The housekeeper, Mrs. Sterling, led Ainsley to a room that felt more like a walk-in freezer than a guest suite. It was in the furthest corner of the house, dusty and cold.

"Dinner is at seven," she said, and closed the door.

Ainsley didn't care about the dust. She checked the room. She looked under the lamps, behind the paintings. She didn't know why she was doing it, but her fingers moved with a practiced paranoia.

Clear.

Ainsley showered in the attached bathroom, scrubbing the hospital smell off her skin until it was raw. She had no clothes, so she wrapped herself in a thick, white bathrobe she found in the closet.

The house was a labyrinth of silence. Under the guise of her amnesia, she had the perfect cover to explore. She needed a layout. She needed to know the security patterns, the staff rotations. She needed to find his office.

She tied the robe tighter and opened the door. The hallway was empty. She moved silently, her bare feet making no sound on the thick Persian runners.

She passed dozens of closed doors. Portraits of dead Eatons stared down at her with cold, judgmental eyes. She found what she was looking for at the end of the west wing: a heavy oak door, slightly more modern than the others, with a small, discreet keypad next to the handle.

Carson's study. The heart of the kingdom.

Ainsley examined the keypad. A standard six-digit system. Too many combinations to guess. But the keys for 2, 5, 8, and 9 were slightly more worn than the others. A start.

As Ainsley leaned closer, a floorboard creaked behind her.

She didn't think. She spun around, her body low, ready to react, her face a mask of vacant confusion.

The piano teacher she'd seen earlier stood there, holding a stack of sheet music. Her eyes widened in surprise.

"Mrs. Eaton," she huffed. "You gave me a fright. Are you lost?"

"Oh," Ainsley said, putting a hand to her chest and letting out a shaky breath. "I'm so sorry. I... I don't know where I am. This house is so big." She looked at the oak door as if seeing it for the first time. "What's in here?"

"Mr. Eaton's private study," the teacher said, her tone clipped and disapproving. "No one is allowed in."

"Oh, of course," Ainsley said, stepping back with a display of meek apology. "I'll just... I'll try to find my way back."

She turned and walked away, her posture deliberately unsteady. But in her mind, she was already mapping the house, logging the teacher's presence, and calculating the odds of cracking that code.

She didn't see the figure standing in the hallway, just out of sight.

Carson stood there, his hand resting on the doorframe of a nearby room. He had heard the entire exchange. The floorboard creak. The teacher's sharp intake of breath. Ainsley's soft, confused voice.

But he had also heard the silence before that. The utter lack of sound from her approach. It was the silence of a predator, not a lost sheep.

His grip on his cane tightened. He stood there for a long time, then turned and walked away silently.

"Mr. Eaton requests your presence at dinner," Mrs. Sterling said through the door.

It wasn't a request. It was a summons.

Ainsley went downstairs in the bathrobe. She didn't have anything else, and she was past the point of caring about etiquette.

The dining room was a cavern. A long mahogany table stretched out under a crystal chandelier.

Carson sat at the head. He was wearing a fresh shirt, his dark glasses reflecting the candlelight.

There were only two settings. No Victoria. No Kirstie.

Ainsley sat down at his right. The scrape of the chair was loud.

They ate in silence for five minutes. The only sound was the clink of silver against china.

"Preston is bringing a new agreement tomorrow," Carson said. He didn't stop cutting his steak.

"I told you," Ainsley said, stabbing a potato. "I'm not signing."

He turned his face toward Ainsley. "If you don't sign, I will cut off every credit card. I will freeze your accounts. You will be destitute."

Ainsley shrugged, then remembered he couldn't see it. "I'm used to being broke. I was a student on a scholarship. I can survive on ramen."

Carson paused. "You don't remember the shopping sprees? The jewelry?"

"No."

"Convenient."

"Why do you hate me, Carson?" Ainsley asked. "Really? Besides what Kirstie whispers in your ear."

"Because you sold me out," he said. His voice was ice. "You sold my location to the paparazzi the day I came home from the surgery. You put a price tag on my blindness."

"That doesn't make sense," Ainsley said. "If I married you for money, why would I risk the golden goose for a tabloid payout? How much does a photo go for? Five grand? Being Mrs. Eaton is worth millions. It's bad business."

Carson stopped chewing. He looked... confused.

He reached for his wine glass.

The server had placed it about two inches further right than usual.

His hand was moving fast. He was going to knock it over. Red wine on a white tablecloth. A mess. Humiliation.

