"Let me go, Damian," Elise pleaded, trying to twist out of his iron grip as he dragged her into the elevator. The doors slid shut, sealing them in the mirrored box. "Don't hurt him. Please."

"Hurt him?" Damian's laugh was a cold, sharp sound that bounced off the walls. "Your brother comes into my building, demanding to take what is mine. He's lucky I don't break his legs." He jabbed the button for the underground garage. "You wanted to run. Fine. We'll run."

The ride down was a tense, suffocating silence. When the doors opened to the cavernous garage, the engine of a black Maybach was already purring. He didn't release her until he had shoved her into the backseat and slid in beside her. The car peeled out into the storm-ravaged streets of Manhattan, heading for the airport.

Rain slashed sideways across the tarmac, stinging like icy needles.

Elise sat in the back of Damian's black Maybach. The leather seat was cold against her legs. Through the tinted window, the world was a blur of gray storm and flashing hazard lights.

A sleek Gulfstream jet sat on the runway, its engines whining, cutting through the sound of the thunder.

The car door was ripped open.

Wind and rain flooded the cabin. Donavan stood there, soaked to the bone. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his suit ruined. But his eyes were frantic with worry.

"Elise!" he shouted over the roar of the jet engines. He reached a hand inside. "Come on! I've got you. We have to go now!"

Before she could move, a black umbrella snapped open, blocking Donavan's view.

Damian stepped between them. He didn't look at Donavan. He looked at the space where Donavan's hand was reaching for Elise.

"Touch her," Damian said, his voice low and deadly, "and you lose the hand."

Sterling and four security guards materialized from the shadows, forming a wall around the car.

"She's my sister, you son of a bitch!" Donavan screamed. He lunged forward, but a guard blocked him. "You're kidnapping her! The Nelson family won't stand for this!"

Damian stood immobile. The rain hammered against his black trench coat. He was a statue of darkness. His hands were thrust deep into his pockets, but Elise could see the tension in his shoulders. He was waiting.

He was waiting for her to run. To scream for help.

Elise looked at Donavan. He looked so tired. The stress lines around his eyes were deep. He loved her so much, and she had repaid him with nothing but trouble.

She took a breath. The air tasted of jet fuel and rain.

She slid across the seat and stepped out of the car.

Her bare feet hit the wet asphalt. The cold water soaked the hem of her torn fishnets.

"Elise!" Donavan's face lit up with relief. "Run! The plane is ready. It'll take you to Paris. Eddie is waiting for you there."

Eddie.

The name acted like a physical blow. Damian flinched. The air around him dropped ten degrees. He turned his head slowly to look at her. His eyes were empty voids.

Elise looked up at Damian. She saw the violence coiling in his muscles. She saw the heartbreak he was trying to drown in rage.

She turned to her brother.

"I'm not going, Donavan."

Donavan froze. His mouth hung open, catching the rain. "What? Did he drug you? Elise, it's me. You can tell me."

"He didn't drug me," Elise said. Her voice was clear, cutting through the storm. "I'm staying. I'm staying in New York. I'm staying with Damian."

Damian's head snapped toward her. Water dripped from his jawline. He looked at her like she was speaking a foreign language.

"You... you love Eddie," Donavan stammered. "You said Damian was a controlling monster."

Elise stepped closer to Damian. She moved into the shelter of his umbrella. She felt the heat radiating from his body.

"I was wrong, Donavan. I've been a fool," she said, her voice laced with a weariness that went far beyond her years. "I thought Eddie was freedom, but he was just another cage. Damian... he's controlling, yes, but he's also the only one who has ever truly protected me. I need that protection now. I need to be safe."

She looked up at Damian, meeting his shocked gaze. "And I am safest with him."

Damian went still. A flush of color crept up his neck, visible even in the dim runway lights. His arm flexed under her grip, trapping her hand against his side.

Donavan stared at them. He looked from Elise's determined face to Damian's possessive stance. He saw the way Damian instantly shifted his weight to shield her from the wind.

Donavan's shoulders slumped. The fight went out of him.

"You're making a mistake, Ellie," he said softly.

