Alistair Snyder was pruning an orchid.

The greenhouse at the Long Island estate was humid, smelling of damp earth and money. Alistair held the shears with a steady hand. He was eighty-two, but his grip was still iron.

The phone on the wicker table rang. It was the private line. The one that bypassed the secretaries and the assistants.

Alistair picked it up.

"Speak."

"She is gone, sir," Sterling's voice came through the speaker. "She signed the amendment."

Alistair's hand jerked. The shears snapped shut, decapitating a rare purple Vanda orchid. The bloom fell to the terracotta tiles.

"Signed it?" Alistair roared.

The blood pressure monitor on his wrist began to beep. A frantic, high-pitched warning.

"That idiot boy," Alistair wheezed. "He's destabilizing the Fourth Generation Clause right before the vote!"

Pain, sharp and blinding, exploded in the center of his chest. It felt like a sledgehammer breaking through his ribs. Alistair dropped the phone. He clutched his chest, his fingers digging into his linen shirt.

The shears clattered to the floor.

"Help," he gasped.

Shadows moved in the corners of the greenhouse. The medical team, always on standby, rushed forward.

Alistair grabbed the arm of his personal lawyer, who had been standing by the door.

"Get her back," Alistair choked out, his vision tunneling. "She holds the private key to the offshore medical trust... without it... I can't authorize the procedure... Freeze Claudius's voting rights if he fails."

The darkness took him.

Twenty miles away, the bass dropped.

The entrance to Club Elysium in the Meatpacking District was a chaotic sea of bodies. The air smelled of exhaust fumes and expensive perfume.

Dylan stepped out of the Uber. She was wearing a black jumpsuit. It was backless, plunging dangerously low. She threw a leather moto jacket over her shoulders. She looked like a weapon.

Zoe York pushed through the line of people waiting behind the velvet rope. She grabbed Dylan in a hug that squeezed the air out of her lungs.

"Smell that?" Zoe shouted over the noise. "That's the smell of a rising stock price!"

The bouncer, a mountain of a man named Tiny, saw Dylan. He unhooked the velvet rope immediately.

"Ms. Watkins," he said, nodding. "Welcome back."

Dylan smiled. It wasn't the polite Snyder smile. It was a wolfish grin.

"Tonight, Tiny, the name is Cash."

They walked in. The noise hit Dylan like a physical wave. The heavy thrum of the bass vibrated in her sternum, replacing the hollow ache of anxiety that had lived there for years.

They bypassed the main floor and went straight to the VIP section. The air here was cooler, scented with oud wood.

Three men in bespoke suits turned as she walked by. Wall Street types. Sharks. Dylan knew the look. They were assessing her value.

One of them stepped forward.

"Can I buy you a-"

"No," Dylan said. She didn't even slow down.

Zoe laughed. "Still a magnet for the suits."

"I'm done with suits," Dylan shouted. "I want to see something else."

They reached their booth. A waiter appeared with a tower of Ace of Spades champagne. Sparklers erupted from the bottles, casting harsh, flickering light on Dylan's face. She looked wild.

In the back of a Maybach speeding down the LIE, Claudius's phone rang.

He answered it.

"Sir," Sterling said. His voice was trembling. "Your grandfather is in the ICU."

Claudius froze. The ink on his thumb was still wet.

"What happened?"

"He had an attack when he heard Mrs. Snyder had signed the papers and left."

Claudius pinched the bridge of his nose. A headache was forming behind his eyes.

"It was a necessary business decision, Sterling."

"He says... he says he needs her for the authorization, sir. He's refusing the surgery without her."

Claudius cursed. It was a rare, violent sound.

"Turn around," he ordered the driver. "To the hospital."

He pulled up the tracking app on his phone. The one linked to her official devices. He needed to find Dylan. He needed to drag her to the hospital to play the loving wife one last time.

The map loaded.

No signal.

Location sharing disabled.

Claudius stared at the screen. A cold knot of panic formed in his gut. It wasn't just about the grandfather. For the first time in three years, he didn't know where she was.

He had lost the asset.

In the club, Dylan raised a glass of champagne. The bubbles fizzed against her nose.

"To the stiff bastard," she yelled. "May he merge with his Excel spreadsheets."

Dylan downed half the glass of champagne in one swallow. The carbonation burned her throat, It was a good burn, It felt like life.

Zoe slid an iPad across the sticky table.

"Tonight's special menu," Zoe said, winking.

Dylan looked at the screen. It wasn't a list of vintage wines. It was a roster of male models and performers available for private entertainment.

She swiped through the photos. Blonde. Blue eyes. All-American jawlines.

"Too vanilla," Dylan muttered.

Zoe laughed, pouring more champagne. "So what's your risk appetite tonight? Wild? Artistic?"

