The door of the stretch limousine clicked shut, sealing out the noise of the sirens. The interior was silent, smelling of leather and conditioned air.

The car began to move.

Eleanor had passed out from the emotional overload. She slumped against the window, her hand still gripping Vesper's wrist.

Arthur Sterling stared at Vesper. The loving father mask dropped instantly.

He reached into the side compartment and pulled out a small, gold-plated pistol. He pointed it at Vesper's knee.

"Who are you?" Arthur asked. His voice was calm, business-like. "Not what you were. What have you become?"

Vesper didn't flinch. Her training screamed at her to disarm him-a simple wrist lock, a twist, and the gun would be hers. But Cassandra Sterling wouldn't know how to do that.

She shrank back into the leather seat. "Please," she whimpered. "I... I owed money. Bad people. They were going to kill me. I just needed to get away, to come home."

"You broke into Sotheby's," Arthur said flatly. "I saw the security feed before they sealed it. The person in the vents had the build of a gymnast. That's not a junkie."

"I know where the real leverage against our competitors is," Vesper lied, switching tactics. She had to give him something he wanted, something that explained her new, dangerous skills.

The gun barrel wavered. Just a fraction of an inch.

"What?" Arthur whispered.

"I saw things, heard things," Vesper said rapidly, pulling details from the general corporate espionage database she had memorized years ago. "About the Van Horn acquisitions. There's a second ledger... a ghost account in D.C."

It was a generic guess. Most corrupt corporations had ghost accounts.

The car slammed on its brakes.

"Sir," the driver's voice came over the intercom. "Police roadblock. Commander... no, it's Bishop. He ordered a secondary sweep."

Vesper looked out the tinted window. Blue lights flashed ahead. Harding hadn't given up. He knew. His gut was screaming at him that he had let the fox go.

Arthur looked at the roadblock. He looked at his sleeping wife. He looked at the gun in his hand.

"If I give you to them," Arthur said, "Eleanor wakes up in a psych ward. Again."

"And you never find out about that ghost account," Vesper added softly.

It was blackmail. It was cruel. It was effective.

Arthur put the gun away. "If you lie to me, I will bury you myself."

He rolled down the window as Harding approached.

"Mr. Sterling," Harding said, leaning in. His eyes scanned the interior. They landed on Vesper. "I need prints. Now."

"Do you have a warrant?" Arthur asked.

"I have probable cause."

"You have a hunch," Arthur sneered. "And you're harassing a grieving family. Remember who signs your checks, Bishop."

Harding reached through the window. He grabbed Vesper's arm.

Vesper screamed. It was a sharp, piercing sound.

Eleanor woke up thrashing. "Get off her! Get off her!"

She clawed at Harding's arm. Her nails raked across his skin, drawing blood.

"Christ!" Harding yanked his arm back.

"Drive!" Arthur yelled at the driver. "Run it!"

The engine roared. The limousine swerved around the wooden barricade, tires screeching.

Harding stood in the middle of the road, watching the taillights fade. He looked down at the scratch on his hand. He licked the blood off his knuckle.

Inside the car, the silence returned. Heavier this time.

"You are Cassandra Sterling," Arthur said, staring straight ahead. "Until I get a DNA test. You don't speak unless spoken to. You don't leave the house."

"Understood," Vesper said.

"Bathroom is in the back," Arthur said. "Clean yourself up. You smell like a sewer."

Vesper went into the tiny bathroom. She locked the door. She leaned against the sink, shaking.

She reached into her smock. She pulled out the yellow rubber glove she had retrieved from the bucket before leaving the closet. Inside was the Crimson Agate.

She couldn't keep it in her pocket. They would search her. The bullet wound on her shoulder was still weeping. It was the perfect, gruesome hiding place.

She opened the first-aid kit in the medicine cabinet. She found a sterile packet. She carefully unwrapped her makeshift bandage, exposing the angry red graze. Taking a deep breath, she retrieved the Agate, now sealed in a small, biocompatible pouch she'd prepared, and tucked it deep into the fleshy part of the wound. She then covered it with a fresh, thick gauze pad.

