Barron grabbed a clean towel from the cart and threw it to her.

Kaela caught it one-handed. She didn't waste time asking questions about his miraculous recovery. They were co-conspirators now.

She knelt at the foot of the bed. She used the silver knife to make a small, precise incision on the sole of Alistair's foot, right at the kidney point.

A dark, viscous blood oozed out. It wasn't black, but a deep, unhealthy crimson that carried a faint, acrid chemical smell.

"Hold his leg," Kaela ordered.

Barron left the wheelchair. He walked-steady, powerful strides-to the bed and clamped his hands around his grandfather's calf.

Kaela reached into her canvas bag and pulled out a small glass jar. Inside, two translucent, gelatinous creatures swam in water.

Leeches.

Barron raised an eyebrow. "This is your plan? Medieval witchcraft?"

"It works," Kaela said, using tweezers to place a leech on the incision. "Unlike your Dr. Sterling, who treats the symptoms, these eat the poison."

The leech latched on. Its body began to swell, though its color remained largely unchanged.

"Why the act?" Kaela asked, her eyes focused on the wound. "You could run this empire in your sleep."

"To see the rats," Barron said, watching the color slowly return to his grandfather's face. "Someone in this house is dosing him. And me."

"Sterling?"

"She's a pawn. I need the king."

The monitor beeped faster. Stronger. Alistair took a deep, rattling breath. The dark lines on his neck began to fade.

"Toxin load is down 80%," Kaela said. She plucked the gorged leech off and dropped it back into the jar. "He needs herbal chelation to get the rest."

BANG. BANG. BANG.

"Open up! Police!"

Sterling's voice came through the wood. "She's murdering him! Break it down!"

Kaela wiped her hands on the towel. She looked at Barron. "Showtime."

Barron nodded. In a split second, the powerful CEO vanished. He slumped back into the wheelchair, head lolling to the side, eyes rolling back.

Kaela unlocked the door.

Three police officers burst in, guns drawn, with Sterling right behind them.

"Hands in the air!"

Sterling pointed at the blood on the floor. "See! She cut him! She killed him!"

An officer grabbed Kaela, spinning her around. He slapped cuffs on one wrist.

"You're under arrest for..."

"Sterling..."

The voice was weak, raspy, but undeniable.

The officer froze. Sterling froze.

On the bed, Alistair Kaufman opened his eyes. He blinked, focusing on the ceiling, then turned his head slowly.

"Shut... up," Alistair croaked.

Sterling gasped. "Mr. Kaufman? But... the monitor said..."

She looked at the screen. Vitals were stable. Better than they had been in months.

"Impossible," she whispered.

Kaela twisted her wrist, slipping out of the officer's grip before he could lock the second cuff.

"Attempted murder?" Kaela asked, rubbing her wrist. "Looks like a life-saving procedure to me."

Alistair looked at Kaela. His eyes were old, tired, but sharp. He saw the blood on her hands, the jar in her bag.

"You..." he wheezed. "Who are you?"

"The new asset," Kaela said coolly. "And don't forget to pay the bill."

From the wheelchair, hidden by the bulk of his body, Barron's hand hung limp. But his thumb gave a small, subtle twitch. A thumbs up.

An hour later, the house was quiet. Alistair was sleeping-real sleep this time.

Graves knocked on the door of the guest room where Kaela was washing the blood off her hands.

"The younger Mr. Kaufman wants to see you," Graves said. "In the study. It's secure."

Kaela followed him down a hidden corridor to a room lined with books. There were no windows.

Barron was standing by the fireplace, pouring a glass of amber liquid. He wore a fresh suit, tailored to perfection. He looked nothing like the invalid in the wheelchair.

He didn't turn around when she entered. He just held out a folder.

"Sign it."

Kaela took the folder. It was a Prenuptial Agreement. But the terms...

Clause 4: Upon completion of one year of marriage, the Spouse shall receive title to the penthouse suite at 440 Park Avenue.

A palace in the sky.

"Hush money?" Kaela asked, tossing the folder onto the desk.

