Harper didn't walk home; she ran.

The image of Finn Burke in that car chased her down the cracked sidewalks of Queens. Every black SUV that passed made her stomach lurch. Her breath hitched in her throat, a sharp, physical pain that had nothing to do with exertion.

She burst through the front door of their apartment building. The lobby smelled of boiled cabbage and mildew. She took the stairs two at a time, her boots heavy on the linoleum.

"Nana?" she called out as she unlocked the door to 4B.

Silence.

Usually, the TV would be blaring some game show. Usually, she'd hear the rattle of her oxygen tank or the hum of the kettle.

"Nana Rose?"

Harper dropped her backpack in the hallway and rushed into the small living room.

Nana Rose was on the floor.

Harper's heart stopped. Literally stopped. For a second, the blood in her veins turned to ice.

"Nana!"

She dropped to her knees beside Nana Rose. Her face was a terrifying shade of gray-blue. Her lips were parted, gasping for air that wouldn't come. A bottle of pills lay overturned on the carpet, empty.

Harper's medical instincts kicked in before her panic could paralyze her.

Airway. Clear. Breathing. Shallow, she could hear the faint, wet crackle of fluid in her lungs. Circulation. Pulse at her neck was thready and irregular.

"Stay with me, Rose. Stay with me." Harper's voice shook, but her hands were steady as she positioned Nana Rose's head.

She fumbled for her phone and dialed 911.

"41-12 12th Street. Apartment 4B. Suspected cardiac arrest. She's seventy-two. History of angina." Harper barked the information at the operator, her hand gripping Nana Rose's cold fingers.

The next hour was a blur of red and blue lights, the static of radios, and the terrifying sight of paramedics loading the only person who loved Harper onto a stretcher.

Elmhurst Hospital Emergency Room.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, a sound that drilled into Harper's temples. The waiting room was a sea of misery-crying babies, coughing men, people holding bloody gauzes to their heads.

Harper sat in a plastic chair that dug into her spine, staring at the scuffed floor tiles.

"Family of Rose Solis?"

Harper shot up. A doctor in blue scrubs stood there, looking exhausted. He held a clipboard like a shield.

"I'm her granddaughter. Is she okay?"

"She's stable, for now," the doctor said, not meeting Harper's eyes. "But her coronary arteries are ninety percent blocked. She needs a triple bypass. Immediately."

Relief washed over Harper, followed instantly by a wave of nausea. "Okay. Do it. Please."

The doctor finally looked at Harper. His eyes were sympathetic but hard. "Ms. Solis, we checked her insurance. It lapsed three months ago. And Medicaid won't cover this specific procedure at this facility without a pre-authorization that takes weeks. She doesn't have weeks. She has hours."

"How much?" Harper asked. Her voice sounded hollow.

"The deposit for the surgery team and the OR is forty thousand. The total will be closer to a hundred."

The floor seemed to drop out from under Harper.

"I... I can pay in installments. I have a job."

"I'm sorry," he said gently. "Hospital policy. We need the deposit tonight to book the OR."

He walked away.

Harper stood there, feeling the blood drain from her face. Forty thousand dollars. She had three hundred and twelve dollars in her bank account.

She walked out of the ER, needing air. The night was humid, sticky. She leaned against the brick wall of the ambulance bay, trying to keep from vomiting.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket.

She pulled it out. Unknown number. Local area code.

"Hello?"

"Harper Solis."

The voice was distorted, metallic. A voice changer.

"Who is this?"

"The person who can save your grandmother."

Harper's grip on the phone tightened until the plastic creaked. "What do you want?"

"Check your messages."

The line went dead.

A second later, a photo popped up on her screen. It was a picture of Nana Rose, taken from inside the ER curtain just now. She looked so small, hooked up to the monitors.

Harper's stomach twisted into a knot. Someone was watching them.

A text followed: Vesper Club. Rear entrance. 9:00 PM. Ask for the Manager. The job pays $50,000. One night.

Harper looked at the time. 8:15 PM.

She didn't have a choice. She didn't have time to think about the danger, or the legality, or the fact that the Vesper Club was a notorious playground for the ultra-rich and morally bankrupt.

She ran back to the apartment.

Harper tore through her closet, bypassing the grease-stained jeans. She dug out a box from the very back, under a pile of old textbooks.

Inside was a black bodysuit. It was sleek, reinforced with Lycra, covered in subtle sequins that caught the light like embers. It was a relic from a brief stint she did with an underground circus troop in Brooklyn-one of the many odd jobs she worked to keep the lights on.

