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."

Dylan hung up. She crushed the cigarette into a crystal ashtray on a side table. The embers hissed and died.

She turned to go back to the room.

A laugh echoed down the corridor. A wet, sloppy sound.

"Well, well."

Quentin Sharpe stepped out of the shadows. He was holding a tumbler of whiskey. His tie was loose.

Dylan pulled the brim of her invisible hat down. She tried to walk past him.

"That voice," Quentin said, stepping in front of her. "Sounds like my dear cousin-in-law."

"Former," Dylan said. "Get out of my way, Sharpe."

Quentin grinned. It was a nasty expression. "So the rumors are true? Claudius finally liquidated his least profitable asset?"

Dylan didn't stop. "Move."

Quentin reached out. His hand, clammy and hot, grabbed her bare arm.

"Don't be rude, Dylan."

Dylan didn't think. Her body remembered the Krav Maga classes she took on Tuesday nights. It was a reflex, honed to deal with threats exactly like this one.

She clamped her hand over his wrist. She stepped in, using her hip as a fulcrum, and twisted.

Hard.

Quentin yelped. The whiskey splashed onto his shirt. His grip broke.

Dylan shoved him. He stumbled back against the wall.

She didn't wait. She turned and sprinted back to the VIP room, locking the door behind her.

In the hallway, Quentin rubbed his wrist. His face was purple with rage.

He pulled out his phone.

He snapped a picture of the closed door. Then he scrolled through his gallery. He found a blurry photo he had taken earlier of a woman in a backless jumpsuit entering the private suite. You could see the distinctive mole on her shoulder blade.

He dialed Claudius.

Claudius answered on the first ring. He had just been hung up on, he was not in a good mood.

"What?"

"Your ex-wife is in a private room at Elysium," Quentin said. His voice dripped with poison. "With three guys."

Claudius stopped breathing. The air in the car went stagnant.

"Are you sure?"

"I saw her," Quentin lied, embellishing the details. "I heard her, she's playing 'Taste the Dessert.' You know the one, They're getting ready for round two."

Crack.

The screen of Claudius's phone finally gave way under the pressure of his grip. A spiderweb of glass cut into his thumb.

He hung up.

Quentin looked at his phone and smirked. He thought he had just ruined Dylan's reputation.

He didn't realize he had just pulled the pin on a grenade.

Inside the room, Dylan leaned against the door, her heart was hammering against her ribs. Not from Quentin, from the call.

"What's wrong?" Zoe asked. "You look like you saw a ghost."

"I saw trash," Dylan said. "We need to accelerate this."

She grabbed a silk blindfold from the table.

"Get the game ready. I want to forget everything."

Zoe clapped her hands. She arranged the models.

Dylan tied the blindfold over her eyes. The world went black. Her other senses sharpened, the smell of the cheap cologne, The sound of Zoe's giggles.

She stood in the center of the room, waiting.