By 6:00 PM, Aislinn felt like she was going to explode.

Her inbox was flooded with demands from Gavin. Declan was hyperventilating in his office. And every time she closed her eyes, she saw Eric's face-not the cold CEO face, but the face of the man who had held her in the dark.

She needed to hit something. Or drive.

She grabbed the keys to Harper's car from her desk. Harper had left the 1967 Ford Mustang at the studio specifically because she knew Aislinn sometimes needed a "therapy session." The car was a beast-matte black, souped-up engine, illegal tint. It was the antithesis of Aislinn Reese.

She changed in the bathroom. Off went the grey cardigan. On went a leather jacket, a baseball cap pulled low, and aviator sunglasses.

She roared out of the parking garage, the engine growling like a caged animal.

Traffic on the FDR Drive was heavy, but moving. Aislinn wove through the cars, the vibration of the steering wheel soothing the anxiety in her fingertips.

Up ahead, she saw a convoy of three black SUVs taking up two lanes, moving at a steady, arrogant pace. They were blocking traffic, forcing everyone to slow down.

Koch Security. She recognized the formation.

Flashbacks of her marriage-of being told where to sit, when to speak, how to breathe-flooded her mind. The arrogance of those black cars represented everything she hated about Eric's world.

"Move," she muttered, gripping the wheel.

She downshifted. The Mustang screamed. She saw a gap between the lead SUV and the concrete median. It was tight. Dangerous.

Perfect.

She floored it. The Mustang shot forward like a bullet.

Inside the rear SUV, Eric was reviewing a digital file of Rose's designs on his tablet. He was mesmerized by the sketches. They were bold, chaotic, yet structurally perfect.

Suddenly, a roar drowned out the quiet hum of the AC.

"What was that?" Eric asked, looking up.

"Crazy driver, sir," the security lead said from the front seat. "Coming up on the left."

Eric turned his head just in time to see a black blur shoot past his window. The car was inches from the metal guardrail. It was a maneuver that required surgical precision and a total lack of fear.

As the Mustang pulled ahead, the driver's hand shot out the window. A single finger extended in a crisp, defiant salute.

Eric blinked. Then, a slow grin spread across his face.

"Did I just get flipped off?" he asked, sounding delighted.

"I'll call it in, sir. Get the plate."

"No," Eric said, watching the taillights weave through traffic. "Let them go. That was... impressive."

He hadn't felt a spark of genuine amusement in months.

Ten minutes later, traffic stalled at a red light near the exit for the Brooklyn Bridge. The convoy pulled up next to the black Mustang.

Eric lowered his window. He wanted to see who was driving. A reckless teenager? A drunk?

The driver of the Mustang was leaning one arm on the door frame, tapping fingers against the roof to the beat of a song Eric couldn't hear.

The driver turned.

Through the tint and the sunglasses, Eric couldn't see eyes. But he saw the jawline. The curve of the neck. The way a stray lock of dark hair fell from under the cap.

For a second, the world stopped.

He knew that neck. He knew the angle of that chin. It triggered a sensory memory from the night before-the taste of skin, the pulse under his lips.

The driver seemed to freeze, staring back at him.

Aislinn.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. He was right there. Five feet away. If she took off the glasses, it was over. If she spoke, it was over.

She slowly raised her hand to the brim of her cap and pulled it down, obscuring her face completely.

The light turned green.

Aislinn didn't hesitate. She slammed on the gas, peeling out with a screech of tires that left the smell of burnt rubber in the air.

"Sir?" Gavin asked. "Did you know him?"

"Her," Eric corrected, staring at the empty road. "It was a woman."

He pulled out his phone. "Get me the registration on a black '67 Mustang. New York plate: QX-998."

"Right away."

Five minutes later, the text came through.

Owner: Harper Yates.

Eric frowned. Harper. His ex-wife's loud, obnoxious best friend. The socialite who spent more time in nightclubs than at home.

"Of course," he muttered, disappointed. "Birds of a feather."

He assumed Harper was driving, or perhaps she had lent the car to one of her many boyfriends. He thought briefly of Aislinn, the grey mouse from the office, but the thought was laughable. That timid creature couldn't handle a stick shift, let alone drive with that kind of aggression. The idea that Aislinn Reese could be behind the wheel of a muscle car was as absurd as a nun robbing a bank.

But the image of that chin, that neck... it stayed with him. It was bothering him. It was a puzzle piece that didn't fit.

Back at her apartment, Aislinn parked the car and rested her forehead against the steering wheel. Her hands were shaking.

Too close.

She needed that necklace back. As long as Janine had it, she was tethered to that night. And as long as she was working for Eric, she was walking a tightrope over a pit of fire.

She pulled out her laptop and opened a backdoor program she had installed on Eric's home network years ago-back when she was trying to find out what his favorite meal was so she could cook it.

She scanned his calendar.

Tomorrow: 7:00 PM. Charity Auction. Koch HQ Atrium.

