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.

The scream came from the study.

Vesper was in the hallway, heading to the kitchen for water. She froze.

"Father! Breathe! Breathe!" Arthur's voice.

Vesper ran.

She burst into the study. Archibald was on the floor, clutching his chest. His face was turning purple.

"Call 911!" Eleanor was sobbing in the corner.

"He's not breathing!" Arthur yelled.

Vesper pushed past him. She knelt beside the old man. She checked his carotid artery. Nothing.

Cardiac arrest.

She had a choice. Let him die. Chaos would ensue. The police would swarm. Harding would use the confusion to get to her.

Or save him. And reveal that she knew exactly what she was doing.

She ripped Archibald's shirt open. buttons flew across the room.

She interlaced her fingers. She positioned her palms over his sternum.

Push. Push. Push.

"Get the AED!" Vesper shouted. It wasn't a request. It was a command.

The butler scrambled to the wall cabinet.

Vesper compressed the chest. One hundred beats per minute. Two inches deep. She felt the ribs creak and then a distinct crack under her hands. She didn't falter. Perfect control was a luxury. Survival was the goal.

The butler handed her the pads. She slapped them on.

"Clear!"

Zap. Archibald's body arched.

She went back to compressions. Sweat dripped from her nose. Her wounded shoulder screamed in protest.

"Come on, you old bastard," she gritted out.

A gasp. A ragged, wet cough.

Archibald's eyes fluttered open.

The door banged open. Dr. Thorne, the concierge doctor, rushed in with a medical bag.

He saw Vesper. He saw the rhythm of her hands.

"Stop," Thorne said. He checked the pulse. "He's back. Stable."

He looked at Vesper. "Where did you learn to do that? That was... brutally effective."

Vesper sat back on her heels. She wiped the sweat from her forehead. She saw Arthur staring at her. She saw the suspicion.

"I... you learn things on the street," Vesper panted. "When you don't have insurance, you learn to be your own ambulance."

"That wasn't TV," Thorne muttered. "You saved his life, even if you cracked a rib. Most people hesitate."

"Well done," a deep voice said from the doorway.

Harding Bishop walked in. He was wearing a dark suit. He looked like the grim reaper's handsome brother.

He walked over to Vesper. He reached down and took her hand.

"Let me help you up," he said.

He pulled her to her feet. He didn't let go. His thumb rubbed against the inside of her palm. He felt the ridge of tough skin below her fingers. He felt the callous on her trigger finger.

He leaned in close. His breath was warm on her ear.

"Gun calluses," Harding whispered. "Did you do a lot of shooting in the homeless shelter, Cassandra?"

Vesper yanked her hand away. Her heart hammered against her ribs.

"I worked in a kitchen," she lied. "Shoveling ice, scrubbing industrial pans."

Harding smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "Of course. I'll have the lab check what kind of scrubbing creates friction patterns consistent with a Sig Sauer P226."

Archibald was loaded onto a stretcher. As they wheeled him out, the old man turned his head. He looked at Vesper.

There was no hatred in his eyes anymore. There was calculation.

Harding pulled out his phone. He dialed a number.

"Forensics," Harding said, staring at Vesper. "Get a team to the study. I want prints from the door handle. Priority one."