The next morning, Aisha was still asleep in the small bedroom of her rented apartment.

Dominic slid out of the sofa bed in the living room. He dressed quickly, not in the clothes Aisha had bought him, but in a bespoke Italian suit he had stashed in a gym bag.

He slipped out the door.

A black Maybach was waiting around the corner.

Chester opened the door. "Good morning, sir. You look... rested."

"I slept on a mattress with a spring poking into my kidney," Dominic said, sliding into the leather seat. "It was fantastic."

Chester handed him a tablet. "The Bartlett file."

Dominic scanned it as the car purred toward the Financial District.

"Barry Bartlett is leveraging the company to Silas Thorne," Dominic noted. "Thorne is a vulture. He'll strip the assets and fire the employees."

"Yes, sir. And Thorne is demanding Aisha as part of the deal. He wants the family name to legitimize his takeover."

Dominic's eyes went cold. The temperature in the car seemed to drop ten degrees.

"Kill the deal," Dominic said.

Chester blinked. "Sir?"

"Fields Global will acquire Bartlett Enterprises. Hostile takeover. Use the shell companies so they don't trace it back to me."

"But sir, Bartlett Enterprises is a sinking ship. It's a bad investment."

"I don't care about the profit," Dominic said, looking out the window at the passing skyline. "I care about the captain."

He arrived at Fields Tower. He walked through the lobby, and the air changed. Employees straightened their ties. Conversations stopped.

He took the private elevator to the 50th floor.

The boardroom was full. Men in five-thousand-dollar suits sat waiting.

Dominic walked in. He didn't apologize for being late. He sat at the head of the table.

"The Thorne merger is dead," he announced. "We're buying Bartlett."

A murmur of protest.

"Dominic," one of the older board members said. "This is personal. We know about the girl."

Dominic turned his gaze on the man. "If you know about the girl, then you know I don't lose. Do it."

His phone buzzed. A text from Aisha.

Where are you? We need to start lessons. I bought flashcards.

Dominic smiled. A genuine, soft smile that terrified the board members more than his anger.

On my way, he typed. Just running an errand.

He stood up. "Meeting adjourned. I have to go learn how to use a salad fork."

He left the room, leaving twelve of the most powerful men in New York completely bewildered.

"No, no, no!"

Aisha smacked Dominic's hand lightly with a ruler.

"That's the fish knife," she said. "You use it for the sole. Not the steak."

Dominic rubbed his hand, feigning injury. "They look the same."

"They are shaped differently! Look at the curve!"

They were sitting at her tiny kitchen table. Aisha had set up a mock place setting using plastic cutlery.

"Okay," Dominic said. "Fish knife. Got it."

"Now," she said, pacing the small kitchen. "Wine. If they serve a Pinot Noir, what do you say?"

"Pass the beer?"

"Dominic!"

He laughed, grabbing her hand as she walked by and pulling her to a stop.

"Aisha. Breathe."

She looked down at him. He was sitting in her rickety chair, filling the room with his presence. He smelled of rain and that mysterious, expensive sandalwood scent.

"I can't breathe," she whispered. "If we fail..."

"We won't." He stood up. He was so close. She had to crane her neck to look at him.

"Why are you helping me?" she asked. "Really? It's not just the money. You could make money doing... easier things."

Dominic looked at her. He wanted to tell her. He wanted to tell her that she was the first real thing he had found in a world of plastic. That her fire made him feel alive.

Instead, he shrugged. "I like the food."

He leaned in. For a second, Aisha thought he was going to kiss her. Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She didn't pull away.

He reached past her and grabbed a grape from the fruit bowl.

"Homework done," he said, popping the grape into his mouth. "I'm going to shower."

He walked into the bathroom.

Aisha let out a shaky breath. She touched her cheek. It was burning.

She heard the shower turn on. She imagined him in there. The water running over those broad shoulders...

She shook her head violently. Clause One. No intimacy.

She sat down at the table and opened her banking app. She transferred his weekly allowance. $1,500.

