The next morning, Cinnamon stood before her full-length mirror. Gone was the pastel sundress she usually wore to appease Arturo's preference for the "innocent ward" aesthetic. In its place was a sharp, charcoal pencil skirt and a white silk blouse, the top button undone just enough to be professional yet distracting. She pulled her hair back into a severe bun.

She looked like a weapon.

She dialed Mia. "I'm going in."

"Into the lion's den?" Mia's voice crackled with worry. "Cin, he blocked the background check. He knows."

"I know he knows. That's why I'm bringing lunch." Cinnamon picked up the paper bag from the kitchen counter. Inside was a panino with prosciutto, mozzarella, and truffle oil-Arturo's weakness from a specific deli in Little Italy. "I'm going to negotiate."

The Watts Capital tower in the Financial District was a monolith of glass and steel. Cinnamon walked through the lobby, her heels clicking with purpose. The receptionist started to stand up to block her, saw her face, and immediately sat back down, picking up the phone with trembling hands.

"Ms. Taylor. I... I didn't know you were coming."

"Surprise," Cinnamon said, breezing past security toward the private elevator.

When the doors opened on the penthouse floor, the noise hit her. The trading floor below was a chaotic sea of shouting and ringing phones, but up here, in the executive suite, it was quiet. Too quiet.

Carter was standing outside Arturo's office, looking like he had just seen a ghost.

"Cinnamon? You can't be here. He's in a meeting."

"I'll wait." She sat on the leather sofa, crossing her legs. She picked up a copy of The Economist, but her eyes were scanning the hallway.

Ten minutes later, the double doors of the conference room opened. Three men walked out. They weren't clients. They wore ill-fitting gray suits and carried thick, nondescript folders.

One of the folders had a logo stamped on the corner. SEC.

Cinnamon's breath hitched. Tiffany wasn't lying. The Securities and Exchange Commission was here. They were investigating him.

Arturo stepped out behind them. He looked exhausted. His tie was loosened, his sleeves rolled up, and there were dark circles under his eyes that no amount of money could hide.

He saw the agents to the elevator, his face a mask of polite cooperation. As the doors closed, the mask fell. He slumped slightly.

Then he saw her.

His eyes narrowed. He crossed the room in three long strides, grabbed her wrist, and pulled her into his office, slamming the door shut behind them.

"What are you doing here?" he hissed, releasing her.

Cinnamon held up the paper bag. "I brought lunch. And I wanted to talk about my future."

Arturo stared at the bag, then at her. He rubbed his temples. "I don't have time for this, Cinnamon. I have federal agents crawling up my ass."

"I saw." She walked around his massive oak desk. "Bad time for the company?"

"It's a routine audit," he lied smoothly.

"It looked like a subpoena to me." She set the bag down. "Here. Eat. You look like you haven't slept in a week."

Arturo looked at the sandwich. He hesitated, then sat down heavily in his chair. "You shouldn't be here. If they see you..."

"If they see me, what? They'll think the loving fiancée is bringing lunch to her hardworking man?" Cinnamon moved behind his chair. She reached out and placed her hands on his shoulders. The muscles were rock hard, knotted with tension.

She began to knead them. Arturo flinched, then groaned low in his throat, his head dropping forward.

"You're tense," she whispered.

"I'm managing," he grunted.

"Are you?" She pressed her thumbs into the base of his neck. "Mia told me about the background check."

Arturo stiffened under her hands. He opened his eyes, grabbing her wrist and pulling her around so she was standing between his spread knees.

"I told you," he said, his voice low. "No FBI."

Cinnamon didn't pull away. She leaned back against the edge of his desk, crossing her ankles. She was trapped between his legs and the desk, but she felt like she was the one in control.

"Here's the deal, Arturo," she said, her voice steady. "You unblock my application. You make the call right now."

"And why would I do that?"

"Because if you don't," she leaned down, bringing her face level with his, "I'm going to apply for an internship at the New York Times. specifically on the financial crimes desk. And I have a lot of interesting stories to tell about growing up in the Watts household."

Arturo stared at her. For a moment, she thought he was going to explode. But then, a corner of his mouth twitched.