"It's my mistake to make," Elise replied. She stepped forward and hugged her brother quickly. She whispered in his ear, "I'm sorry. I'll explain everything at dinner on Friday. Trust me."

She pulled back.

Donavan glared at Damian. "If you hurt her... if I see one bruise on her..."

"Go," Damian said. It wasn't a suggestion.

Donavan turned and walked back to his car. He looked back once, then got in and drove away.

The jet engines spooled down. The sound died.

Silence returned to the tarmac, heavy and suffocating.

Elise turned to face Damian.

He wasn't looking at the departing car. He was looking at her. His gaze was intense, dissecting her, peeling back her layers.

He took a step toward her. The umbrella tilted, casting a shadow over her face.

"That was a very convincing performance," he said. His voice was cold, but there was a tremor in it. "Buying time for your lover to escape?"

Elise didn't flinch. She slid her hand down his arm until her fingers interlaced with his. His hand was freezing.

"I'm cold, Dami," she said softly. "Take me home."

Damian stared at their joined hands. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. He didn't pull away.

He opened the car door for her.

They slid into the back seat. The door thudded shut, sealing them in. The air in the car was thick with humidity and tension.

Elise leaned back, closing her eyes. She felt Damian's gaze on her profile. It felt like a physical touch, heavy and burning.

Bzzzzzt.

A vibration cut through the silence.

Elise's eyes snapped open. Her purse, sitting on the floorboard, lit up.

The screen flashed bright in the dark cabin.

Caller ID: Eddie My Love.

The temperature in the car plummeted.

Damian saw the name. His lip curled into a snarl. He reached for the phone, his hand a claw.

Elise moved faster.

Her hand snatched the phone before Damian could crush it.

"Don't," Damian warned, his voice a low rumble of thunder. "If you answer that..."

Elise swiped the screen. She hit the speaker button.

"Baby!" Eddie's voice filled the luxury cabin. It was whiny and pitched too high. "Where are you? Did Donavan get you? The flight to Paris is booked, I'm waiting at the private terminal! Do you have the cash?"

Damian's jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. His hands were fists on his knees, the leather of his gloves creaking. He looked ready to tear the car apart.

Elise held the phone up. She looked at it with bored detachment.

"We're finished, Eddie," she said. Her tone was flat. Clinical.

Silence on the other end. Then, a sputtered laugh. "What? Babe, stop joking. Put Donavan on. Did the Vincent prick hurt you?"

"Don't call me babe," Elise said. "And don't call this number again. I'm blocking you. I'm deleting you. You don't exist."

"You bitch!" Eddie's voice turned nasty instantly. "You think you can dump me? After everything I did for you? You're nothing without me! You're just a crazy-"

Splash.

Elise dropped the phone into the silver ice bucket sitting on the center console.

The device sizzled as it hit the ice and water. The screen flickered green, then went black. Eddie's voice was cut off mid-insult.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Elise looked at Damian. She shrugged. "I hate it when people yell."

Damian stared at the ice bucket. He stared at the submerged phone. He looked back at Elise, his gray eyes wide with genuine confusion. The monster in him receded, replaced by a wary curiosity.

"You... destroyed it," he said.

"It was trash," she replied.

The car pulled into the underground garage of the Vincent Tower. The ride up in the private elevator was silent. Damian stood in the corner, watching her reflection in the metal doors.

When they entered the penthouse, Elise didn't go to her room. She walked straight to the study.

Damian followed her, his footsteps silent on the plush carpet.

She went to the wall safe hidden behind a painting. She punched in the code. 06-15-08. The day they met as children.

She heard Damian's breath hitch behind her. He hadn't changed the code.

The heavy door swung open. Elise reached into the back and pulled out a small, dusty velvet box.

She turned around. Damian was standing right there, too close. He smelled of rain and expensive scotch.

"You kept this," she said.

Damian looked at the box. His expression darkened. "I confiscated it. You bought it for him."

"No," Elise said. "I bought it for you."

She opened the box. Inside, a pair of sapphire cufflinks glittered under the chandelier light. They were deep blue, almost black.

"I bought them three years ago," she said softly. "But we fought that day. You said I was wasting money on trash for Eddie. You didn't let me finish."

