Imogen pushed into the corridor leading to the restrooms. She needed cold water on her face. She needed to reset her adrenaline before she did something stupid, like leaking Julian's personal tax returns to the press.

Three men were blocking the hallway. They were in expensive suits that strained at the buttons, their faces flushed with alcohol and entitlement. Wall Street types. Hedge fund bros.

"Hey," the heavy one in the middle slurred. He pointed a meaty finger at her. "You're the girl. The one who tried to outbid Reeves."

Imogen didn't slow down. "Move."

"Feisty," the man laughed. He stepped in front of her, blocking her path. "What's a pretty thing like you doing playing with the big boys? Who's backing you? Need a new sponsor?"

He reached out to grab her arm. "Come have a drink. Let's talk about your... assets."

On the balcony above, Branson had stepped out to take a call. He looked down and saw the scene unfolding. He frowned.

"Should we intervene?" Quentin asked.

Branson ended his call. "Let her sweat for a minute. Maybe she'll learn that actions have consequences in this world."

Below, the man's hand touched Imogen's sleeve.

The switch flipped.

Imogen didn't think about fighting. She thought about leverage. Her eyes went dead, void of any emotion except calculation.

She let him grab her wrist. She didn't pull away. Instead, she leaned in, her voice a confidential whisper.

"Markham, isn't it? From Sterling-Price. I heard the SEC is looking into your trades on that pharma merger. The ones you made from your wife's maiden name account."

She paused, her gaze sweeping over his face, her tone suddenly turning colder. "By the way, your sclera are yellowing, and you have clear liver palms. Get tested for hepatitis C. I'd bet your mistress shared your needles, didn't she?"

Markham's face drained of color in an instant. Not because of the SEC — he could fix that.

But this... How could she possibly know? He'd only gotten his lab results the week before.

The other two men stared, their drunken brains trying to process what was happening.

Imogen's eyes flicked to the second man. "And you're with Biltmore Capital. Funny, I just saw a wire transfer report. A hundred thousand dollars to a 'consultant' in Panama, right after you tanked the pension fund you manage. I wonder if the board knows about your 'consultant'."

He went pale, taking a step back as if she'd physically struck him.

The third man started to back away, wanting no part of this.

Up on the balcony, Branson straightened. He couldn't hear what she was saying, but he could see the effect. He saw the bravado drain from these men, replaced by sheer panic.

Imogen leaned closer to Markham, her face inches from his terrified eyes.

"Go back to your kennel," she whispered. "And tell your friends that if they ever touch me again, I won't be this gentle. Next time, the tip goes straight to the Wall Street Journal."

She pulled her arm free. He let her, his hand falling limply to his side.

Imogen straightened her jacket. She smoothed a stray hair from her face. She stepped past the stunned, silent men as if they were statues.

The whole thing had taken less than thirty seconds.

She looked up.

Branson was standing at the top of the stairs, frozen. His expression was no longer arrogant. It was stunned. That wasn't a plea for help. That was an execution. She hadn't fought them; she had dismantled them with information.

Imogen locked eyes with him. She knew he had watched the whole thing. She knew he had waited to see if she would break.

Slowly, deliberately, she raised her hand and gave him a small, dismissive wave, a gesture of pure contempt.

Then she turned and walked out the door.

Branson stood there, a reluctant, dangerous curiosity tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Clean this trash up," he said to Quentin, gesturing to the men who were now arguing in panicked whispers. "And get me that name. Now."

The guest room at the Sterling penthouse was dark, lit only by the glow of three laptop screens arranged in a semi-circle on the desk. Leo and Mia were asleep in the bed, their breathing soft and rhythmic.

Imogen sat in the ergonomic chair, her legs pulled up to her chest. She had shed the pink dress and was wearing a black hoodie, the hood pulled up. She pushed her anti-blue light glasses up her nose.

"Okay, Branson," she muttered. "You want to play hardball? Let's play."

If she couldn't buy the painting, she would force him to move it. She needed to know where he was taking it.

Her fingers flew across the mechanical keyboard. The sound was a rapid-fire staccato, like rain on a tin roof.

Connecting to a dark web forum for corporate espionage...

Posting an anonymous, encrypted bounty...

Across the city, in the server room of the Reeves tower, everything was quiet.

Branson was just walking into his home office when his phone rang. It was his Chief Security Officer.

"Sir, we have a situation. Not a breach. It's chatter. A high-value, anonymous bounty just appeared on the 'Serpent's Nest' forum. It's for the transport schedule and destination of 'Asset M.O.' That's us. The Midnight Orchid."

Branson's eyes went cold. He didn't sit down. He walked straight to his own terminal-a beast of a machine with four monitors. He cracked his knuckles. This wasn't a brute-force attack; it was a strategic leak, designed to make others do the dirty work.

He logged in. He saw the bounty post. It was elegant. Untraceable.

"Got you," he whispered.

He initiated a counter-intelligence operation. He instructed his team to leak a fake transport schedule to a known weak link in their logistics chain, a driver with a gambling problem.

Imogen saw the intel appear from one of her sources an hour later. She paused. It was too easy.

"Nice try," she said, popping a lollipop into her mouth. "But I don't eat garbage."

She ignored the fake schedule and launched a side-channel attack. Not on his servers, but on his personnel. She cross-referenced the Reeves Group's employee list with publicly available data on financial distress.

