Ainsley spent the night counting the tiles on the ceiling. One hundred and forty-four. Each one a marker of time, a breath in a carefully constructed prison of her own design.

When morning broke, it brought gray light and a man in a suit who looked like he was carved out of shark cartilage.

He knocked once and entered before Ainsley could speak. He carried a leather briefcase and an air of absolute authority. Behind him trailed a young woman with red-rimmed eyes, clutching a tablet like a shield. Annie. Ainsley's one internal asset. Her fear was palpable.

"Mrs. Eaton," the man said. He didn't sit. He stood at the foot of the bed. "I'm Preston. We need to expedite this."

The girl behind him tried to step forward. "Ainsley, are you okay?"

Preston held up a hand. He didn't look at her. He just silenced her with the gesture. She shrank back into the corner.

He opened the briefcase and slapped a thick stack of documents onto the bedside table. The sound was loud in the quiet room.

SEPARATION AGREEMENT.

"Based on the events of Tuesday night," Preston said, his voice smooth and devoid of empathy, "Carson is invoking the morality clause in your prenup. You are to be removed from the estate immediately upon discharge."

"Morality clause?" Ainsley asked. Her head was still throbbing. She let her voice sound weak, confused. "I don't remember signing a prenup. I don't remember a wedding."

Preston smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. "Convenient. But the ink is dry. Infidelity. Public intoxication. Endangerment of the family reputation."

He tossed a few photos onto the sheets. Grainy images. A woman who looked like Ainsley, leaning close to a man in a dark booth. His hand was on her thigh.

Ainsley picked up the photo. It felt dirty. "Who is this?"

"Julian," Preston said. "Don't pretend you don't know his name."

He uncapped a fountain pen and held it out. "Sign. If you sign now, the family agrees not to pursue criminal charges for the DUI. We'll give you a one-way ticket to Europe and a small stipend to get lost."

Ainsley looked at the pen. It was heavy, black, expensive.

"Ainsley, don't!" the girl in the corner squeaked.

Preston whipped his head around. "One more word, Annie, and you'll never work in this city again."

Annie flinched. She looked terrified. Not just worried-terrified.

Something clicked in Ainsley's brain. A genuine spark of anger amidst the cold calculation. She looked at Annie's trembling hands. She looked at Preston's arrogant jaw.

He was bullying her. He was bullying Ainsley.

Ainsley hated bullies.

She took the pen. Preston's shoulders relaxed. He thought he had won.

Ainsley looked at the document. Legalese. Dense. Predatory.

"My head hurts," Ainsley whispered, pressing her fingers to her temple.

Preston scoffed. "A headache won't get you out of this."

"I... I can't read this," Ainsley said, pushing the papers away weakly. "The words are swimming."

"You have no leverage, Ainsley. You have no money. You have nothing."

"I feel sick," Ainsley said, her voice catching. "I think I need the doctor. Everything is blurry. I don't know what this is. I don't know who you are." She let a tear roll down her cheek, a perfect, crystalline drop of manipulation.

Preston went still. He stared at Ainsley, really looked at her, for the first time. He was searching for the lie, but her performance was seamless.

"If you want me to sign," Ainsley said, leaning back against the pillows, her voice a fragile whisper, "I want to see Carson."

"Carson doesn't want to see you."

"Then I guess we're at an impasse. Please... just get out of my room. My head is killing me."

Preston snatched the papers up. His face was red. "You're making a mistake. A very expensive one."

"Get out," Ainsley repeated, this time with a sob.

He stormed out. The door didn't slam, but the air pressure in the room changed.

Annie rushed to the bed. She grabbed Ainsley's hand. "Oh my god. I thought you were going to do it."

"Who is Julian?" Ainsley asked her, her voice instantly clear and sharp, the weakness gone.

Annie bit her lip. She looked at the door. "He's... he's a friend of Kirstie's."

"Kirstie?"

"Your cousin. Or... she says she is."

Ainsley filed the name away. Kirstie. The center of the web.

"I need to get out of here, Annie," Ainsley said. "I need to see my husband."

By the afternoon, the smell of antiseptic was replaced by the overwhelming scent of lilies.

The door opened, and a woman walked in who looked like she had been airbrushed into existence. She wore a beige cashmere set that screamed 'quiet luxury' and a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

Annie, who had been sitting by Ainsley's bed, stood up abruptly. "I... I'm going to get coffee." She practically ran out of the room.

The woman didn't even glance at her. She swept toward Ainsley, arms open.

"Ainsley! My poor, sweet darling!"

She hugged Ainsley. Her body was stiff, her perfume suffocating. Ainsley didn't hug back.

"I'm Kirstie," she said, pulling back and taking Ainsley's hand. Her palms were soft, uncalloused. "Your cousin. Your best friend."

"My best friend," Ainsley repeated, her voice flat.

"I came as soon as I heard," she said, sitting on the edge of the bed. "They're railroading you, Ainsley. Victoria is a witch. And Carson..." She sighed dramatically. "He's just so broken. He won't listen to reason."

She squeezed Ainsley's hand. "But you have me. I'm here to help you escape."

"Escape?"

"From this whole nightmare," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Preston is trying to bully you into signing away your rights for nothing. It's disgusting."