She pulled it on. It fit like a second skin.

Harper sat in front of the cracked mirror in the bathroom. She applied heavy, dark makeup, contouring her face, smoking out her eyes until the girl in the reflection looked nothing like Harper the mechanic. She looked dangerous. She looked like a creature of the night.

She reached into the hidden pocket of the bodysuit's sleeve and slid in a small, leather roll. It contained a few essential tools of her other trade. She never went anywhere without them.

She pulled a hood over her head and stepped out into the night.

She wasn't Harper anymore. Tonight, she was Phoenix. And she would burn the world down if that's what it took to save Rose.

The Vesper Club smelled of money.

Not just cash, but old money. It smelled of mahogany, Cuban cigars, and secrets.

Harper stood in the manager's office. The man behind the desk was round, sweating, and looked like a toad in a silk suit.

"Phoenix, right?" He looked Harper up and down, his eyes lingering on the tight fabric of her suit. "You're the replacement. Our usual aerialist broke her ankle."

"What's the job?" Harper asked. Her voice was low, disguised.

He slid a piece of paper across the desk. "High wire. No net. Ten minutes. You fall, you die, we mop you up. You finish, you get the cash."

Harper looked at the waiver. It was basically a suicide note.

She signed it without a tremor in her hand.

"You're on in five."

The main hall of the club was cavernous. The ceiling was lost in shadow, three stories up. A single, thin steel cable stretched across the void, illuminated by a harsh spotlight.

The crowd below was a sea of faceless masks and tuxedos. They were baying for blood or entertainment; to them, it was the same thing.

Harper stepped onto the platform.

The wire looked impossibly thin.

She took a breath, centering herself. She focused on the rhythm of her own heart, a steady drum against the roaring silence. Balance.

She stepped out.

The wire bit into the soles of her specialized shoes. The air up here was hot, rising from the bodies below.

She began to walk.

One step. Two steps.

The crowd went silent.

Harper moved with a fluid grace that defied gravity. She wasn't just walking; she was dancing. She lifted her leg in a high extension, her spine arching. Her body was a machine, every muscle fiber firing in perfect synchronization.

High above the floor, in a private box fronted by one-way glass, a man sat in a wheelchair.

Finn Burke swirled the amber liquid in his glass. He wasn't watching the crowd. He was watching the girl on the wire.

He leaned forward, the leather of his chair creaking.

"Silas," he murmured.

His bodyguard stepped out of the shadows. "Sir?"

"Look at her right leg," Finn said, his voice a low rumble. "Look at the way the sartorius muscle engages when she pivots."

"I... I don't see it, sir."

"I do." Finn's eyes narrowed. "That's not a circus performer. That's someone with a deep, practical knowledge of anatomy."

On the wire, Harper prepared for the finale. A backward somersault.

She crouched, the wire trembling beneath her. She sprang.

For a second, she was weightless. The world spun-lights, darkness, the blur of faces.

Snap.

A sound like a gunshot echoed through the hall.

One of the tension bolts on the far platform sheared off. The wire went slack, dropping six inches instantly.

The crowd gasped.

Harper landed on the wire, but the sudden drop threw her center of gravity off. Her foot slipped.

She plummeted.

Her hand shot out, instinct faster than thought. She grabbed the wire. The steel cable sliced into her palm, but she held on. She swung wildly over the abyss, her legs dangling fifty feet above the marble floor.

In the VIP box, the glass in Finn's hand shattered. Whiskey and blood dripped onto the carpet. He didn't even blink. He was gripping the arms of his wheelchair so hard the wood groaned.

Harper gritted her teeth. Pain seared through her hand, warm blood making the cable slick. She used her core, swinging her legs up, hooking a knee over the wire. With a grunt of effort, she pulled herself back up to a standing position.

The crowd erupted. They thought it was part of the act.

Harper finished the walk, blood dripping from her hand, leaving small red dots on the pristine floor below.

She reached the platform and collapsed into the shadows of the curtains. Her chest was heaving. Her hand was throbbing in time with her heartbeat.

The manager was there, grinning, holding a thick envelope.

"Incredible! They loved it! The slip was a genius touch!"

Harper snatched the envelope with her good hand. "It wasn't a touch. Your equipment is garbage."

She turned to leave, pressing a cloth to her bleeding palm. She needed to get to the hospital. She needed to pay the deposit.

Two men in black suits stepped in front of the exit. They were built like vending machines.

"Not so fast, Miss Phoenix," one of them rumbled.

