The wind on the Palisades was merciless. It cut through Ines's oversized hoodie, chilling her to the bone.

Dorian leaned against the hood of the Escalade. He lit a cigarette, the flame flaring bright against the overcast sky. He took a drag, his eyes narrowed against the smoke.

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a thick, cream-colored envelope. He tossed it at her.

Ines caught it against her chest. It was heavy.

She opened the flap. Inside was a stack of legal documents and a single silver key.

She pulled out the papers. The header was bold and black: NON-DISCLOSURE AGREEMENT & DEED OF GIFT.

She scanned the legalese. It was a standard hush-money contract, but the terms were astronomical. A deed to a condo on the Upper West Side. A cashier's check with the amount left blank.

And the condition: The Beneficiary agrees to cease all contact with the Grantor and vacate the borough of Manhattan within 48 hours.

Ines looked up at him.

"It's a severance package," Dorian said, smoke curling from his lips. "Last night was a mistake. I don't do repeats. And I don't do complications."

Ines felt a sharp pain in her chest, distinct from the fear. It was shame. Pure, distilled shame. She hadn't expected love. She hadn't even expected kindness. But being treated like a liability to be paid off stung more than she wanted to admit.

He thought she was just another gold digger. Just another problem to be solved with a checkbook.

Ines looked at the check. It could solve everything. It could pay for her grandfather's care for years. It could get her away from Silas.

But looking at Dorian's arrogant face, at the way he dismissed her humanity with a puff of smoke, something inside her snapped.

She gripped the papers with both hands.

Rip.

The sound was satisfyingly loud in the quiet air.

Dorian's eyes widened slightly. He stopped smoking.

Ines tore the contract again. And again. Until the deed and the check were confetti. She threw the pieces into the air. The wind caught them, carrying them over the cliff edge, down toward the river.

She dropped the silver key on the gravel. Clink.

She turned her back on him and started walking toward the exit of the overlook.

"You're refusing me?" Dorian's voice was dangerous now. Low and incredulous.

He pushed off the car and intercepted her, blocking her path. He loomed over her, a wall of expensive wool and fury.

"Do you have any idea what you just threw away?" he hissed. "You think your pride is worth that much?"

Ines pulled out her phone. Her fingers were numb from the cold, but she typed fast.

I don't sell my body. And I don't sell my memories.

She shoved the screen in his face.

Dorian read it. For a moment, he looked stunned. Then his expression hardened into ice.

"Fine," he said. "If you want to be noble."

He turned and walked back to the car. He got in and slammed the door.

Ines stood there, waiting for him to come back. To argue. To yell.

The engine roared to life.

The window rolled down. Dorian didn't look at her. He looked straight ahead.

"Walk home," he said.

The Escalade spun its tires, spraying gravel, and sped out of the lot.

Ines watched the taillights disappear around the bend.

She was alone. Miles from the city.

A drop of rain hit her cheek. Then another. The sky opened up, a freezing drizzle that soaked her instantly.

Ines looked down at her shoes. Cheap canvas sneakers. They wouldn't last a mile.

She started walking.

It took Ines four hours to get back to Manhattan. She had hitchhiked part of the way with a trucker who looked at her with pity, dropping her off near the George Washington Bridge.

She was soaked, shivering, and her feet were blistered and bleeding inside her wet shoes.

She went straight to the hotel where she worked as a maid-her real job, the one that kept the lights on. She slipped in through the employee entrance, hoping to change into her uniform and disappear into the linen closet for a nap.

Her manager, Henderson, was waiting by the time clock.

He took one look at her dripping hair and shook his head. He held out a white envelope.

"You're done, Mccall," he said. He didn't look her in the eye.

Ines froze. She signed rapidly. Why? I'm on time.

Henderson sighed. "We got a call. From the board. Someone high up said you're a security risk." He lowered his voice. "You pissed off the wrong people, Ines. Take your pay and go."

Dorian.

It had to be. He wasn't satisfied with stranding her; he had to destroy her livelihood too.

Ines took the envelope. It felt light. Two hundred dollars, maybe.

She walked out into the alley, leaning against the brick wall. Her phone buzzed.

Reminder: Nursing Home Payment Due: $5,800. Deadline: 11:59 PM.

She slid down the wall until she hit the wet pavement. She had nothing. No job. No money. No pride.

She dragged herself to the subway. The ride to Queens was a blur of exhaustion.

When she reached her apartment building, the sun was setting, casting long, bruised shadows across the projects.

She entered the stairwell. The smell hit her instantly.

It wasn't the usual smell of urine and cabbage. It was cheap, spicy cologne. The kind that burned your nose.

Ines stopped on the second landing. She turned to leave.

The door above her flew open. Two men-massive, shaped like refrigerators-blocked the stairs.

