud gunshot cut the recording off.

Bentley stopped the audio, his thumb tracing the cold metal of the device.

"I promise, Richard," he murmured to the empty room. "I will tear them all apart."

He locked the recorder back in the drawer. He had the proof. He had the motive.