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.

The door slab flew across the room, knocking Silas into a pile of dirty laundry.

Four men in tactical gear swarmed the room. They moved with a terrifying efficiency that made the street thugs look like children.

The man with the knife didn't even have time to raise his weapon. Thwip-crack. A taser probe hit him in the chest. He convulsed and dropped like a stone.

The second thug reached for a gun in his waistband. A rifle butt smashed into his face, shattering his nose with a sickening crunch. He went down screaming.

Ines was pressed into the corner, the shard of glass held out like a dagger. Her eyes were wide, unseeing. She was in a fugue state, her brain disconnected from reality.

Dorian walked in.

He stepped over the twitching body of the first thug. He was still wearing his immaculate suit, but his tie was gone, and his collar was unbuttoned.

He scanned the room. He saw the blood on the floor. He saw the bruise blooming on Ines's cheek.

His eyes went black.

He walked straight to her. He crouched down, ignoring the filth on the floor.

"Ines," he said.

She didn't lower the glass. She slashed at the air, a feral sound escaping her throat. She didn't recognize him.

Dorian didn't flinch. He reached out and wrapped his hand around the jagged glass she was holding.

"It's me," he said.

The glass sliced into his palm. Blood-bright red-welled up between his fingers, dripping onto her knee.

Ines stared at the blood. The color shocked her back to the present. She gasped, dropping the shard.

"Dorian?" she mouthed.

He didn't answer. He took off his suit jacket and wrapped it around her, covering her torn dress. Then he scooped her up into his arms.

He stood effortlessly, holding her against his chest.

Silas was trying to crawl toward the door. "Dorian! Mr. Mcclain! I'm her uncle! I was just-"

Dorian stopped. He looked down at the pathetic man.

"Preston," Dorian said, his voice devoid of emotion. "Make him disappear."

"Understood, sir," Preston said.

Ines shuddered in his arms. She buried her face in his shirt. The smell of cedar and blood filled her nose. It was the safest smell she had ever known.

Dorian carried her down the stairs, past the gawking neighbors, and out into the night.

He didn't put her in the seat. He sat in the back, keeping her on his lap.

"Don't move," he growled when she tried to shift. "You're bleeding."

The car pulled away smoothly.

Dorian opened a first aid kit from the console. He took an alcohol wipe.

"This will sting," he warned.

He dabbed the cut on her neck. Ines hissed, shrinking away.

Dorian frowned. He leaned down and blew gently on the wound. The cool air soothed the burn.

Ines looked up at him. His face was inches from hers. He was focused, intense, treating her skin like it was precious.

"Why didn't you speak?" he asked quietly. "Why didn't you ask for help?"

Ines looked down. She couldn't explain that her voice wasn't a choice. It was a casualty of war.

Dorian sighed. He pulled her tighter against him, his wounded hand staining the back of her dress.

"Never mind," he said. "Rest."