He stood up, towering over her. He placed his hands on the desk on either side of her hips, boxing her in.

"You're threatening me?" he murmured, his face inches from hers. She could smell the coffee on his breath.

"I'm negotiating," she corrected, her heart hammering against her ribs. "You need the IPO to go smoothly. You need me to be quiet and look pretty. I can do that. But I need Quantico."

Arturo looked at her lips, then up to her eyes. He saw the fire there. He realized, perhaps for the first time, that he couldn't just lock her in a tower anymore. She would burn the tower down.

"Fine," he said.

Cinnamon blinked. "Fine?"

"But I have conditions."

"Name them."

"One: You spend three nights a week at the Manor. No exceptions. I need to know you're safe."

"Two nights," she countered.

"Three. Take it or leave it."

She gritted her teeth. "Fine. Three."

"Two: You do not investigate the Watts family. You stay away from my business."

"Agreed." (She crossed her fingers mentally).

"And three..." He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a gravelly rasp that sent shivers down her spine. "I am your emergency contact. Your only contact. If you get into trouble, you call me. Not Mia. Not the police. Me. You answer my calls on the first ring. 24/7."

Cinnamon swallowed hard. It was possessive. It was controlling. But it was the only way out.

"Deal."

Arturo didn't smile. He picked up the phone on his desk and hit a speed dial button.

"Carter," he said, his eyes never leaving Cinnamon's. "Get Senator Rawlings on the line. Tell him I'm calling in that favor regarding the Justice Department. There's a personnel file that needs a second look... yes, Taylor. Make it happen."

He hung up.

"Eat your sandwich," Cinnamon said, her voice breathless. She slid off the desk, ducking under his arm. "I have to go study."

She walked to the door, feeling his eyes burning a hole in her back. She had won.

Or at least, she thought she had.

Cinnamon stepped out of the elevator into the lobby, her heart soaring. She had done it. She had faced the Wolf of Wall Street and walked away with a win. The clicking of her heels sounded like a victory march.

The elevator doors pinged open behind her.

"Well, look at the stray cat strutting around."

Cinnamon stopped. The joy evaporated instantly. She turned to see Tiffany stepping out of the adjacent car, clutching a Birkin bag like a shield. Her face was twisted in a sneer that distorted her heavy makeup.

"Tiffany," Cinnamon said coolly. "I'd love to chat, but I have a life."

Tiffany stepped in front of her, blocking the path to the revolving doors. "Coming from his office? Did you have to get on your knees to get your allowance this month? Just like your whore mother."

Cinnamon saw red. The calm, professional façade she had maintained upstairs shattered. She stepped forward, using her height-she was three inches taller than Tiffany without heels-to loom over her.

"Keep my mother's name out of your mouth," Cinnamon said, her voice deadly quiet. "And how's your ankle? Recovered from your little trip at the gala?"

Tiffany's face flushed a blotchy red. She raised her hand, palm open, aiming for Cinnamon's cheek.

Cinnamon caught her wrist in mid-air. It was effortless. She squeezed, just hard enough to make Tiffany gasp.

"This is Wall Street, Tiffany, not one of your tea parties," Cinnamon hissed, flinging the woman's hand away. "You want to make a scene? The security guards here work for Arturo. Who do you think they'll throw out? The fiancée or the cousin he just threatened to disinherit?"

Tiffany rubbed her wrist, her eyes wide with shock and venom. "You think he cares about you? You stupid little girl. He's using you! He's only keeping you around because of your father's mess!"

Cinnamon froze. "What mess?"

Tiffany realized she had said too much. Her eyes darted around. "Nothing. Forget it."

"Tell me," Cinnamon demanded, stepping closer.

"The hidden money!" Tiffany spat, lowering her voice. "Your father hid millions before he died, and Arturo's been cleaning it up for years. He needs you to sign off on the final transfer. That's why he pays for your clothes, your school, your life. You're not his fiancée; you're his key code."

The world seemed to tilt. Hidden money? Her father died bankrupt. That was the official story.

"You're lying," Cinnamon said, but her voice lacked conviction.

"Ask him," Tiffany sneered. She shoved past Cinnamon, knocking her shoulder hard enough to send her stumbling into a large potted fern.