It was a lie. A partial one. In her past life, she had bought them for Eddie. But Eddie had wanted cash, not jewelry. Now, they were a prop in her new narrative.

She took the cufflinks out. She stepped closer to Damian, invading his personal space.

She reached for his wrist.

Damian flinched, his muscles jumping under his shirt. But he didn't pull away. He let her unbutton his cuff.

Elise worked the sapphire link through the fabric. Her fingers brushed the pulse point on his wrist. His heart was racing. Fast. Erratic.

"They match your eyes," she whispered, looking up at him through her lashes.

Damian looked down at her. He looked at the cufflinks. He looked at her hands touching him.

His chest heaved. He grabbed her wrists, his grip tight.

"What game is this, Elise?" he demanded, his voice rough. "What do you want?"

"I want to start over," she said. "I want to be your wife. A real one."

Damian's eyes searched hers. He leaned down. His face was inches from hers. His gaze dropped to her lips.

He was going to kiss her.

Then he stopped.

His eyes narrowed. He looked at her fingers. specifically, at her thumb. The black nail polish was chipped, revealing the jagged edge of her nail.

His nose wrinkled. A flicker of distress crossed his face.

OCD.

Elise suppressed a smile. Of course. He couldn't handle the imperfection. The dirt. The chaos of her current look.

She pulled her hands back. "I'm a mess."

Damian let out a breath that sounded like a groan. He turned away, running a hand through his hair. He pressed the intercom button on the wall.

"Sterling."

"Sir?"

"Get a manicurist here. Now. And call Valentina. Tell her to open the salon. We're coming in."

"Sir? It's 2 AM."

"Did I stutter?"

"No, sir."

Damian turned back to Elise. He looked at her torn fishnets, her smeared eyeliner.

"If you want to be my wife," he said, his voice regaining its usual arrogant composure, "you will look the part. I won't have you walking around looking like a raccoon."

Elise smiled. "Whatever you say, Dami."

Sterling appeared at the door, holding a cream envelope. "Sir, a courier just dropped this off. It's from the Nelson estate."

Damian took it. He ripped it open.

"Dinner. Friday night," he read. He looked at Elise. "Your father wants us there. Jill will be there."

"Good," Elise said. She walked over and took the invitation from his hand. Her eyes were cold. "I have a few things to say to my dear cousin."

"You're not going," Damian said. "You'll run."

"I'm going," Elise said. "And you're taking me. As your fiancée."

"Sterling goes with you to the salon," Damian countered instantly. "He doesn't leave your side."

"Deal."

Elise turned to walk to her room. As she turned, her smile vanished.

She needed to get to that salon. She needed a computer. And she needed to make sure Jill Hayes regretted ever being born.

The mirror at Valentina's SoHo studio was unforgiving.

Elise sat in the leather chair, staring at her reflection. The harsh studio lights illuminated every flaw. The patchy dye job in her hair-streaks of green and purple fading into a dull black. The heavy, cakey foundation that hid her skin.

She looked like a bruise.

Sterling stood by the door, arms crossed, tapping his foot. He was watching her like a hawk. Every five minutes, he typed something into his phone. Updating Damian.

Valentina, a tall woman with silver hair and impeccable posture, stood behind Elise, holding a lock of purple hair with two fingers as if it were radioactive waste.

"Darling," Valentina sighed. "What is the theme this time? 'Dumpster Chic'? 'Zombie Apocalypse'?"

Elise reached up. She unbuckled the spiked leather collar around her neck. The heavy metal clattered onto the glass counter.

"Clean slate," Elise said. Her voice was quiet but firm. "Wash it all off, Val. I want to look like a Nelson."

Valentina's eyebrows shot up. "Are you serious?"

"Deadly."

Valentina clapped her hands. "Get the solvent! Get the deep conditioner! We have an exorcism to perform!"

Assistants swarmed.

For the next hour, Elise was scrubbed, rinsed, and polished. The chemical smell of dye remover filled the air.

When the towel was finally pulled from her head, Sterling dropped his phone.