"Hello, operator," she typed into a secure message to Sasha. "Find me everyone at Reeves Logistics with a mortgage in default or a recent lien against their property."

Branson saw the fake intel get picked up. He felt a moment of satisfaction. He was setting a trap.

Suddenly, his personal phone buzzed. It was a notification from a financial news alert he subscribed to.

He opened it. A small, independent financial blog-one known for its aggressive investigative journalism-had just published an article.

The headline read: "Reeves Group's $50M Art Purchase: Visionary Move or Desperate Gamble to Hide Underwater Assets?"

The article was filled with sophisticated-sounding speculation, just enough to be plausible, questioning the company's liquidity and suggesting the purchase was a vanity project to distract from internal problems. It was designed to spook the board and the shareholders.

Branson stared at the screen. A laugh bubbled up in his chest, surprising him. It wasn't a hack. It was a targeted psychological operation. "You brat."

The author of the article was anonymous. The source was listed as "a concerned party close to the board."

Imogen leaned back in her chair, exhaling a long breath. She hadn't got the logistics, but she had sent a message. She wasn't going away.

She looked over at the twins. They shifted in their sleep, murmuring. Imogen's smile faded. The fun was over. She still didn't have the ledger.

The next morning, Branson stood in his office, looking out at the skyline. Quentin walked in, looking pale.

"The website is fine, sir. But the press... the article is being picked up by mainstream outlets. The board is calling."

"I know," Branson said. He turned around. "I want a list of every financial analyst and corporate saboteur known for this kind of move. Filter for females. And filter for..." He paused, remembering the confrontation in the hallway. "Someone with connections to the art world and a taste for blood."

"I am not going to a tea party with those vultures," Imogen said, adjusting Leo's collar.

"It's a networking brunch," Linda insisted, blocking the door. "You are representing the family."

"I'm representing myself," Imogen said. She grabbed the twins' hands and ducked under Linda's arm. "We're going for pancakes."

Thirty minutes later, Imogen and the twins were standing in the crowded foyer of Sarabeth's, the smell of maple syrup and bacon making them drool.

"I'm sorry, miss," the hostess said, looking at her clipboard. "Without a reservation, it's a two-hour wait."

Leo's face fell. His lower lip wobbled. "But... the pancakes..."

Imogen crouched down. "I know, buddy. We'll find somewhere else."

"Take my table."

The voice came from behind her. Deep. Familiar.

Imogen froze. She stood up slowly and turned around.

Branson Reeves was standing there, looking impeccable in a navy polo and slacks. Quentin was beside him, looking like he wanted to be anywhere else.

"I don't need your charity," Imogen said instantly.

Branson stepped closer. He lowered his voice so only she could hear. "Consider it reparations for the hit piece on my company. Or for the... headache you've caused my PR department."

Imogen's eyes widened slightly. He knew. Or he suspected.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she lied smoothly.

"I'm hungry!" Leo tugged on Imogen's hand. He looked up at Branson. "Do they have strawberries?"

Branson looked down. For a second, the cold mask slipped. He looked at the boy-the messy hair, the bright eyes. "Yes," Branson said. "They have the best strawberries."

He gestured to the hostess. "They're with me."

Imogen wanted to run, but the twins were already marching toward the VIP booth. She had no choice but to follow.

They slid into the booth. It was intimate. Too intimate. Imogen sat with Leo and Mia on either side of her. Branson sat opposite them.

"So," Branson said, unfolding his napkin. "What do I call you? Besides 'The Ghost Bidder'?"

"Imogen," she said shortly.

"Imogen," Branson tested the name. "And these are?"

"Leo and Mia," the twins answered for themselves. They were staring at Branson. "Are you a boss? You look like a boss," Leo said.

Branson chuckled. "Something like that."

The waiter arrived with two stacks of pancakes for the twins. They dug in with enthusiasm, getting whipped cream on their noses immediately.

Branson reached out with a napkin, an instinctive gesture to wipe Leo's face.

Imogen's hand shot out. She slapped Branson's hand away. Hard.

"I got it," she snapped. She wiped their faces herself, her movements protective, territorial.

Branson pulled his hand back, stinging. The air at the table grew heavy.

"Where is the father?" Branson asked. The question was rude, intrusive. He didn't know why he asked it.

Imogen stopped. She looked at him, her eyes dark. "Dead."

It wasn't a lie. Her father was dead. But she knew how Branson would interpret it.

Branson felt a strange pang in his chest. Relief? Why would he feel relief?

"I'm sorry," he said stiffly.

Suddenly, the TV mounted in the corner of the restaurant switched to the news. The anchor was talking about the suspicious article and the subsequent dip in the Reeves Group's stock. A picture of Branson was on the screen next to the blog's headline.

Mia pointed her fork at the TV. "That's you!"

Imogen choked on her coffee. She coughed, trying to hide her face behind her mug.

Branson leaned back, crossing his arms. He watched her carefully. He saw the flush on her neck. He saw the way her eyes darted away from the screen.

"You seem entertained, Imogen," Branson said softly.

"It's just... juvenile," Imogen managed to say.

"Effective, though," Branson murmured. "Whoever did it has talent. Wasted talent."

He locked eyes with her. "If I find them, I'm not sure if I should arrest them or hire them."

Imogen put her mug down. "Maybe you should just pay them what they're worth."