Janine would be there. She would be wearing the necklace to show it off.

Aislinn smiled, a sharp, dangerous curve of her lips.

"Time to go to work."

The Koch Headquarters Atrium was a glass cathedral dedicated to capitalism. Tonight, it was transformed into a gala space, filled with white roses, champagne towers, and people who spent more on shoes than most people earned in a year.

Aislinn entered through the service elevators in the back. She wasn't dressed for the party. She was wearing a blue jumpsuit slightly too large for her, a face mask, and a cap with the logo of the building's cleaning service.

She pushed a cart filled with cleaning supplies. Her heart was beating a steady rhythm of adrenaline.

Earlier that day, she had dealt with Deann Padilla, the newly appointed Head of Design for the acquired studio. Deann was a shark with lipstick-ruthless, untalented, and cruel. She had ordered Aislinn to fetch coffee for the entire team, explicitly forbidding her from attending the gala setup.

Aislinn had fetched the coffee. She had also added a generous dose of a natural laxative herb she grew on her balcony to Deann's soy latte. Deann was currently indisposed in the third-floor restroom and would be for the foreseeable future.

Aislinn pushed her cart into the hallway behind the main stage. She could hear the murmur of the crowd and the drone of the auctioneer.

"...and sold! To Mr. Eric Koch for two million dollars."

Applause rippled.

Aislinn peeked through the velvet curtains. Eric stood near the front, looking bored. Clinging to his arm was Janine. The emerald necklace was around her neck, blazing green under the spotlights.

Janine whispered something in Eric's ear. He pulled away slightly, checking his watch.

"I need to powder my nose," Janine announced loudly, ensuring the photographers heard her.

She detached herself from Eric and headed toward the private VIP restrooms in the back corridor.

Aislinn moved.

She parked her cart in front of the men's room to block it and slipped into the women's restroom just as the door was closing behind Janine.

Janine was at the mirror, applying another layer of lip gloss. She saw Aislinn's reflection-a cleaner in a mask-and dismissed her instantly.

"Don't clean in here while I'm using it," Janine snapped. "Wait outside."

Aislinn locked the main door. Click.

Then she hung a "Out of Order" sign on the handle.

She turned to Janine. "We need to talk."

Janine spun around. "Excuse me? Do you know who I am?"

Aislinn pulled out her phone. She hit play on a file she had spent the afternoon synthesizing using AI voice modulation software.

Janine's voice filled the tiled room: "God, Eric is such a bore. And his fans are disgusting little pigs. I just need the press for the movie, then I'm dumping him."

Janine's face went white. "That's... that's fake! I never said that!"

"It sounds real enough for TMZ," Aislinn said, disguising her voice to be deeper, rougher. "Take off the necklace."

"What? No! This is robbery!"

"It's a trade. The necklace for the recording."

Janine clutched the emerald. "Eric gave this to me!"

"We both know that's a lie," Aislinn stepped closer. "He doesn't even like you. Give it to me."

Janine lunged. She wasn't a fighter, but she had long nails. She swiped at Aislinn's face, trying to rip off the mask.

Aislinn caught her wrist in mid-air. With a swift, fluid motion she had learned from Master Hancock, she twisted Janine's arm behind her back and pinned her against the marble vanity. It wasn't brute force; it was leverage.

" Ow! My arm! You're breaking my arm!"

"The necklace," Aislinn ordered.

Janine, sobbing with pain and fear, reached up with her free hand and unclasped the locket. It slid onto the counter.

Aislinn released her and grabbed the jewelry. She shoved it deep into her pocket.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Fists pounded on the door.

"Janine? Are you in there?" It was Eric. His voice was low and dangerous. "Open this door."

Aislinn froze. There was no back exit.

"Help! Eric! Help me!" Janine screamed. "She's got a knife! She's crazy!"

Aislinn looked around frantically. The only way out was the window. They were on the 20th floor.

She ran to the window and unlatched it. The wind howled outside. Below, the city lights looked like distant stars.

But ten feet to the right, swinging slightly in the wind, was a window washer's rig. It had been left there for the night shift.

"Janine, move away from the door!" Eric shouted. A heavy thud followed-he was kicking it in.

Aislinn climbed onto the sill. She didn't look down. She looked at the rig.

Jump.

She launched herself into the void.

For a second, she was flying. Then her hands caught the metal railing of the rig. The impact wrenched her shoulders, but she held on. She swung wildly, her feet scrambling for purchase on the metal grate.

Inside the bathroom, the door splintered open. Eric burst in, security guards behind him.

He saw Janine huddled on the floor. He saw the open window.

He ran to the ledge and looked out.

He saw a figure in a blue jumpsuit rappelling down the side of the building using the rig's emergency cables, moving with the speed and agility of a special forces operative.

The figure paused, looked up for a split second-masked, unidentifiable-and then vanished onto a lower terrace.