A security guard hurried over. "Ms. Taylor? Is everything alright?"

Cinnamon straightened her blouse, forcing a smile. "I'm fine. Ms. Watts was just leaving. She seemed... unstable."

The guard nodded knowingly and escorted a protesting Tiffany out the side door.

But Tiffany turned back one last time, shouting over the guard's shoulder. "You'll regret this! Chase Miller is out! He's coming for you!"

The name hit Cinnamon like a physical blow to the gut.

Chase Miller.

The blood drained from her face so fast she felt dizzy. Her hands started to tremble uncontrollably. Chase. The guy from college. The one who sent her jars of his hair. The one who tried to burn down her dorm because she wouldn't go to prom with him.

He was supposed to be in a psychiatric facility for another two years.

Cinnamon stumbled out of the building, forgetting to call the driver. She walked blindly down the busy street, the noise of New York fading into a dull roar.

Chase is out.

She ducked into a Starbucks, her breath coming in short, panic-stricken gasps. She ordered a black coffee just to have something warm to hold. Her hands were ice.

She pulled out her phone. Her fingers shook so bad she mistyped the name twice.

Chase Miller. Search.

A Twitter profile popped up. It was new. Created three hours ago.

The profile picture was a black square. There was only one post.

It was a photo.

A photo of a woman walking down a busy street, wearing a charcoal pencil skirt and a white blouse. Her hair was in a bun.

It was Cinnamon. From behind. Taken five minutes ago.

The caption read: My Angel is back. She looks so pretty when she's scared.

Cinnamon dropped the phone on the table. She whipped her head around, staring out the window at the throngs of people rushing past. Every man in a hoodie looked like him. Every shadow looked like a threat.

He was here. He was watching her right now.

She grabbed her phone to call Arturo. Her thumb hovered over his name. Emergency contact.

But Tiffany's words echoed in her head. He's using you. You're just a key code.

If she called him, he would lock her up. He would use this as an excuse to cancel the FBI deal. He would win.

She couldn't call him.

She dialed Mia instead.

"Mia," she whispered, her voice steadying with grim purpose. "Plan B. He's here. Chase is here."

"Oh my god," Mia said. "Where are you? I'm coming."

"No. Don't come. He's watching me. I'm at the Starbucks on Wall and Water. He just posted a photo of me. I need you to do exactly as I say. Get a burner phone. Contact that freelance security guy, the ex-Mossad one we used for that auction in Dubai. I'm going to lead Chase to a location with full camera coverage. We're not running. We're building a federal case."

Cinnamon hung up. She wrapped her hands around the coffee cup, but the warmth didn't penetrate. She felt eyes on her. A thousand pairs of eyes.

Across the street, in the shadow of an alleyway, a figure in a grey hoodie lowered his phone. He smiled, a jagged, broken thing. He watched the girl in the window shiver, and he felt a rush of pure, unadulterated love.

Cinnamon paced the length of Mia's small Brooklyn apartment, her heels clicking a frantic rhythm on the hardwood floor. Mia was hunched over her laptop, typing furiously, while her friend, a lanky guy named Ben with thick glasses, monitored a second screen.

"He's bouncing his signal," Ben muttered. "Using a burner phone and a VPN. I can't pin him down."

"He was right behind me," Cinnamon said, hugging her arms around herself. "He was right there."

Her phone pinged.

The sound made all three of them jump.

Cinnamon stared at the device on the coffee table like it was a bomb. The screen lit up. A text from an unknown number.

It was a link.

"Don't open it," Mia warned.

"I have to," Cinnamon whispered. Her trembling finger tapped the glass.

A video player opened. It was a livestream.

The camera was shaky, handheld. It showed a view from a dizzying height. The wind was roaring into the microphone, creating a distorted, howling noise. The camera panned down to show feet in worn sneakers standing on the very edge of a concrete ledge. Below, tiny cars moved like ants.

Then the camera turned around.

Chase Miller's face filled the screen. He looked gaunt, his eyes wild and bloodshot, his hair matted. But his smile was the same terrifying, beatific grin from her nightmares.

"Hello, Angel," he crooned. The wind whipped his words away, but the intent was clear. "I missed you."

