The internet café was in the basement of a laundromat in Queens. It smelled of ozone and stale ramen.

Camille paid cash for a private booth. She pulled the black credit card Mia had thrown at her out of her pocket. She slid it into the vending machine and bought a bottle of water, then tossed the card into the trash. She wouldn't be needing their charity.

She sat at the computer terminal. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.

It had been five years, but the muscle memory was still there.

She bypassed the café's security software in ten seconds. She opened a Tor browser. The screen went black, then green text began to scroll.

She navigated to a site that looked like a generic offshore banking portal.

She typed in the password. Sixty-four characters. She had recited them in her head every night before she slept in her cell.

ACCESS GRANTED.

BALANCE: $500,000,000.00

The number glowed on the screen.

Before prison, Camille hadn't just been a socialite. She was "Dr. X," a shadow consultant for biotech firms and black-market medical research. She solved problems no one else could solve. And she got paid in crypto.

She quickly moved half a million dollars through a series of tumblers and into three separate clean accounts.

She needed cash. But more than that, she needed power. She downloaded a series of heavily encrypted files from the same secure server-the complete research data for the Lazarus Protocol.

She opened a secure forum called The Underground.

A banner ad was pinned to the top in flashing red.

BOUNTY: $50,000,000 USD. INFORMATION LEADING TO DR. X. CONTACT: MELTON MEDIA.

Camille froze.

Melton. Horatio Melton.

She knew the name. Everyone knew the name. His grandfather, Arthur Melton, was dying. A neurodegenerative disease that baffled every doctor in the world.

Camille knew from her research that it wasn't a disease. She also knew she had the only cure.

She looked at the bounty. Fifty million was a lot of money. But she didn't need money. She had five hundred million.

She needed a shield. She needed a weapon to destroy the Haynes family and Gavin Lloyd.

Horatio Melton was the biggest weapon in New York.

She began to type.

Sender: Agent X

Recipient: H. Melton

Message: I know where Dr. X is. But I only speak to Horatio Melton. Face to face.

She hit send.

Across the city, in the penthouse of the Melton Tower, a server chimed.

Horatio looked at the screen. His head of cybersecurity, a nervous man named Miller, was typing furiously.

"We can't trace it, sir. The signal is bouncing off satellites in three different hemispheres. Whoever this is, they're a ghost."

Horatio read the message.

"Reply," Horatio said. "Time and place."

In the café, Camille watched the reply pop up.

She smiled. It wasn't a nice smile.

Tomorrow. 10 AM. Melton Manor. I will bring proof.

She logged off and wiped the terminal.

She walked out into the night. She found a high-end salon that was still open. She slapped a stack of freshly withdrawn cash on the counter.

"Dye it," she said, pointing to her mousy, prison-faded hair. "Dark brown. Almost black. And cut it sharp."

Two hours later, she looked in the mirror.

The waif was gone. The victim was gone.

The woman in the mirror had sharp cheekbones and hair that framed her face like a helmet of war. She had already purchased a white suit. Crisp. Tailored. It hid the scars on her arms.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Mia.

Mom saved some leftovers for you. Don't be late.

Camille deleted the message.

She wasn't eating leftovers ever again.

The iron gates of the Melton estate were twelve feet high.

Camille stood in front of them, alone. The white suit gleamed in the morning sun.

She pressed the intercom button.

A camera whirred, focusing on her face.

"Name," a voice demanded. It was Jennings, the head butler.

"Agent X," Camille said calmly. "Tell Horatio I'm here."

There was a pause. "Mr. Melton is not accepting visitors without an appointment. Please leave, or I will release the dogs."

The intercom clicked off.

Camille sighed. "Hard way it is."

She pulled out her phone. It was a burner she had modified the night before. She leaned against the iron bars and started tapping.

She found the estate's local network. The firewall was expensive, but it had a flaw. It hadn't been patched for the latest smart-home update.

Camille executed the script.

Inside the manor, chaos erupted.

The sprinkler system in the pristine gardens exploded to life, drenching the three security guards patrolling the perimeter.

In the main house, the polite classical music playing over the speakers cut out. A split second later, heavy metal death rock blasted at maximum volume.

WAKE UP! WAKE UP!

In his study, Horatio flinched as the music shook the walls.

Blake rushed in, covering his ears. "Sir! The system! Someone hijacked the main server!"

Horatio grabbed his phone. A text message appeared on his private, unlisted number.

Open the gate. Or I raise the temperature in your wine cellar by thirty degrees. Goodbye, 1945 Mouton Rothschild.

Horatio walked to the window. He looked down at the monitor showing the front gate.

The woman in the white suit was leaning casually against the bars, checking her nails.

It was her. The driver. The fighter.

Horatio felt a strange sensation in his chest. It wasn't anger. It was amusement.

"Let her in," Horatio said.

"But sir-"

"Let. Her. In."

The music cut off instantly. The gates groaned and swung open.

