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.

Ainsley's knees sank into the damp mulch, the cold seeping through her jeans. She ignored it. She focused on the voices drifting through the slightly open glass door.

"...I wish I could help you, Carson," Kirstie was saying. Her voice was unrecognizable from the shrill tone she'd used with Ainsley. It was liquid honey. "But Ainsley... she's unreasonable."

Carson didn't move. "Did she sign?"

His voice was low. Baritone. It vibrated in the air.

"No," Kirstie sighed. "She said the money was an insult. She said unless you give her shares in the Eaton Group, she's going to the press. She's going to tell them about your... episodes."

Ainsley's jaw dropped. She clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp. The sheer audacity of Kirstie's lies was almost impressive.

Carson's hand tightened on the armrest of his chair. His knuckles turned white.

"That greedy..." He trailed off, disgust choking the words.

"And Julian told me," Kirstie continued, stepping closer to him, "that she's not really amnesiac. It's an act. A strategy to delay the divorce proceedings."

"An act," Carson repeated. A bitter laugh escaped him. "She always was a good actress."

Kirstie placed a hand on his shoulder. It was possessive. Intimate. "Don't worry. I'll handle her. For you. For us."

She leaned down. Her face was inches from his. She was going to kiss him.

Something inside Ainsley snapped. It wasn't logic. It was a primal, territorial roar. That was her husband. Her target. Her territory. She didn't remember him, she didn't know if she loved him, but he was hers, and Kirstie was a liar.

Ainsley stood up. Her legs screamed, but she shoved the pain aside.

She grabbed the handle of the glass door and threw it open.

It slammed against the wall with a crash that sounded like a gunshot.

Kirstie shrieked and jumped back, knocking into the tea table. Hot water splashed onto the stone floor.

Carson spun his chair around. He was fast. His head cocked, his ears orienting to the sound instantly.

"Who is there?" he barked.

Ainsley stepped into the solarium. She smelled like exhaust fumes and hospital soap. She was bleeding through her shirt. But she felt ten feet tall.

"Bravo, Kirstie," Ainsley said. Her voice was raspy but loud. "That was a hell of a performance."

Kirstie's face drained of color. "Ainsley? How did you..."

"Ainsley?" Carson's voice dropped. It was cold. Deadly.

Ainsley ignored Kirstie. She walked straight toward him. Her boots left muddy prints on the pristine floor.

She stopped three feet from him. She looked at his face. The dark glasses hid his eyes, but the lines of tension around his mouth were visible.

"I didn't ask for shares," Ainsley said, staring at his unseeing face. "I didn't threaten to go to the press. And I am not pretending to forget you."

She turned to Kirstie. "She is a liar."

"Security!" Kirstie screamed, backing away. "She's crazy! She broke in!"

Heavy footsteps thundered down the hallway leading to the solarium.

Carson sat perfectly still. He didn't yell. He tilted his head, listening.

"You can call the army," Ainsley told Kirstie, stepping closer to her until she hit the glass wall. "But before they drag me out, I have enough time to pour that pot of boiling tea down the front of that cashmere sweater you stole from my closet."

Kirstie gasped. "You wouldn't."

"Try me," Ainsley said.