The pain was blinding, but it was secure. A strip search would reveal a wound, not a ten-million-dollar ledger.

It was a hard, cold lump under her skin.

Ten million dollars, sitting in her flesh.

The car turned onto the tarmac of a private airfield. The Sterling jet was waiting.

Vesper stepped out of the car. The wind whipped her hair. She looked back at the city lights.

Her phone vibrated. A text from Cipher.

Harding Bishop just filed for cross-state jurisdiction, citing corporate asset recovery. He knows you're on the plane. Good luck, Vesper.

Vesper boarded the plane. She was trading a prison cell for a gilded cage.

The Hamptons estate was a fortress disguised as a home. High hedges, iron gates, and cameras on every corner.

The car stopped in front of the main house. Servants stood in a line, heads bowed.

Eleanor gripped Vesper's hand so hard her knuckles were white. "We're home, darling. You're safe."

Vesper stepped out. The air smelled of salt and money.

Two people waited on the steps.

An old man in a wheelchair, his hands resting on a black cane. Archibald Sterling. The patriarch.

And a young woman in a white power suit. Victoria Sterling. The sister.

Archibald didn't smile. He looked at Vesper like she was a stain on his driveway.

"I can smell the poverty from here," Archibald rasped.

"Father, please," Eleanor begged. "She's back."

Victoria stepped forward. She was beautiful in a sharp, dangerous way. She hugged Vesper. It was stiff. Cold.

"Welcome home, sis," Victoria whispered in Vesper's ear. "I don't know what gutter you crawled out of, but I will make you wish you stayed there."

Vesper's instinct was to drive her knee into Victoria's stomach. Instead, she flinched. She pulled away, keeping her eyes on the ground.

"Take her to the guest wing," Archibald ordered. "Scrub her down. Burn those clothes. She doesn't eat at the main table until the DNA results come back."

Mrs. Higgins, the housekeeper, led Vesper away.

The guest room was larger than Vesper's entire apartment. But the windows had decorative bars.

"Strip," Mrs. Higgins said.

Vesper stood in the bathroom. She took off the filthy smock and compression gear. She stood naked under the harsh lights. It was humiliating. It was a search.

Mrs. Higgins checked her hair for lice. She checked her arms for needle marks. Her eyes lingered on the fresh, thick bandage on Vesper's shoulder.

"What's this?" the housekeeper asked, her voice sharp.

"I fell," Vesper said, her voice small. "Running. On the street."

Mrs. Higgins grunted, seemingly satisfied it wasn't a track mark, and pointed to the shower.

Vesper stepped into the shower. The water was hot. She let it run over her face. She checked the mirror. It was a two-way glass. She could feel the lens behind it.

Victoria was watching.

Vesper grabbed a bar of soap. She scrubbed her skin raw, acting out the part of the dirty girl trying to wash away her sins. She made sure to wince when she touched her shoulder, but she hid the actual wound from the camera's angle.

She dressed in the silk pajamas laid out for her. They felt like chains.

Midnight.

The house was silent. Vesper slipped out of her room. She moved on the balls of her feet, avoiding the floorboards she knew would creak.

She needed calories. Her body was burning through energy to heal.

She entered the kitchen.

Someone was there.

A man leaned against the counter, eating a piece of cold chicken. Liam. Victoria's fiancé.

He looked Vesper up and down. He smirked. "So, you're the long-lost sister. You clean up nice."

He took a step toward her. "Victoria is asleep. We could... catch up."

Vesper picked up a steak knife from the counter. She didn't hold it like a dinner guest. She held it like a weapon. Blade reversed along her forearm.

She looked him in the eye. The "scared girl" mask slipped for a fraction of a second.

"Take another step," Vesper said, her voice flat, "and you'll be eating through a straw."

Liam froze. The air in the kitchen changed. He saw something in her eyes that terrified him.

"Crazy bitch," he muttered. He backed out of the room.

Vesper grabbed an apple and a servant's tablet left on the counter. She retreated to the pantry.

She connected to the wifi.

Search: Harding Bishop.