Without thinking, Ainsley reached out.

She didn't grab the glass. Her hand moved to intercept his, her fingers gently brushing the back of his hand just before he made contact with the glass.

His fingers brushed hers.

The contact was electric. A jolt went up her arm.

Carson recoiled as if Ainsley had burned him. He pulled his hand back, his face flushing.

"Careful," Ainsley said quietly. "Your glass is just to your right."

Carson froze. The air in the room grew heavy.

"To my right," he repeated. His voice was flat, analytical.

Ainsley stared at her hand. "Yes. A little further."

He reached out again, slowly this time, his fingers finding the stem perfectly.

He turned his face toward Ainsley again. He looked like he was trying to see through the darkness.

"Kirstie said you were clumsy," he murmured. "Careless."

"Maybe Kirstie is wrong," Ainsley said. "About a lot of things."

He didn't answer. He found the glass, took a sip, and set it down perfectly.

"Finish your dinner," he said. But the anger was gone from his voice. Replaced by something else. Curiosity.

Ainsley went back to her room that night with her mind racing.

She knelt on the floor and pulled a dusty suitcase from under the bed. It was old. It had a sticker on it that said Queens.

She opened it. Inside were clothes that looked like hers-jeans, hoodies. And at the bottom, a leather-bound journal.

It was locked.

Ainsley tried to pry the lock open with a bobby pin, but it was intricate. Too secure for a diary.

She needed help.

She borrowed a phone from a maid who looked sympathetic and texted Annie.

Annie. I found a diary. It's locked.

The reply came three minutes later.

Preston fired me. But... check your lipstick. The Chanel Rouge. You used to tell me it was your 'lucky charm'. You never let anyone touch it.

Ainsley went to the vanity. There were dozens of lipsticks. But only one Chanel Rouge Noir. The case was scratched, the gold paint fading.

She picked it up. It felt heavier than the others.

She twisted the bottom. It didn't push the lipstick up. It clicked.

A false bottom popped open.

Inside was a micro SD card.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. The key. This was the only way to access the ledger.

The door banged open.

Ainsley shoved the lipstick into her palm and hid her hand behind her back.

Kirstie marched in, flanked by two maids.

"Search the room," she commanded.

"What is this?" Ainsley asked, backing up against the dresser.

"My sapphire necklace is missing," Kirstie said. Her eyes were bright with malice. "I know you took it."

"I didn't take anything."

"Check the suitcase," Kirstie ordered the maids. They began dumping Ainsley's clothes onto the floor.

Kirstie walked toward Ainsley. "Give me the diary, Ainsley. And I'll call off the dogs."

She knew.

"I don't have a diary," Ainsley said.

"Liar." Kirstie lunged for Ainsley. She grabbed Ainsley's right arm, trying to pry her fist open.

"Let go!"

Kirstie dug her nails into Ainsley's skin. "Give it to me!"

Ainsley's body reacted before her brain did.

She didn't resist Kirstie's pull. Instead, she went with it, using Kirstie's own momentum to spin them around. As Kirstie stumbled forward, off-balance, Ainsley stuck her leg out. It was a simple, subtle trip, perfectly timed.

Kirstie screamed as she crashed to the floor, landing in a heap at Ainsley's feet.

Ainsley looked down at her, her expression one of wide-eyed shock and fear.

"You're hurting me!" Kirstie shrieked from the ground, clutching an ankle she'd twisted in the fall.

"I'm sorry! You grabbed me, I got scared, I pulled away!" Ainsley said, her voice shaking. "I didn't mean for you to fall!"

She shoved Kirstie away. Kirstie stumbled, clutching her wrist, staring at Ainsley in horror.

"What are you?" Kirstie whispered.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Carson stood in the doorway.

Kirstie immediately crumpled to the floor. "Carson! Help! She attacked me! She's crazy!"

Carson stood still. His nostrils flared slightly.

He smelled the room. He smelled the adrenaline. He smelled the sweat.

But mostly, he smelled the fear. And the fear was coming from Kirstie.

"Get out," Carson said.

"Carson, she stole-"

"I said get out!" His voice thundered.

Kirstie scrambled up, shooting Ainsley a look of pure hatred, and ran out. The maids followed.

Carson stayed. He turned his head toward Ainsley.

"There was a struggle," he said. It wasn't a question.

"Apparently," Ainsley said, her hand still clutching the lipstick.

He nodded once, slowly. Then he turned and left.

Ainsley looked at the lipstick in her hand. Who was she?