Behind them, Silas peered out. He looked terrified. And eager.

"Ines!" he squeaked. "You got the money, right?"

Ines shook her head. She clutched the envelope from the hotel.

One of the men, the one with a neck tattoo, marched down the stairs. He grabbed Ines by her wet hair and dragged her up.

She didn't scream. She couldn't.

They threw her into her apartment. It was even worse than before. The furniture was smashed.

The second man snatched the envelope from her hand. He counted the cash. "This is a joke," he growled. "This doesn't even cover the vig."

The first man pulled out a knife. It was a switchblade, the click loud in the room. He waved it near Ines's face.

"Silas said you have a rich boyfriend," the man said.

"She does!" Silas yelled from the corner. "She was with Mcclain! Dorian Mcclain! Make her call him!"

Ines stared at her uncle in horror. He had sold her out. Completely.

The man with the knife pulled Ines's phone from her pocket. He grabbed her face, squeezing her jaw until it bruised, and forced the phone to unlock with her face ID.

He scrolled through the call log.

"Dorian," he read. "Jackpot."

He shoved the phone into Ines's hand. He pressed the blade against her throat, just enough to prick the skin. A warm drop of blood trickled down her neck.

"Call him," the man hissed. "Ask for fifty grand."

Ines's hands shook so hard she almost dropped the phone. She would rather die than call him. Not after he left her on the cliff. Not after he fired her.

The man pressed the knife harder. "Do it, or I carve a smile into your pretty face."

Ines hit dial.

The ringback tone purred. Once. Twice.

Click.

"Changed your mind?" Dorian's voice was lazy, arrogant.

Ines opened her mouth. Tears streamed down her face. No sound came out.

"Well?" Dorian said. "I don't have all day. Did the walk clarify your priorities?"

Ines gasped for air, her chest heaving. The panic attack was setting in, hyperventilation making her vision spotty. Hhh-uh. Hhh-uh.

The man with the knife grew impatient. He leaned into the phone, shouting.

"Listen here, Mcclain. We got your girl. She's bleeding."

Silence on the line. Absolute, dead silence.

The thug grinned. "Fifty thousand. Cash app. Within thirty minutes. Or she gets a lot uglier."

Dorian's voice changed. The arrogance vanished, replaced by a tone so cold it could freeze helium.

"Put her on."

The thug pressed the phone against Ines's ear. "Talk, bitch. Beg him."

"Ines," Dorian said. His voice was sharp, a command. "Tap the phone twice if you're alone. Once if you're not. Give me a signal."

He was testing her. Not for her voice, but for her mind. He was giving her an out, a way to communicate past her captors.

Ines squeezed her eyes shut. She tried. God, she tried. She willed her numb fingers to move, to give him the single tap he needed.

But the thug's grip was like a vise on her wrist. She couldn't move. She could only produce a wet, choking sound of pure terror.

The memory of the night her family fell, the screaming, the gunshots-it all crashed over her. Her voice was locked in a vault, and her body was a prison.

"I'm waiting," Dorian said. His voice was strained, the nonchalance gone.

Ines sobbed, a silent convulsion of her shoulders.

"Fine," Dorian said. "You made your choice."

Click.

The line went dead.

The thug pulled the phone away, staring at the screen in disbelief. "He hung up? The motherfucker hung up?"

He looked at his partner. "She ain't worth shit."

Rage twisted his face. He backhanded Ines.

The blow sent her sprawling across the floor. Her head cracked against the floorboards. Her ears rang. She tasted copper.

"Don't kill her!" Silas shrieked. "She's still useful!"

The thug began to unbuckle his belt. "If we can't get money, we take payment in trade."

Ines scrambled backward, her heels skidding on the trash-strewn floor. Her hand brushed against a shard of a broken vase. She gripped it, the glass cutting into her palm.

She backed into the corner, raising the glass. She would kill him. She would try.

The thug laughed, stepping closer.

SCREEECH.

Outside, tires squealed. Not one car. A convoy.

Heavy boots thundered on the stairs. Fast. Disciplined.

The thug paused, his belt halfway undone. "The cops?"

Ines's heart stopped.

One minute earlier.

In the back of the Escalade, Dorian stared at his phone, his knuckles white.

"He didn't hang up to abandon her," he thought, his own heart hammering. "He hung up to cut the line, to make them think they won. To make them get sloppy."

"Do we have it?" he barked into the car's intercom.

Preston, in the front seat, tapped a tablet. "Triangulation complete. Queensbridge Houses. Alpha Team is thirty seconds out. He hung up the second we got a lock."

"Breach," Dorian ordered. "I want them alive. Barely."

He hadn't hung up because he didn't care. He hung up to start the clock.

But his hand was shaking. Just a little.

CRASH.

The apartment door didn't just open. It exploded inward, kicked off its hinges.