Daphne exited the building. She was wearing a pair of sunglasses she found in the foyer and a baseball cap Charlton had left on the counter.

The doorman, usually friendly, looked at his shoes as she passed.

She stepped onto 5th Avenue.

The air was humid and oppressive. The rain had stopped, leaving the city steaming like a sauna.

She kept her head down.

A group of teenagers walked by. They were glued to their phones.

One of them looked up. She stopped. She pointed a manicured finger at Daphne.

"That's her," the girl whispered loud enough for Daphne to hear. "The meltdown girl."

The group giggled.

Paranoia set in. Daphne pulled the cap lower. She felt like every set of eyes on the street was a laser burning into her skin.

She walked past a newsstand.

Her face was on the cover of a tabloid. It was a photo from years ago, distorted to make her look crazy.

Headline: ROSE REJECT: FROM HEIRESS TO HOT MESS.

Her phone vibrated in the pocket of the shirt.

She checked it. Another text from an unknown number.

Gold digger slut. Leave Campbell alone.

She shoved the phone back into her pocket, her heart racing.

She needed aspirin. Her head was splitting.

She ducked into a pharmacy on the corner. The fluorescent lights were harsh.

She grabbed a bottle of water and a pack of aspirin. She went to the self-checkout to avoid human interaction.

She scanned the items. She inserted her personal debit card.

Beep.

DECLINED.

Daphne stared at the screen. She tried again.

Beep.

DECLINED. CONTACT ISSUER.

"Insufficient funds," the machine droned in a robotic, humiliatingly loud voice.

Daphne froze.

The Rose family. They had frozen her accounts. They had cut her off completely.

"Come on, lady," a man behind her groaned. "Move it."

Humiliation washed over her, hot and prickling.

She remembered the heavy black card in her pocket.

She hesitated. Using it felt like accepting the deal. It felt like selling her soul.

"I... sorry," she mumbled.

She put the aspirin back on the shelf. She walked out of the store, her headache pounding a rhythm against her skull.

Outside, hunger pangs hit her. Sharp and cramping. She hadn't eaten in twenty-four hours.

She walked to Central Park and sat on a bench.

She watched a couple walking a dog. They looked happy. Normal.

She replayed Charlton's words. Sensible got you dumped.

She realized she had zero agency right now. She was a victim. She was a punchline. She was broke.

A rustle in the bushes made her jump.

A man with a massive camera lens jumped out from behind a hydrangea bush.

Click click click.

The shutter sound was like gunfire.

"Daphne! Did you sleep with Charlton for the money?" the paparazzi shouted, getting closer.

Daphne covered her face with her hands, curling inward.

"Leave me alone!"

"Just one comment! How much did he pay you?"

Suddenly, a shadow blocked the sun.

A large hand grabbed the camera lens and shoved it down.

"Back off," a deep voice growled.

Daphne looked up.

It was a mountain of a man in a black suit. He had an earpiece.

"Ms. Flynn?" the man said, his voice changing to something gentle. "Mr. Bernard sent me."

He gestured to a black SUV idling at the curb.

"He said you might need a ride."

Daphne looked at the paparazzi, who was now retreating, intimidated. Then she looked at the secure, tinted windows of the SUV.

She realized Charlton had been watching her. Protecting her. Even when she walked away.

She stood up. Her legs were shaky.

"Take me away from here," she said.

Daphne sat in the back of the SUV. The leather was soft, the air conditioning was cool, and the windows were tinted dark enough to block out the world.

She was safe. But she was shaking.

She pulled out her phone and dialed the one person she knew would answer.

Dr. Fiona Fu. Her best friend. Her psychiatrist.

Fiona picked up on the first ring.

"Where are you?" Fiona's voice was sharp. "I'm coming with a bat. I don't care who I have to hit."

Daphne let out a laugh. It was a choked, wet sound.

"I'm safe, Fi. I'm... with Charlton."

Silence on the line. Heavy, pregnant silence.

"The Charlton Bernard?" Fiona asked slowly.

"I slept with him, Fi," Daphne blurted out. "And he proposed."

Fiona screamed. It was so loud Daphne had to pull the phone away from her ear.

"Proposed marriage? Or proposed a round two?"

"Marriage. A contract. To save my reputation."

Daphne quickly explained the deal. The trust fund. The one year. The reality show.

Fiona hummed. The sound of her switching into doctor mode.

"Let's diagnose Campbell first," Fiona said clinically.

"Campbell is a classic Narcissist. Textbook. He discarded you because you ran out of 'supply'. You were too stable, too boring for his ego."