Dylan stared at a photo of a man with too many muscles. Her eyes glazed over.

"I want... a distraction," she said. "Claudius was... a dictator. In all things."

Her smile faltered when she said his name.

Zoe saw it. She leaned in.

"You're still thinking about him? That fifty million is enough to buy your own island."

"It's not the money," Dylan said. She pushed the iPad away. "It's the feeling of being a liquidated asset."

She needed a bigger distraction. She pointed at a thumbnail on the screen. A group act called "Apollo."

"That one."

The waiter nodded and disappeared into the shadows.

A commotion erupted at the next booth. Loud, obnoxious laughter.

Dylan stiffened. She knew that laugh.

"Don't turn around," she hissed to Zoe. "It's Sharpe."

Quentin Sharpe. Claudius's cousin. The black sheep. The man who had tried to grope her at her own wedding reception.

Quentin was standing on the banquette, pouring vodka into the mouth of a giggling model. He scanned the room with predatory eyes. The lighting was dim, strobing purple and blue. He looked right at Dylan's back, but he didn't seem to recognize her.

"How did he get in here?" Zoe asked.

"Money opens doors," Dylan said. "Even for pigs."

The music shifted. The tempo dropped to a slow, grinding R&B beat. The lights focused on the small stage in the VIP area.

The "Apollo" group walked out. Shirtless. Oiled.

Dylan rested her chin on her hand. She watched them with the detached eye of a horse trader.

She looked at the lead dancer's abs. They were defined, but asymmetrical.

Claudius had perfect symmetry. Even his muscles were disciplined.

"Damn it," Dylan whispered.

She shook her head, trying to dislodge the image of her husband stepping out of the shower.

She waved the manager over. He was a slick man in a velvet blazer.

"I want to play a game," Dylan said. "Blind Man's Bluff."

The manager hesitated. "That is... an interactive package. It requires a private room."

Dylan reached into her purse. She pulled out a slim wallet containing several untraceable debit cards and a significant amount of cash. Her escape fund.

"Clear a room," she said, sliding a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills across the table. "And put it on a new tab. Under 'Cash'."

The manager saw the money. His hesitation evaporated.

"Right this way, Ms. Cash."

Dylan stood up. She unzipped her leather jacket, letting it slide down her arms. Her bare back gleamed in the strobe lights.

She walked toward the private rooms. She was going to burn the memory of Claudius Snyder out of her brain, one dollar at a time.

The private room was soundproofed. The roar of the club was muffled to a dull throb, like a heartbeat under floorboards.

The lighting was low, a hazy pink.

Three male models walked in. They smelled of coconut oil and desperation.

Zoe cheered. She pulled a stack of bills from her purse.

Model A walked up to Dylan. He locked eyes with her.

Dylan felt her stomach turn. It wasn't excitement. It was nausea.

Model B flexed his biceps.

Too stiff, Dylan thought. No power, just show.

Model C picked up a strawberry from the fruit platter. He moved to feed it to her.

Dylan turned her head sharply.

"Put it down," she said. Her voice was ice. "I have hands."

The model froze. He looked confused. He was used to women who wanted to be fed.

Zoe nudged her. "What is wrong with you? These are prime cuts."

"They are performing sexy," Dylan said, picking up her glass. "They aren't sexy."

She realized, with a sinking horror, that she had been ruined. Claudius was a monster, but he was a monster with presence. When he walked into a room, the air pressure changed. These men were just... furniture.

"Stop dancing," Dylan ordered. "Just... drink."

The models looked relieved. They sat down. They started talking.

It was worse.

They talked about protein shakes. They talked about their Instagram followers. They talked about leg day.

Dylan felt a void opening up inside her. It was a boredom so profound it felt like physical pain.

"I need air," she said.

She stood up and walked out of the room.

"Don't fall in love!" Zoe called out.

The hallway was empty. The air conditioning was blasting. Dylan leaned against the wall. She dug into her purse and pulled out a pack of Virginia Slims.

Claudius hated smoking. He said it was a "liability to longevity."

She lit one. The smoke filled her lungs, acrid and sharp.

Her phone vibrated.

It was a text from an unknown number.

A second later, the phone rang.

Jensen.

Dylan stared at the name. He must have used a network tracer to find her burner's location. She declined the call.

It rang again immediately.

Claudius Snyder.

The name pulsed on the screen.

Dylan held the cigarette between her fingers. Her hand shook, just once. She stared at the red button.

She took a drag. She pressed accept.

She didn't speak. She just breathed into the receiver.

"Where are you?" Claudius's voice was low. Dangerous.

Dylan blew a smoke ring into the air.

"Off-market," she rasped. "Looking for a new investment."