It left her with exactly $400 for the month.

She stared at the balance. She would have to skip lunch for a few weeks. But it was worth it.

In the bathroom, Dominic looked at his phone. The notification popped up.

You received $1,500.

He felt a knot in his stomach. He looked at his other account balance. $2.4 Billion.

He felt like the biggest fraud on the planet.

"I'll make it up to you," he whispered to the mirror. "I promise."

Friday night. The air outside Le Bernardin was thick with perfume and exhaust.

Aisha stood on the curb, wringing her hands. She was wearing a red dress she had salvaged from the back of her closet-bold, defiant.

"He's late," Barry sneered, checking his Rolex. "Typical."

"Probably couldn't get a cab," Gretta laughed.

A car turned the corner.

It wasn't a cab. It was a battered Honda Civic from the early 2000s. The bumper was held on with duct tape. It sputtered and coughed as it rolled up to the valet stand, right behind a Ferrari.

The valet looked at it with pure horror.

The driver's door creaked open. Dominic stepped out.

He was wearing a suit. But it wasn't the Armani he wore to the board meetings. It was a polyester blend Aisha had found at a thrift store. The sleeves were slightly too short. The pants were a bit baggy.

He walked around and opened the passenger door for Aisha, bowing theatrically.

"My chariot awaits," he said.

Aisha wanted to die. But then she saw her father's face. Barry looked like he had swallowed a lemon.

She smiled. She took Dominic's arm. "Thank you, darling. Sorry we're late, I had to help Dominic jump-start his car. He borrowed it from a friend."

They walked into the restaurant. The Maître D', a man named Pierre who had known Dominic for ten years, looked up.

Pierre's eyes widened. He opened his mouth to say, "Monsieur Fie-"

Dominic made the slightest motion. A finger to his lips. A narrowing of the eyes.

Pierre froze. He swallowed. He looked at the cheap suit. He looked at Dominic's intense gaze.

"Party of... four?" Pierre asked, his voice trembling slightly.

"Bartlett," Barry barked. "I have a reservation."

"Of course," Pierre said. "Right this way."

He led them past the kitchen, past the noisy tables near the door... and straight to the prime window seat overlooking the garden. The table usually reserved for royalty.

Barry looked confused. "I didn't book the window."

"A cancellation," Pierre said smoothly, pulling out Aisha's chair. "Compliments of the house."

Barry puffed up his chest. "Finally, some recognition."

They sat down.

Dominic picked up the menu. It was entirely in French.

Cathie smirked. "So, Dominic. What are you having? The Escargots de Bourgogne? Or do you need pictures?"

Aisha opened her mouth to translate.

Dominic closed the menu. He looked at the waiter.

"I'll have the steak," he said loudly. "Well done. With ketchup."

Silence. Absolute, horrified silence.

Barry looked like he was having a stroke. Gretta covered her mouth.

The waiter-who also knew Dominic-hesitated for a fraction of a second, his professional smile tightening at the edges.

"An excellent choice, monsieur," the waiter said, his voice perfectly neutral.

Under the table, Dominic's hand found Aisha's. He squeezed it.

She looked at him. His eyes were dancing with mischief.

And suddenly, she realized. He wasn't stupid. He was playing them.

He was the conductor, and this was his orchestra.

Barry leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "So, Dominic. Tell me. What is your opinion on the current volatility in the Asian tech sector?"

It was a trap. A specific, complex question designed to humiliate.

Dominic took a sip of water. He set the glass down.

"Well, Barry," Dominic said, his voice dropping the goofy pitch and settling into a smooth baritone. "I'm no expert, of course. But I did have to listen to a client-a hedge fund guy-complain about it for an hour last week. He kept going on about the semiconductor shortage in Taiwan versus the regulatory crackdown on fintech in Shanghai. Said the whole thing was giving him an ulcer."

Barry's fork clattered onto his plate.

Dominic smiled. "Personally, I think he was overreacting."

The game was on.