"He expects you to crawl back," Fiona continued. "He expects you to be destroyed. Marrying Charlton? That destroys his narrative. It destroys his ego."

"So you think I should do it?" Daphne asked. "Is it crazy?"

"Charlton has been orbiting you for years, Daph," Fiona said, her voice softer now. "He's a playboy, yes. He sleeps around. But has he ever hurt you?"

"No," Daphne whispered. "Never."

"Campbell hurt you deliberately. He planned it. Charlton is offering a nuclear weapon."

Fiona paused.

"Use the weapon, Daphne."

"But is it fair to Charlton?" Daphne asked, looking at the partition between her and the driver. "I don't love him. Not like that."

"He's a big boy with a two billion dollar trust fund. He'll survive," Fiona deadpanned.

Daphne felt a weight lift off her chest. The sadness that had been drowning her began to recede, replaced by a cold, hard anger.

The car slowed down. They pulled up to a nondescript building in SoHo.

"Where are you?" Fiona asked.

"A boutique. Charlton sent me."

"Go get your armor, honey," Fiona said. "And delete Campbell's number."

Daphne hung up. She felt validated.

She looked at the boutique. There was no sign. The windows were frosted. It was closed to the public.

The door opened. A woman in all black stepped out.

"Ms. Flynn? Mr. Bernard called ahead."

Daphne stepped out of the car. The decision was forming in her gut, solidifying like concrete.

She checked her phone one last time.

A text from Campbell.

Stop making a fool of yourself. Come to the apartment. We can talk.

The audacity. He thought he could snap his fingers and she would come running. He thought he still owned her.

Daphne stared at the name on the screen.

She swiped left.

Delete Conversation.

She walked into the boutique, her chin held high.

Inside the boutique, the air smelled of lavender and money.

Daphne stood in front of a three-way mirror. She was wearing a suit. Not a boring beige office suit.

It was red. Crimson. Blood red.

The jacket was tailored to within an inch of its life, nipping in at her waist and flaring out. The pants were wide-legged and powerful.

She looked in the mirror. She didn't look like a victim. She looked dangerous.

The manager walked over, holding an iPad. Her expression was grave.

"Mr. Bernard thought you should see this," she said gently.

Daphne took the tablet.

It was a live stream. Kandice Rose.

Kandice was sitting on a beige sofa, clutching a tissue. Her eyes were red-rimmed.

"I tried," Kandice sobbed, wiping a tear that wasn't there. "I tried to be a sister to her. But she was always so... jealous."

Daphne's grip on the iPad tightened.

"She tried to seduce Campbell," Kandice whispered, looking directly into the camera. "While I was in the hospital recovering. She tried to steal him."

It was a lie. A blatant, verifiable, disgusting lie. Kandice had been in the hospital for a nose job, not an illness. And Daphne had been engaged to Campbell for four years.

But the comments were scrolling by so fast they were a blur.

Die Daphne.

Ungrateful brat.

Team Kandice.

Daphne's hands shook. The red suit suddenly felt like a costume.

A notification popped up at the top of the screen. An email.

From: ABT Board of Directors.

Subject: Immediate Suspension Pending Investigation.

Daphne tapped it open.

...due to conduct unbecoming of a principal dancer... moral turpitude clause... effective immediately.

Her breath hitched.

Her career was her life. It was the only thing that was truly hers. And Kandice was taking that too.

The manager watched her sympathetically. "Water, Ms. Flynn?"

Daphne stared at the screen.

Silence wasn't working. Taking the high road wasn't working. It was killing her.

She recalled Fiona's words: Use the weapon.

She handed the iPad back to the manager. Her hand was steady now.

"I'll take the suit," she said. Her voice was ice cold. "And the black dress. And the heels. The highest ones you have."

"Of course."

Daphne pulled out the Black AMEX.

She swiped it.

Beep.

APPROVED.

The sound was intoxicating. It was the sound of power.

She pulled out her phone and called Charlton.

He answered on the first ring. "Are you okay?"

"Did you see Kandice's video?" she asked.

"I'm having it taken down for defamation as we speak," Charlton replied. "My legal team is on it."

"No," Daphne stopped him. "Leave it up."

"Leave it?" Charlton sounded surprised.

"I want everyone to see her lie," Daphne said. She looked at herself in the mirror. The red suit blazed. "So when I crush her, they know exactly why."

She took a deep breath.

"I'm in, Charlton. I'll marry you. I'll do the show."

There was a pause on the line. She heard him exhale, a long, shaky sound that sounded like relief.

"Good choice, Mrs. Bernard," he said. His voice was thick with emotion she couldn't place. "I'll pick you up in twenty."