"I finished the job," Harper said, her muscles tensing for a fight.

"The owner wants to see you."

"I don't do private shows."

"It's not a request."

Harper was marched down a plush, velvet-lined corridor in the VIP wing. Her hand was wrapped in a rag she'd found backstage, but the blood was already soaking through.

"Move," the guard grunted, shoving her shoulder.

She stumbled, her patience fraying. She calculated the strike points on his neck. Carotid sinus. Vagus nerve. She could drop him in three seconds. But there were cameras everywhere.

Suddenly, the corridor ahead erupted into chaos.

A door to one of the private suites burst open. A group of men spilled out, shouting.

"Help! Someone call 911!"

A heavy-set man in a tuxedo lay on the carpet, clawing at his chest. His face was the color of putty, his lips tinged blue. He was making a horrible gurgling sound.

The guards stopped, unsure what to do.

Harper looked at the man. Mr. King. She recognized him from the tabloids. Hedge fund manager.

He wasn't breathing.

"He's coding!" a woman screamed.

A waiter dropped to his knees and started pushing on the man's stomach.

"No!" Harper shouted. "You're going to rupture his spleen! Stop!"

She didn't think. She couldn't help it. It was the Solis curse-they couldn't watch people die.

Harper shoved past her guards. They were too distracted to stop her. She sprinted to the fallen man and dropped to her knees, shoving the waiter aside.

"Back off!" she commanded. Her voice had a steel edge that made everyone freeze.

Harper ripped open Mr. King's shirt buttons. His chest was silent. No rise and fall. She pressed her fingers to his neck. No pulse.

"He's gone," someone whispered.

"Not yet," Harper muttered.

She didn't start CPR. There wasn't time. His heart had likely stopped or was in a useless rhythm. He needed a shock, but there was no AED.

She needed to restart his heart manually. A long shot, but the only one he had.

With her bloody hand, she reached into a hidden pocket in her sleeve and palmed a tiny, sealed vial containing a high-dose stimulant. It was a last resort, something she'd synthesized for Nana's worst angina attacks.

"What is she doing?" a guard shouted, reaching for his gun.

"Let her."

The voice came from the end of the hall. It was calm, cold, and carried absolute authority.

Harper didn't look up. She knew that voice.

Her movements were a blur. She tilted King's head back, pinched his nose, and using a small, one-way valve she also carried, blew two sharp breaths into his lungs. Then, she positioned the heel of her good hand over his sternum.

With a sharp cry, she delivered a single, powerful precordial thump-a controlled strike designed to mechanically jolt the heart. As her hand came down, her other hand, the one with the vial, discreetly pressed against a major artery in his neck, the thin needle of the auto-injector piercing the skin for a fraction of a second.

One second. Two. Three.

Mr. King's body arched off the floor. He let out a massive, ragged gasp, sucking in air like a drowning man breaking the surface.

Color flooded back into his cheeks. His eyes flew open, terrified.

The hallway went dead silent.

Harper slumped back, the adrenaline crashing. She quickly tucked the empty vial back into her sleeve, a secret kept in the chaos.

"Get him to a hospital," she said, standing up. Her legs felt shaky.

She turned to leave, hoping to disappear in the confusion.

A hand clamped around her wrist. Her bad wrist. The one she'd cut on the wire.

Harper gasped in pain and spun around.

She was staring into the ice-blue eyes of Finn Burke.

He was sitting in his wheelchair, blocking the path. He looked older than ten years ago. His jaw was sharper, covered in a shadow of stubble. His shoulders were broad under his suit jacket. But the eyes... the eyes were the same.

He looked at her bleeding hand, then at her face. He reached out and tugged down the hood of her bodysuit.

"Hello, Harper," he said softly.

The sound of her name on his tongue made Harper's skin crawl.

He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a checkbook. He scribbled something on it, tore it out, and held it up.

It was a check for five hundred thousand dollars.

"For the show," he said, his lip curling. "And for saving Mr. King. Though I daresay the world would have been better off without him."

Harper stared at the check. "Five hundred thousand?"

"Is that not your rate?" He tilted his head. "You risked your life on a wire for peanuts. You saved a billionaire with a punch to the chest. You're quite the bargain."

He was mocking her. He knew she needed the money. He knew everything.

"I need fifty thousand," Harper said, her voice trembling with rage. "For Nana Rose."

Finn's expression didn't change. "I know."

He let go of her wrist, wiping her blood off his fingers with a silk handkerchief.

"Follow me."