Anya stumbled out of the elevator and into the main lobby. The air here was cooler, circulating from the revolving doors.

She needed to get to her rental car. She needed a secure location to plan her next move.

Her phone buzzed in her clutch. It was an angry, persistent vibration against her palm.

She pulled it out. The screen lit up with a name: Bentley.

She stared at it. Her thumb hovered over the decline button, but old habits were hardwired into her neural pathways. She answered.

"Where are you?" Bentley's voice was barking orders. "Get to the hospital. Now."

"I left, Bentley," Anya said, walking toward the valet stand.

"You can't leave," he snapped. "The board is convening. They want to talk about the patent. You need to be here. To sign it over."

Anya stopped walking.

A wave of nausea rolled through her gut.

Sign it over.

The memory hit her with the force of a physical blow.

Eighteen years old. Her application for a research grant. The formal meeting in her grandfather's study. Belle, smirking, presenting a nearly identical proposal she had copied from Anya's laptop.

The slow-motion horror of Alistair choosing Belle's project over hers. The condescending lecture about how Anya's "ambition was unseemly."

Bentley had been there. He hadn't defended her. He had simply looked at his shoes and said it was for the best.

Anya closed her eyes. She could still smell the musty leather of the study. It made her want to retch.

"No," Anya said into the phone.

"What did you say?" Bentley asked, his voice dropping in disbelief.

"I said no," Anya said. "I'm not a prop. I'm not signing away my life's work for your board."

"If you don't cooperate, I'm calling the authorities," Bentley threatened. "I'll stand by Belle's story. I'll bury you in litigation until you're broke and begging, Anya."

Anya almost laughed. It was a hysterical bubble rising in her throat. He had no idea. He thought she was still the broke student he could bully into submission. He didn't know her backer. He didn't know about Julian Vance.

"Do it," Anya said. "Bury yourself."

"Anya-"

She ended the call.

She handed her ticket to the valet. Her hands were shaking. Not a tremor, but a coarse shake of pure rage.

"Are you okay, ma'am?" the valet asked, looking concerned.

"Fine," she clipped out. "Just get the car."

When the black Audi pulled up-a rental, practical and fast-she got in and threw the phone onto the passenger seat.

She opened her purse and took out a small orange bottle. Propranolol. A beta-blocker.

She dry-swallowed a pill. It scraped against her throat.

She needed to calm her sympathetic nervous system. She needed to lower the norepinephrine.

She started the engine. The hum of the German engineering was soothing.

She couldn't go back to the hotel. Bentley would find her there. He would have security drag her out.

She needed somewhere off the grid.

The Everett Trust owned a small guest estate on the edge of the Hamptons, near the cliffs. It was rarely used, mostly for storage or housing overflow staff during the summer. She still had the key on her old ring.

She punched the address into the GPS.

She drove fast. The road wound through the darkness, the trees forming a tunnel of shadows.

She watched the lights of the hotel fade in the rearview mirror. She thought she was escaping to a secure base.

She didn't know she was driving straight into the lion's den.

The driveway to the guest estate was overgrown. Hydrangeas spilled onto the gravel, their heavy heads brushing against the sides of the Audi.

The house was a modest colonial, dark and smelling of damp wood and neglect. It was perfect.

Anya killed the engine. The silence of the woods rushed in to fill the void.

She sat for a moment, waiting for the beta-blocker to take the edge off her tremors.

She grabbed her bag and stepped out. The gravel crunched loudly under her heels.

VROOM.

A low, guttural roar tore through the silence. It sounded like a beast waking up.

Anya jumped, dropping her keys. They landed with a metallic jingle in the dirt.

She spun around.

Through the thin line of hedge that separated the property from the neighbor's lot, she saw light.

The neighboring house wasn't a colonial. It was a fortress of concrete and glass, a brutalist masterpiece perched on the edge of the cliff.

A car was idling in the driveway.

It was silver. Low to the ground. Aerodynamic. A McLaren P1.

The driver's side door scissor-lifted up, looking like the wing of a predatory bird.

A long leg clad in dark trousers stepped out.

Anya squinted against the glare of the security lights.

The man stood up. He stretched, rolling his shoulders.

It was Julian.

Anya's breath hitched. She scrambled for her keys in the dirt, her fingers fumbling.

Julian turned. He looked across the hedge. The distance was less than thirty yards.

He didn't look surprised. He looked like he was expecting her.

He leaned against the low roof of the supercar, crossing his arms. A slow, lazy smile spread across his face.