Camille pocketed her phone. She walked up the long driveway, her heels clicking on the pavement.

Jennings opened the front door. He looked flustered.

"Mr. Melton is in the library," he said stiffly.

Camille walked past him. "I know the way."

She didn't, but she walked with enough confidence that no one questioned her. She found the double doors at the end of the hall and pushed them open.

Horatio stood by the fireplace. He was taller than he looked from a distance. Broad shoulders. Eyes that were the color of cold steel.

"Camille Haynes," Horatio said. "Race car driver. Martial artist. Hacker. You're a woman of many talents."

"Survival skills," Camille corrected.

Horatio stepped closer. The air between them crackled. "Where is Dr. X?"

Camille reached into her briefcase. She pulled out a slim, encrypted tablet, not the battered medical textbook.

"He's dead," Camille lied. "But I have everything he was working on." She tapped the tablet screen, bringing up a complex molecular model. "And everything he knew is in here." She tapped her temple.

Horatio's eyes narrowed. He reached out, his hand closing around her jaw. His grip was firm, testing.

"Are you playing games with me, Camille?" he asked softly. "My grandfather doesn't have time for games."

Camille didn't flinch. She leaned into his touch, challenging him.

"You can kill me," she said. "And your grandfather dies. Or you can listen to my price."

Horatio stared at her. He felt the pulse in her neck against his thumb. It was steady.

He released her.

"You have five minutes," Horatio said. "Convince me."

The hospital room inside the manor was more advanced than most ICUs.

Arthur Melton lay on the bed, hooked up to a dozen machines. He was frail, his skin translucent.

Dr. Evans, the family physician, stood by the bed, arms crossed. He looked at Camille with open disdain.

"This is ridiculous, Mr. Melton," Evans said to Horatio. "She's a convict, not a doctor. She doesn't even have a degree."

Camille ignored him. She had already hacked the hospital's private servers and reviewed every test and scan conducted on Arthur over the last year. She knew more about his condition than Evans did. She walked to the bed.

She didn't look at the monitors. She peeled back Arthur's eyelids. She checked his fingernails. She pressed her fingers against the lymph nodes in his neck.

"Did he travel to South America before the symptoms started?" Camille asked.

Horatio frowned. "No one knows about that trip. It was off the books."

"It's not Parkinson's," Camille said, turning to face them. "It's Aztec Neurotoxin poisoning. A very rare, very slow-acting derivative. It mimics degeneration. Your own blood panels showed anomalous peptide markers, but you misidentified them."

Dr. Evans opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked shocked.

"Can you cure it?" Horatio asked. His voice was tight.

"Yes," Camille said. "But I need three months. And I need access to the Lazarus Protocol compounds."

"Name your price," Horatio said immediately. "Fifty million? One hundred?"

Camille shook her head. "I don't want your money."

She took a step toward Horatio.

"I want a name," she said. "I want to be Mrs. Melton."

The silence in the room was absolute. The only sound was the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor.

Horatio stared at her. His face was unreadable. "You want to marry me?"

"I want the protection your name provides," Camille said. "And the power it unlocks. The Haynes family trust has a covenant. A married heir with a child gains controlling interest. Your name makes my child untouchable and gives me the weapon I need to destroy the people who put me in prison."

She paused. "It's a business merger. Three years. Then we divorce. I take nothing. No alimony. No assets. Just the safety of the name."

"And in exchange?" Horatio asked.

"I save your grandfather. And I keep the gold diggers away from you. I know you hate the dating scene. I'll be the perfect shield."

Horatio looked at her. He was calculating. Risk versus reward.

Suddenly, the heart monitor spiked. A rapid, high-pitched alarm filled the room. Arthur's body began to convulse.

"He's crashing!" Dr. Evans yelled, reaching for the defibrillator paddles.

"Don't shock him!" Camille shouted. "It's a neuro-storm! You'll fry his brain!"

She shoved Evans aside. She grabbed Arthur's hand and pressed her thumb hard into a specific nerve cluster between his thumb and index finger. She used her other hand to press a point behind his ear.

Ten seconds.

The convulsions stopped. The heart rate smoothed out.

Camille stepped back, breathing hard.

Horatio looked at his grandfather, then at Camille.

He pulled out his phone. He dialed a number.

"Get the lawyers," Horatio said. "Draft a prenuptial agreement. I'm getting married."

Camille let out a breath she didn't know she was holding.

"One more thing," Camille said. "I'm moving in today. I need to collect my last remaining belongings from the Haynes penthouse, but I refuse to walk back into that snake pit alone."

"Blake will send a car," Horatio said, putting his phone away.

"No," Camille said. "I want you to escort me. Personally."

Horatio raised an eyebrow. "Pushing your luck?"

"It's brand management, fiancé," Camille said. "If we're doing this, we do it loud."

Horatio looked at her. A corner of his mouth twitched upward.

"Fine," he said. "One hour. I'll meet you at that rat hole."