Barron turned. He took a sip of his drink, his eyes tracking her every move. "A dowry. I need a shield. You need a weapon. The Moon family threw you away. I'm offering you the means to bury them."

Kaela walked up to him. She stepped into his personal space. She inhaled. The sandalwood was stronger now, mixed with the whiskey.

"You need me because I'm your Ambien," she said softly. "I'm the only thing that quiets the noise."

Barron's jaw tightened. She was sharp.

"Mutual benefit," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "You get the money. I get the sleep. And we both get revenge."

Kaela picked up a pen. "Deal. But I have a condition."

"Name it."

"Tonight. The Moon Family Gala. I want you to go with me."

Barron frowned. "I'm supposed to be a vegetable."

"Exactly," Kaela smiled. It was a cruel, beautiful smile. "I want you to roll in there and make them look at us. I want my father to see that even a 'cripple' can destroy him."

Barron looked at the fire in her eyes. He felt a stir of something he hadn't felt in years. Excitement.

"As you wish," he said.

Kaela's phone buzzed. She pulled it out.

It was a live stream link. Jenna Moon, standing on a stage in a red dress, fake tears streaming down her face.

"My sister... she's missing. We fear she's back on drugs... it's heartbreaking..."

Kaela laughed. "She's good."

Barron glanced at the screen. "That's the sister?"

"The one who ordered the hit."

Barron pressed a button on his desk intercom.

"Graves. Prep the helicopter. And get the S-76. The black one."

"Helicopter?" Kaela asked.

Barron buttoned his jacket. His face went slack, his body language shifting back into the broken man. But his eyes remained lethal.

"If we're going to crash a party," he mumbled, "we should make an entrance."

They walked out of the study. Barron slumped in the chair, Kaela pushing him.

They passed Dr. Sterling in the hall. Sterling glared at them.

Kaela smiled sweetly. "We're going to a party, Doctor. Don't wait up."

The Moon Manor ballroom was a sea of silk and hypocrisy.

Harl Moon stood by the champagne tower, sweating. The investors were asking questions. Where was the groom? Where was the bride?

On the giant screen, Jenna was finishing her speech. "...we pray for Kaela's safety."

The crowd murmured.

"I heard she was turning tricks in Detroit," a woman whispered.

"Sad. Bad blood," another replied.

Charlee Carr, a socialite in a dress that cost more than a car, laughed loudly. "She probably pawned the engagement ring for a fix. She's not coming."

Candace Moon dabbed her dry eyes. "We tried so hard to save her."

Suddenly, the crystal chandelier above them began to tremble.

A low thrumming sound vibrated through the floorboards. It grew louder. A rhythmic thwup-thwup-thwup that drowned out the string quartet.

"Earthquake?" someone shouted.

The French doors rattled in their frames.

Outside, on the manicured Great Lawn, a storm descended.

A massive Sikorsky S-76 helicopter, painted matte black with a gold 'K' on the tail, flared for a landing. The rotor wash tore through the garden, ripping up flower beds and sending patio umbrellas cartwheeling across the grass.

The guests rushed to the windows.

"Is that... is that a Kaufman bird?" Harl asked, his face draining of color.

The helicopter touched down. The side door slid open.

Four security guards in tactical suits jumped out, unrolling a red carpet across the grass.

Then, a leg emerged. A stiletto heel.

Kaela stepped out.

She wasn't wearing flannel. She was wearing a backless, midnight-blue gown that clung to her like liquid shadow. It was a dress Barron had kept on the jet for "emergencies." Her hair was slicked back, her makeup sharp and severe. She was the spitting image of her sister, Jenna, but with an edge of danger Jenna could only dream of.

She turned back to the cabin and extended a hand.

Two guards lifted Barron out and placed him in his wheelchair. He looked frail, his head listing to the side, a tuxedo hanging loosely on his frame.

Kaela gripped the handles of the chair. She didn't look like a victim. She looked like a queen returning to execute her subjects.

She pushed the chair toward the ballroom doors.

Inside, Candace dropped her champagne flute. It shattered.

Jenna's mouth hung open on the giant screen behind her.

The bride had arrived. Or so they thought.