He didn't speak. He simply watched her scramble, his amusement a palpable force even across the distance.

Anya finally grasped her own keys. She stood up, brushing the dirt from her dress. She felt exposed. Ridiculous.

"Running from the fallout, Doctor?" Julian called out. His voice carried easily in the night air. "Or running towards the war?"

"Stalking is a crime, Vance," she shouted back, her voice lacking the authority she wanted.

"I bought this place a year ago," Julian said, gesturing to the glass fortress. "The cliffside offers an excellent vantage point on the Everett estate. Call it due diligence. You're the one trespassing on my view."

Anya turned and jammed the key into the lock of the front door. It stuck. She jiggled it frantically.

"Need a locksmith?" Julian asked. "I have a multi-tool."

"Go to hell," Anya muttered.

The lock finally clicked. She threw the door open and practically fell inside.

She slammed the door and threw the deadbolt. Then the chain.

She leaned her back against the wood, sliding down until she hit the floor.

Her heart was hammering again.

It wasn't a coincidence. It couldn't be. Julian Vance, the man who held her leash, the man who terrified Bentley, had been waiting for her.

She crawled to the window and peeked through the dusty blinds.

Julian was still standing there. He had walked to the edge of his property and was now leaning against the hedge, looking directly at her house. He lit a cigarette, the cherry glowing bright red in the darkness.

He knew she was watching.

The water pressure in the shower was pathetic, but the heat was real. Anya scrubbed her skin until it was pink, trying to wash away the phantom sensation of Belle's perfume and Bentley's rage.

She dried off and changed into the only other clothes she had packed: a pair of grey sweatpants and an oversized Yale t-shirt.

She felt smaller in these clothes. Less armored.

The house smelled musty. She needed fresh air.

She opened the sliding glass door to the back patio. The ocean roared in the distance, crashing against the cliffs.

The patio faced the side of Julian's house.

She froze.

Julian's house was a lantern in the night. The walls were floor-to-ceiling glass. He had no curtains. He lived his life on display, daring the world to look.

She could see into his living room. It was stark, minimalist. White leather couches, abstract art, a fireplace that spanned the entire wall.

Julian was there.

He had shed the suit jacket. His white shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He held a tumbler of amber liquid-whiskey, neat.

He was pacing. He looked like a caged tiger, full of restless energy. He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up.

He stopped.

He looked straight out the glass wall, directly at her patio.

Anya stood in the shadows of the overhang. She was invisible. She had to be.

But Julian walked out of his living room, onto his own dark patio. Now he stood in the same darkness she did, a silhouette against the lighted room behind him. He raised his glass, toasting the shadows where she stood.

Anya's phone rang in her hand.

She looked at the screen. Unknown Number.

She answered it, her eyes locked on the man on the opposite patio.

"Hello?"

"Peeping is illegal, Dr. Blair."

His voice was rich, intimate, as if he were standing right behind her.

Anya flushed. "You live in a fishbowl, Julian. You're practically begging for an audience."

"I have nothing to hide," Julian said. He took a sip of his drink. She could imagine the movement of his throat as he swallowed. "Do you?"

"I'm just getting some air," Anya said defensively.

"You're hiding," Julian corrected. "From Bentley. From the board. From the decision you have to make."

"I'm not hiding from myself."

"Then why are you in that mausoleum?" Julian asked. "My legal team is on standby. We can draft the terms for the emergency board meeting now. Or you can hide in there and let Bentley consolidate power at the hospital."

"What do you want, Julian?" she asked, repeating the question from the elevator.

Across the lawn, Julian stopped moving. He turned fully toward her direction.

"I told you," he said, his voice dropping lower. "I want you to collect what you're owed."

"The patent is leverage," Anya said.

"You know I'm not talking about leverage," Julian said.

The silence stretched. It was heavy, laden with implication.

Anya felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold.

"Goodnight, Julian," she said.

"The clock is ticking, Anya," he replied. "Bentley is weak, but he's not stupid. He's making calls right now."

He hung up.

Across the way, Julian walked back inside his glass house. The lights went out all at once.

The sudden darkness was jarring. Anya blinked, trying to adjust. She felt blind.

He was still there, in the dark, watching her. But now she couldn't see him.

She retreated into the house and locked the sliding door. She pulled the curtains shut, overlapping the fabric so not a sliver of light could escape.

She lay in the unfamiliar bed, staring at the ceiling.

Not leverage.

The words echoed in her head.