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.

Morning light was cruel. It exposed the dust motes dancing in the air and the water stains on the ceiling.

Anya hadn't slept. Her eyes felt gritty.

She was in the kitchen, wrestling with an ancient drip coffee maker that hissed and sputtered like a dying engine.

The table was covered in medical journals she had brought from the car. The Lancet. NEJM. Notebooks filled with her chicken-scratch handwriting.

She needed caffeine. Her brain was foggy.

Ding-Dong.

The doorbell was shrill.

Anya groaned. She tightened the ponytail on top of her head and marched to the door. She checked the peephole.

Grey sweatpants. Tight black t-shirt. Hair messy from sleep or sex or running.

Julian.

She ripped the door open. "What?"

He held up an empty mug. It had a picture of a cat on it. It looked absurd in his large hand.

"Morning, neighbor," he said. He looked annoyingly fresh. "My espresso machine is on the fritz. Need a refill."

"You drive a million-dollar car and you can't fix a coffee machine?" Anya asked, blocking the doorway.

"I'm a macro guy," Julian said, pushing past her. "I don't do micro-mechanics."

He smelled of rain and sweat. It was a potent combination.

Anya stumbled back as he invaded her space. He walked into the kitchen as if he owned it.

"Nice place," he lied, looking at the peeling wallpaper.

He set his mug on the counter and picked up one of the journals.

"Hey!" Anya lunged for it.

Julian held it out of reach. He scanned the open page.

"Tau protein aggregation," he read. "Blood-brain barrier permeability. Alzheimer's research."

His eyes narrowed. The playfulness vanished for a second.

"Still trying to save the world, Doctor?" he asked. "Or just trying to save the old man?"

"It's science," Anya snapped, snatching the journal back. "It has nothing to do with my grandfather."

"Everett doesn't deserve a cure," Julian said darkly. "He deserves to forget every sin he committed."

"Coffee," Anya said, pointing to the pot. "Take it and go."

She poured the black sludge into his mug.

Julian took a sip and grimaced. "Christ. That's bitter. Tastes like your personality."

"Get out," Anya said.

Julian didn't move. He leaned his hip against the counter, trapping her between him and the sink.

"So," he said, his eyes locking onto hers. "When are you going to tell Bentley you used my money to fund the patent?"

Anya froze. The coffee pot in her hand shook, splashing hot liquid onto her wrist. She didn't feel the burn.

"How..." Her voice failed.

"How do you think?" Julian stepped closer. He took the pot from her hand and set it down.

"I follow the money, Anya. I saw the grant applications. 'A. Blair Medical Solutions.' And I made sure the funding rounds for your lab at Hopkins were approved."

He leaned in, bracing his hands on the counter on either side of her.

"I'm the majority shareholder of the shell company that funded your research," Julian whispered.

Anya stopped breathing. She had known, on some level, that Ventech Capital was behind the anonymous grants. But to hear him say it, to realize he hadn't just given her a rope but had been holding the other end of it the entire time...

He owned her. Not just her debt. He owned her work. Her life's purpose. Her leverage.

"You..."

"I invested in you," Julian said. He reached out and wiped a drop of coffee from the counter with his thumb. "Because I knew you were the only one smart enough to build the weapon."

He wasn't threatening to expose her. He was gloating.

The air in the kitchen grew thick.