Eric gripped the windowsill, his knuckles white.

"Who the hell is that?" he whispered.

The movement. The fearlessness. It reminded him of the Mustang driver. It reminded him of the woman in the penthouse.

"She stole my necklace!" Janine wailed. "The one you gave me!"

Eric turned to look at her. His eyes were cold. "I didn't give you a necklace, Janine. And whoever that was... she just earned my respect."

Aislinn reached the terrace, stripped off the jumpsuit to reveal a black cocktail dress underneath, and merged into the crowd leaving a nearby theater.

Her hand closed around the locket in her pocket. It was warm.

She was safe. But she knew Eric had seen her. The net was tightening.

The next morning, the atmosphere at S.W. Studios was toxic. Eric Koch had set up a temporary command center in the glass-walled conference room. He was ostensibly there to oversee the transition, but everyone knew he was hunting. He was looking for security leaks. He was looking for the thief.

Aislinn sat at her tiny desk in the corner, wearing her grey cardigan and thick glasses. She was invisible again.

"Coffee, Reese!" Deann barked, slamming a file on Aislinn's desk. Deann was back, looking pale but vengeful. "And if you put anything in it this time, I'll fire you."

Aislinn didn't flinch. "Yes, Ms. Padilla."

"And take these to the shredder. They're garbage."

Aislinn looked at the pile. It was Deann's sketches for "Project Phoenix," the new initiative Eric had launched to revitalize the brand.

Aislinn took the pile to the shredder room. But she didn't shred them. She looked at the top sketch. It was a gown that was supposed to look like a rising phoenix, but Deann had drawn it with heavy, clunky lines that made it look like a dying chicken.

It was an insult to the fabric.

Aislinn looked around. The room was empty.

She pulled a red marker from her pocket. She couldn't help herself. It was a compulsion. She couldn't let bad design exist in the world.

Slash. Slash. Curve.

In three seconds, she altered the waistline, changed the neckline to an asymmetrical plunge, and added notes on structural boning. The dying chicken became a soaring bird.

She heard footsteps.

She dropped the marker and the paper on a side table and scurried out, grabbing a stack of blank paper to look busy.

Eric walked past her. He didn't see her. He walked into the shredder room, looking for a quiet place to take a call.

He saw the sketch on the table. The red ink was still wet.

He picked it up. His eyes widened.

This was it. This was the genius he had bought. The lines were aggressive, confident. They had movement. More importantly, they were nothing like Deann's heavy-handed style. The base drawing was Deann's-he recognized the clumsy signature at the bottom-but the red corrections were the work of a master.

"Rose," he murmured. "She's in the building."

He walked out, holding the sketch like a holy relic. He marched straight to Deann's office.

"Did you draw this?" he demanded, slamming the paper onto her desk.

Deann looked at the sketch. She recognized her own base drawing, but the red lines... they were brilliant. She didn't know who did it, but she saw an opportunity.

"Yes," Deann lied smoothly. "I was just... revising it. I didn't think it was ready to show you yet."

Eric stared at her. He looked at the drawing, then at Deann. He knew she was lying. Deann couldn't draw a circle without assistance. But if Rose was hiding, she was using Deann as a shield. The only way to flush her out was to pressure the shield.

"It's excellent," Eric said, his voice devoid of warmth but full of professional approval. "This is the centerpiece of the collection. I want a prototype. Fabric and form. Friday."

"Friday?" Deann choked. "That's in three days."

"Is that a problem?" Eric raised an eyebrow. "Rose could do it in two."

"No! No problem," Deann squeaked.

Eric left. Deann slumped in her chair, panic setting in. She couldn't sew. She couldn't drape. She couldn't even understand the structural notes the red marker had made.

Her eyes landed on Aislinn, who was quietly filing papers nearby.

"Reese!" Deann hissed.

Aislinn walked over. "Yes?"

"You went to design school, didn't you? Before you became a nobody?"

"I... took some classes," Aislinn lied. She had a Masters from Parsons and had apprenticed in Milan.

"Good. You're going to help me. I need this dress made. I'll supervise, you do the manual labor. It's a great learning opportunity for you."

Aislinn looked at the sketch she had corrected. She looked at Deann's desperate, greedy face.

"Okay," Aislinn said meekly.

Inside, she was smiling. Trap set.

Later that afternoon, Eric walked by Aislinn's desk. He stopped.

"What is your name again?" he asked.

Aislinn froze. "Aislinn. Aislinn Reese."

"Reese," Eric rolled the name around his mouth. "My ex-wife was a Reese."

Aislinn's heart hammered. "Oh?"

"Yeah," Eric said, looking at her grey sweater with disdain. "She was quiet, too. Unremarkable. I suppose it's a common name for common people."

He walked away.

Aislinn watched him go. The insult stung, but it was also a shield. As long as he thought she was common, she was safe.

"Just you wait, Eric," she whispered. "You're going to eat those words."