Result: Request for Warrant - Sterling Estate. Status: Pending. Addendum: Bishop has invoked the 'Corporate Security Act' to place a 24/7 surveillance team on the property perimeter.

He was coming.

Vesper needed to cement her identity. She needed to pass the DNA test. She needed to access the historical medical records to ensure the sample she provided matched Cassandra Sterling's, not Vesper Vale's.

She knew where Archibald kept the family medical records. The study.

She moved through the dark hallways. She reached the heavy oak doors of the study. She reached for the handle.

The door clicked open from the inside.

Archibald sat in his wheelchair in the dark. A shotgun rested across his lap.

"Rats always come out at night," he said.

The dining room table was long enough to land a plane on.

Vesper sat in the middle, isolated. She was wearing a pink dress that Victoria had picked out. It was three sizes too big and out of style by a decade. She looked like a child playing dress-up.

Archibald sat at the head. Arthur at the foot.

Victoria tapped her wine glass. "So, Cassandra. Tell us. Did you finish high school? Or were you too busy turning tricks for meth?"

"Victoria!" Arthur slammed his hand on the table.

"I'm just asking what we're all thinking," Victoria said, swirling her wine. She looked at Vesper. "Do you even know what fork to use?"

Vesper picked up the salad fork for the main course. She held it like a shovel. She chewed with her mouth open.

Archibald looked away in disgust. "An animal. A disgrace."

"She needs time, Father," Eleanor whispered, her eyes wet.

"She needs a kennel," Victoria laughed. She turned to the waiter and spoke in rapid, fluent French. "Bring me another bottle. This one tastes like vinegar. And make sure the girl doesn't steal the silverware."

She smirked at Vesper. "Sorry. I forgot you don't speak civilized languages."

Vesper put down her fork. The metal clinked against the china. She had intended to play the broken fool for weeks, to lull them into a false sense of security. But Victoria's cruelty, her father's calculation, Archibald's disdain-it was a cage she had to rattle. It was time to stop playing the victim and start playing the game.

She wiped her mouth. She looked up. The fear was gone.

"Actually," Vesper said. Her French was perfect. Not the Parisian French Victoria learned in boarding school, but the guttural, rhythmic slang of the Marseille docks. "The wine is vinegar because it was corked. You can tell by the smell of wet cardboard. Just like you can tell that Cartier bracelet is a fake by the way the light hits the bevels."

Silence slammed into the room. The waiter froze.

Victoria's mouth fell open. "What did you say?"

Vesper switched to English. Her voice was cool, bored. "The refraction index is wrong. It's glass. High-quality glass, but glass. I'm guessing Liam's investments aren't doing so well?"

Liam choked on his water. His face went pale. He had been siphoning money from the wedding fund to pay gambling debts.

Archibald turned his head slowly. He looked at Vesper. Really looked at her.

Victoria stood up, her face red. She grabbed her wine glass and threw the contents at Vesper.

Vesper didn't jump. She leaned two inches to the left. The red wine sailed past her ear and splashed onto Mrs. Higgins' apron.

"Too slow," Vesper said. "On the street, you'd be dead."

Arthur stared at her. He wasn't angry. He was intrigued.

"Enough!" Archibald roared.

He grabbed his heavy ebony cane. In a fit of senile rage, he swung it across the table, aiming for Vesper's head.

Eleanor screamed.

Vesper didn't duck. She raised her left hand.

Thwack.

She caught the cane. Her palm stung, but her grip was iron. She stopped the heavy wood inches from her face.

She looked down the length of the cane, straight into Archibald's eyes.

"I don't like being threatened," Vesper said softly. "Grandfather."

She twisted her wrist. She yanked the cane from the old man's weak grip.

She set it gently on the table.

"May I be excused?" Vesper stood up. "I've lost my appetite."

She walked out of the room. Her back was straight.

Upstairs, in her room, she locked the door. She leaned against it, exhaling sharply. She had shown too much. She had let the mask slip. It was a calculated risk, but a risk nonetheless.

She walked to the bed. Someone had been in her room.

On her pillow, there was a folded piece of paper.

She opened it.

Your accent is Lyonnais, not Marseille. Nice try. - H.B.