"Oh god," Cinnamon covered her mouth.

"I'm at the Watts Hotel," Chase said, gesturing to the giant neon 'W' sign behind him. "Your fiancé's shiny new toy. It's a long way down, Cinnamon."

The view count on the stream was climbing. 500. 1,000. 5,000. Comments were scrolling by faster than she could read. Is this real? Jump! Call the cops!

Chase pulled a box cutter from his pocket. He clicked the blade out. "You have twenty minutes. Come to the roof. Alone. If I see cops, I jump. If I see that suit-wearing prick Arturo, I jump. And I'll leave a note saying the Watts family drove me to it."

"He's insane," Mia said, grabbing Cinnamon's arm. "We're calling 911."

"No!" Cinnamon pulled away. "You heard him. If he jumps from the Watts Hotel... if he blames Arturo..." The IPO. The SEC investigation. A suicide linked to the family could destroy everything. Her leverage. Her escape.

"Who cares about Arturo's company right now?"

"I do!" Cinnamon screamed. "It's my leverage! It's my future! And... I need a confession. I need this to end, permanently."

She grabbed her coat. "I'm going. Mia, is your guy in position?"

"He's on the roof of the adjacent building with a parabolic mic and a long-lens camera," Mia confirmed, her face pale. "But Cin, this is crazy."

"Crazy is letting him control the narrative," Cinnamon retorted, her eyes hard. "He wants an audience. I'll give him one."

She was already out the door.

She hailed a cab, shouting the address of the hotel. In the back seat, she watched the stream. Chase was reciting a poem now, something about blood and wings. It was garbled and sick.

Mia was calling Carter on the other line. "Pick up, pick up, pick up," she hissed.

Cinnamon arrived at the hotel. A crowd had already gathered, necks craned upward, phones recording. A few police cruisers were just arriving, sirens wailing, but they were setting up a perimeter on the ground.

Cinnamon pushed through the crowd. A uniform cop tried to stop her.

"Ma'am, stay back!"

She ripped off her sunglasses. "I'm Cinnamon Taylor! He's asking for me! Let me through or he jumps!"

The cop hesitated, recognizing her from the gala photos. The hotel manager ran out, pale and sweating. "Ms. Taylor! Thank god. He's... he's on the penthouse roof."

"Take me up. Now."

They rushed her to the service elevator. As the doors closed, Cinnamon looked at her phone. The signal bars dropped to one, then zero. The livestream froze on Chase's laughing face.

High above the city, in the corner office of Watts Capital, Arturo's phone buzzed with a news alert.

BREAKING: Jumper on Watts Hotel Roof Demands Fiancée.

Arturo went still. The color drained from his face, leaving it a mask of pure, cold rage.

"Carter!" he roared, the sound echoing through the suite. "Get the chopper. Now!"

He dialed Cinnamon. Straight to voicemail.

He threw the phone against the wall. It shattered.

The roof door opened with a heavy groan against the wind. Cinnamon stepped out onto the gravel surface. The wind up here was ferocious, tearing at her clothes and hair.

Chase was standing on the ledge of the helipad, twenty feet away. He saw her and his face lit up.

"You came," he shouted over the wind. "I knew you loved me."

Cinnamon held up her hands, palms open. She subtly angled her body toward the adjacent building, ensuring Mia's operative had a clear line of sight. "I'm here, Chase. Just step down. Please. Let's talk."

"Talk?" Chase laughed. "We don't need to talk. We need to fly. We're going to be together forever, Angel. Just you and me."

He extended a hand toward her. The box cutter was in the other. "Come here. Take my hand."

Cinnamon took a step forward. Her legs felt like jelly. Every instinct screamed at her to run, but she forced herself to move closer. "Okay. I'm coming. Just put the knife down."

"No!" He waved the blade. "Come closer!"

She took another step. She was ten feet away. She could see the madness in his eyes.

Suddenly, a rhythmic thumping sound filled the air. It grew louder, vibrating in her chest. A shadow fell over them.

Chase looked up, screaming something inaudible.

A sleek black helicopter with the Watts logo on the tail rose up over the edge of the building, the rotor wash hitting them like a hurricane.