Ainsley pulled her hand away. "What do you suggest?"

"You need to fight back," Kirstie said quickly. "But not from here. You need to get away, build a war chest. You have friends who will help you." She reached into her purse and pulled out a check. "I scraped this together. It's my own money. Fifty thousand dollars. It's enough to get you to Paris. You can hire a lawyer from there, regroup."

Ainsley looked at the check. Fifty thousand. To a college student, it was a fortune. To an Eaton, it was lunch money. It was an insult wrapped in a rescue fantasy.

"Why do you want me to leave so badly?" Ainsley asked.

"Because I'm afraid for you," she whispered. "Carson is unstable. He's not the man you married. If you stay, he'll destroy you."

Ainsley studied her face. Her makeup was flawless, but there was a tightness around her mouth. A desperation.

"And Leo?" Ainsley asked, a calculated test.

Kirstie paused. Just for a fraction of a second. "Leo? Oh, sweetie. Let's focus on you right now. Getting you safe is the priority."

Rage, cold and sharp, spiked in Ainsley's chest. Kirstie dismissed the name of her own son as an inconvenience. No friend would do that.

Ainsley thought of Annie's fear. She thought of Preston's rush. And now this woman, trying to buy her off with pocket change and gaslighting.

Ainsley pushed the check back across the sheets.

"I'm not going to Paris," Ainsley said.

Kirstie's smile faltered. "What?"

"I'm going to the Hamptons. I'm going home."

"You can't," she snapped. Her voice lost its sugary coating. It was shrill now. "Carson will have you thrown out."

"Let him try."

"You're being greedy," Kirstie hissed. "Is that it? You want a bigger settlement?"

"I want the truth," Ainsley said. "And I don't think I'm getting it from you."

Kirstie stood up. She smoothed her cashmere sweater, her eyes cold. She leaned down, her lips close to Ainsley's ear.

"Julian is waiting for you," she whispered. "Don't disappoint him."

She turned and walked out, her heels clicking a sharp rhythm on the floor.

Ainsley shivered.

Annie came back in a moment later, holding two cold coffees. She looked around the room as if checking for landmines.

"Is she gone?"

"Yes," Ainsley said. "Annie, help me up."

"What? You can't. The doctor-"

"I don't care about the doctor," Ainsley said, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. The room spun, but she gritted her teeth. "Get my clothes. We're going to the Hamptons."

The IV came out with a sting and a bloom of dark red blood. Ainsley pressed a cotton ball against it, securing it with a piece of tape she found on the tray.

"This is crazy," Annie whispered, but she was handing Ainsley her jeans. They were stiff with dried blood from the accident. Ainsley pulled them on, wincing as the fabric rubbed against her bruised hip.

"Crazy is staying here waiting to be deported," Ainsley said.

They took the fire stairs. Ainsley's head swam with every step, a nauseating tilt-a-whirl, but she focused on the metal railing, the cold steel under her palm.

Annie's car was a dented Toyota Corolla that smelled of vanilla air freshener and old fast food. It was the most comforting thing Ainsley had encountered in two days.

Ainsley slumped into the passenger seat as Annie navigated the chaotic Manhattan traffic.

"Why are we going to him?" Annie asked, merging onto the Long Island Expressway. "He hates you."

"I need to see his eyes," Ainsley said. "I need to see the man I'm up against."

Ainsley pulled out Annie's phone and typed Carson Eaton into the search bar.

The photos loaded. He was striking. High cheekbones, dark hair, a mouth that looked like it rarely smiled. But it was his eyes that held Ainsley. In the older photos, they were piercing blue. In the recent ones, they were covered by dark glasses.

Eaton Heir Blinded in Genetic Tragedy, the headline read. The Blind Prophet of Wall Street.

Blind.

Ainsley stared at the screen. A strange, heavy feeling settled in her chest. Not pity. Strategy. A blind king is still a king, but his senses are different. His defenses are different. This was a variable Ainsley could use.

"We're here," Annie said, her voice tight.

Ainsley looked up. Iron gates loomed ahead, taller than the car. Security cameras blinked red eyes at them.

"We can't drive in," Ainsley said. "They'll turn us away."

She scanned the perimeter. A delivery truck with a catering logo was idling near a service entrance about fifty yards down the road.

"Pull over there," Ainsley pointed. "Behind those hedges."

"You're going to break in?" Annie squeaked.

"It's my house, Annie. I'm just... taking the scenic route."

Ainsley got out. The wind was biting, cutting through her thin t-shirt and the torn denim jacket. She wrapped her arms around herself and ran toward the service entrance.

The truck began to move. Ainsley waited until it passed the gate, then slipped through the gap before the heavy iron bars could close.

She was inside.

The estate was massive. A sprawling lawn that looked manicured with nail scissors. Ainsley stuck to the shadows of the tall hedges, moving quickly, ignoring the screaming protest of her muscles.

She heard voices.

She followed the sound to a glass structure on the east side of the main house. A solarium.

She crouched behind a large rhododendron bush, the leaves scratching her face.

Through the glass, she saw him.

He was sitting in a wheelchair, facing away from her. His posture was rigid.

And standing in front of him, pouring tea from a silver pot, was Kirstie.

Ainsley held her breath.