Elise's hair was wet, but it was a rich, glossy raven black. It fell in heavy waves down her back. Her face was scrubbed clean of makeup. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, but flawless. Her eyes, without the heavy liner, were huge and startlingly green.

She looked fragile. And dangerous.

"I need to use the restroom," Elise said, standing up.

Sterling stepped forward. "I'll check it first."

He checked the single-stall bathroom. No windows. No exits. He nodded.

Elise went inside and locked the door.

She moved fast. She sat on the closed toilet lid and pulled off her left boot. She pried up the inner sole.

Underneath was a tiny, flat object wrapped in plastic. A micro-SIM card.

She pulled a burner phone from her bra-she had swiped it from a distracted assistant's bag earlier. She popped the back, inserted the SIM.

Power on.

The screen didn't show a standard OS. It booted into a command line interface.

Elise's fingers flew across the tiny keyboard. She rebooted the burner into a sandboxed virtual environment that would leave no trace, its memory set to wipe clean on shutdown. She then routed her connection through a chain of encrypted proxies in three different countries, a digital ghost slipping through the web.

Login: NINE.

Password:

The dark web forum loaded instantly.

Status: ACTIVE.

"Nine is back," she muttered.

She posted a single message: Accepting urgent contracts. BTC only.

Within ten seconds, her inbox flooded.

Nine! Where have you been?

Need firewall breach on Pentagon sub-server.

Need dirt on Senator X.

She ignored them. She typed a quick script, routing it through three proxies in Russia and Brazil. She sent an anonymous email to the Chief of Information Security at Vincent Corp.

Subject: Zero-day exploit in your transaction server. Patch attached. First one is free.

Send.

She flushed the toilet, hid the phone back in her bra, and walked out.

Valentina was waiting with a rack of clothes.

"No skulls," Valentina said. "No fishnets."

She pulled out a dress. It was emerald green velvet. Floor-length. High neck, long sleeves, but with a slit that went up to the thigh and an open back that dipped dangerously low.

"Try this."

Ten minutes later, Elise stepped out of the dressing room.

The velvet clung to her curves like a second skin. The dark green made her eyes pop. She looked like a queen from a dark fairytale. Regal. Untouchable.

Valentina put a hand over her heart. "My masterpiece."

Sterling stared. His mouth opened and closed. He fumbled for his phone and snapped a picture.

Ping.

Three seconds later, Sterling's phone rang.

He answered it on speaker.

"Bring her home," Damian's voice growled. It sounded strained. "Now. And buy the dress. Buy the whole damn rack. No one else wears that."

Elise smirked.

She walked out of the studio, Sterling trailing behind her carrying garment bags.

As she stepped onto the sidewalk, a white Porsche screeched to a halt at the curb.

Jill Hayes stepped out.

She was holding a venti latte, wearing a white sundress that made her look like an innocent angel. She was clearly here to gloat. She had probably heard Elise was at the salon and wanted to see the freak show.

Jill scanned the sidewalk. Her eyes slid right past Elise.

She looked at Sterling. "Sterling? Is Elise inside? I heard she was getting her... fur dyed?"

Elise stepped into Jill's path.

"Hello, cousin."

Jill stopped. She looked at the woman in the green dress. She looked at the face.

Her eyes widened. Her hand jerked.

The latte cup exploded on the pavement. Hot coffee splashed onto Jill's white shoes.

"E-Elise?" Jill stammered. "What... what happened to your face?"

"I washed it," Elise said coolly. She stepped closer, towering over Jill in her heels. "You seem shaky, Jill. Is it the caffeine? Or is it your conscience?"

Jill recovered quickly. She forced a smile that looked more like a grimace. "You look... different. Better. I'm so glad. Grandpa will be so relieved you don't look like a witch anymore."

"Save it," Elise whispered, leaning in close. "I know about the trust fund, Jill. I know about Eddie. Enjoy your dinner tonight. It might be your last good meal."

Jill paled. She took a step back, nearly slipping in the spilled coffee.

Elise walked past her. She got into the waiting car.

As the door closed, her phone buzzed against her skin.

Deposit Received: 50 BTC.

Elise smiled. She had her war chest. Now, she just needed a battlefield.