Bryton stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window in his private office. He rolled an unlit cigar between his fingers. The rough tobacco leaf scraped against his skin.

The office door opened. Cassian walked in. His breathing was slightly elevated.

"We found her," Cassian said.

Bryton stopped rolling the cigar. He turned around. His eyes locked onto his assistant.

"The hotel feeds were wiped," Cassian explained, pulling up a file on the tablet. "But we pulled the dashcam footage from a guest's car in the underground parking garage."

Cassian swiped the screen. An image projected onto the wall.

It was dark. The quality was terrible. A woman in an oversized coat was running toward the exit. She wore a black mask and large sunglasses.

"Look at her right hand," Cassian pointed.

Bryton narrowed his eyes. The woman's sleeve was pulled back slightly. A nasty, red scrape covered her wrist.

Bryton's mind flashed back to the hotel room. He remembered pinning the woman's wrists to the wall. He remembered her struggling. The scrape matched the physical trauma of a fall from a balcony.

"Run the facial recognition through the exposed jawline," Cassian said. "Cross-reference with the guest list."

A photo popped up next to the grainy footage.

It was Kianna Sosa. A B-list actress known for cheap reality shows.

"She was at the Elysium that night for a producer's party," Cassian read from the file. "Her manager posted a tweet at 3:00 AM complaining about Kianna falling and scraping her wrist."

Bryton stared at the photo of Kianna. She had heavy makeup, fake lips, and a vacant smile.

A heavy, uncomfortable feeling settled in Bryton's gut. His instincts screamed at him. The woman in his arms that night fought like a wildcat. She felt cold, sharp, and unyielding. This actress looked soft and desperate. He’d briefly considered the Acevedo girl at the university—the name was too coincidental to ignore—but she’d shown no signs of a struggle or a fresh injury. This woman, however, had the mark.

"Bring her to the private club," Bryton ordered. His voice was flat. He threw the unlit cigar into the trash can. "I want to see her myself."

An hour later, at a cheap movie set in Queens.

The director screamed at Kianna. She had missed her mark for the fifth time. Her manager, Morry, bowed and apologized profusely. Kianna rolled her eyes and chewed her gum.

Four men in black suits walked onto the set. The crew went dead silent.

Cassian stepped forward. He flashed a black badge. "Miss Sosa. You are coming with us."

Ten minutes later, Kianna and Morry sat in the back of a stretched Lincoln. The leather seats squeaked under them.

Cassian sat across from them. His face was carved from stone. He slid a thick non-disclosure agreement across the small table.

"Sign this," Cassian said. "Acknowledge what happened in the Elysium Hotel suite, and you will be compensated beyond your imagination."

Kianna stared at the paper. She opened her mouth to say she got drunk and fell down the stairs that night.

Under the table, Morry's heavy shoe kicked Kianna's shin hard.

Pain shot up her leg. Kianna snapped her mouth shut. She looked at Morry. His eyes were wide with frantic greed. He nodded slightly at the paper.

Kianna's heart started to pound. She did not know what happened in that suite. But she knew money.

Her hands shook. She picked up the pen and signed her name on the dotted line.

The underground cigar lounge of Bryton's private club smelled of rich leather and expensive scotch.

Kianna walked in. Her heels clicked nervously on the hardwood floor. Her eyes darted around the room, taking in the gold fixtures and velvet walls. Her mouth hung open slightly.

Bryton sat in a high-backed leather chair. He faced the fireplace. He did not turn around.

"Why did you run?" Bryton's voice was ice. It made the hairs on Kianna's arms stand up.

Kianna swallowed hard. She recited the lines Morry had drilled into her head in the car.

"I... I was scared," Kianna stammered. "I felt like I wasn't good enough for you. So I panicked and left."

Bryton stood up. He turned around.

He walked slowly toward her. His massive frame blocked out the light from the fire.

As he got closer, a strong, sweet smell hit his nose. Cheap, overpowering vanilla perfume.

Bryton's stomach churned in disgust. He remembered the scent of the woman in the dark after the shower had soaked them both. Beneath the heavy stench of his own whiskey and sweat, she had smelled faintly of freezing tap water, damp skin, and the sharp, metallic tang of her own blood.

He stopped right in front of Kianna. He reached out and grabbed her right wrist.

Kianna gasped and tried to pull back.

Bryton stared at the red scrape on her skin. "How did you get this?"

"I... I scraped it when I jumped to the balcony," Kianna lied. Her voice shook with genuine terror.

Bryton looked up. He stared directly into her eyes. He searched for the fire, the hatred, the stubborn pride he had felt in the dark.

He found nothing. Her eyes were empty. Just fear and a desperate hunger for his money.

A crushing weight of disappointment hit Bryton's chest. He dropped her arm like it burned him.

He walked to the crystal decanter on the table. He poured two fingers of whiskey. He drank it in one swallow. The burn in his throat grounded him.

The drugs. It had to be the drugs. They had warped his senses. They made him imagine a fighter when he was just holding a cheap actress. The physical evidence was right here.

He turned back to Kianna. His face was completely blank. The businessman was back.

He picked up a folder from the table and tossed it at her feet.

"A house in Beverly Hills. Three leading roles in Apocalypse Studio's next blockbusters," Bryton said coldly. "You will never speak of that night. And you will never, ever try to contact me again."

Kianna looked at the folder. Her eyes lit up with wild excitement. She nodded frantically.

"Cassian. Get her out of my sight," Bryton ordered.

The door closed. Bryton was alone.

He walked to the table. He picked up the crumpled one-hundred-dollar bill. He stared at the handwriting.

He pulled a silver lighter from his pocket. He flicked it open. The flame caught the edge of the paper.

He watched the fire eat the words. He dropped the burning bill into the heavy glass ashtray. It turned to black ash.

At the NYU library, Kaliyah sat surrounded by textbooks.

Her phone vibrated on the wooden desk.

She looked at the screen. A text message from her mother, Creola.

[My 50th birthday dinner is tomorrow night at the Long Island estate. You will attend. Do not embarrass me. ]

Kaliyah stared at the words. A cold knot formed in her stomach. It was a trap. A public execution.

But her grandmother's vintage jade bracelet was still in that house. It was the only thing she had left.

She closed her textbook. She took a deep breath. Her chest felt tight.