Chanel took a deep breath. She closed her eyes for a second, visualizing a wall coming down between her emotions and her voice. She could not beg. Begging had gotten her nowhere with the assistant. She had to negotiate.

She dialed the number on the black card again.

Kurtis answered immediately, his tone annoyed. I told you-

Tell Mr. Montgomery I have a financial proposition regarding the Maldonado estate, Chanel said.

She didn't stutter. Her voice was steady, authoritative. She didn't know where the tone came from, but it felt natural, like muscle memory.

There was a silence on the other end. The mention of the estate had triggered a filter.

Hold, Kurtis said.

A click. Then, classical music played. It was heavy on the cellos. Ominous.

A new voice spoke. It was deep, baritone, vibrating with an authority that made the receiver tremble in her hand.

Speak.

Chanel's heart hammered against her ribs, but her mind was clear.

This is Chanel, she said. I need five thousand dollars to clear a hospital bill.

There was a pause. It stretched out, thick and heavy.

You called my private line for pocket change? Duke Montgomery asked. He sounded amused, but darkly so.

I am frozen out of my accounts, Chanel said. I will repay you with ten percent interest in thirty days.

She waited.

Duke was silent. Unbeknownst to Chanel, in a darkened office in Manhattan, <b>Duke Montgomery was looking at a live feed on his tablet. The feed was from the Lenox-Montgomery Clinic, a 'charitable' acquisition his family had made a decade prior. It gave him access to certain... administrative privileges.

He saw her posture. She was sitting rigid, her chin up, despite the hospital gown and the bruises. She didn't look like the weeping, desperate girl Beckham described. She looked like a soldier.

Make it twenty percent, Duke said. He was testing her.

Fifteen percent, Chanel countered automatically. That is the standard high-risk personal loan rate for unsecured debt.

She didn't know how she knew that. The numbers just appeared in her mind, solid and irrefutable.

Duke's lips twitched in his office. A rare, ghost of a smile.

Account details, he commanded.

Chanel read the wiring instructions from the bottom of the invoice the nurse had left.

Done, Duke said. His voice dropped an octave, becoming intimate and threatening all at once.

Don't make me come collect, Ms. Maldonado.

The line clicked dead.

In his darkened Manhattan office, Duke Montgomery lowered the phone. On the tablet before him, the live feed showed the woman in the hospital bed. She looked frail but defiant. A ghost of a memory surfaced-a girl with the same fire in her eyes, laughing in a sun-drenched garden. He traced her outline on the screen with his thumb. "Elle," he murmured to the silence, the name a forgotten secret on his tongue.

Chanel stared at the phone. Seconds later, the nurse's computer let out a cheerful ping.

The nurse's eyes went wide. She stared at the screen, then at Chanel.

The bill... it's paid in full, the nurse stammered. Plus a tip?

Chanel exhaled. Her body sagged, the adrenaline leaving her limbs heavy.

She reached down and unhooked her IV. A bead of blood welled up on her hand, but she ignored it.

I'm leaving, she said.

She found her clothes in the plastic bag. It was a silk dress, torn at the hem and stained with mud and blood. She put it on anyway. She ignored the way the nurse watched her.

She walked out of the room, her head high. She passed the nurse's station without looking back.

In the corridor, she caught her reflection in a glass pane. Her hair was matted, her face pale. She looked like a wreck. But her eyes were fierce. They were the eyes of someone who had just survived the first round.

She exited the hospital into the bright, harsh sunlight of New York. Her phone buzzed.

A notification: Transfer Receipt - DM Holdings.

Chanel hailed a taxi outside the hospital. She had no cash, but she had a plan. Or at least, a hope.

To the Maldonado Estate, Long Island, she told the driver. I will pay you when we arrive.

The driver, a weary man with grey stubble, looked at her torn dress. He seemed skeptical, but the address was in the wealthiest district. He nodded.

The drive was long. Chanel watched the city fade. Concrete turned to trees. Bodegas turned to manicured lawns and high stone walls.

They arrived at the iron gates of the estate.

Chanel leaned forward. She punched the code into the keypad from the backseat window. 1-9-9-8.

Nothing happened. A red light blinked.

They changed it, she whispered.

She had to press the intercom button.

It's Chanel, she said. Open the gate.

The housekeeper's voice crackled. One moment.

The gate opened slowly, the gears grinding. The taxi drove up the long, winding driveway lined with imported Italian cypress trees.

As she exited the taxi, she saw a convertible parked near the fountain. Beckham's car.

She walked to the front door, the driver waiting. She rang the bell.

The door opened. It wasn't the housekeeper.

It was Cynthia. Isamar and Beckham stood behind her in the foyer, like a tribunal.

Cynthia marched down the steps. She was immaculate in a cream pantsuit.

Without a word, Cynthia slapped Chanel across the face.

The sound was like a gunshot. Chanel's head snapped to the side. Her cheek burned as if she had been branded.

You trash! Cynthia screamed. Coming back here in a taxi like a beggar!

Chanel touched her cheek. She didn't cry. She stared at her mother, feeling a strange detachment. The slap had broken something, but it wasn't her spirit. It was the bond.

I need cash for the taxi, Chanel said quietly.

Cynthia laughed. It was a cruel, high-pitched sound.

No handouts, the housekeeper said you asked for? You don't live here anymore. You are disowned until you fix this.

Servants appeared from the side entrance. They threw two black trash bags onto the driveway. They landed with a wet thud at Chanel's feet.

Get out before I call the police for trespassing, Cynthia threatened.

Beckham leaned against the doorframe, swirling a drink in his hand. Need a ride to the shelter, Chanel?

Chanel looked at them. The toxic triad. She felt the heavy diamond studs in her ears. She had forgotten she was wearing them.

She took them out. She walked back to the taxi driver.

Take these, she said. They are worth two thousand dollars.

The driver took them, eyes wide, and sped off.

Chanel turned back to the house. The door was already closing.

She grabbed the trash bags. They were heavy.

She turned her back on the mansion and started walking down the long driveway.

Thunder rumbles overhead. The sky turned a dark, bruised gray.

Chanel dragged the bags to the main road outside the estate walls. Her arms burned. Her ankle throbbed.

The rain started. It wasn't a romantic shower. It was a cold, miserable drizzle that soaked through her torn dress in seconds.

She sat on her bags under the small glass shelter of a bus stop. She was shivering uncontrollably.

She checked her phone. 15% battery.

She scrolled through her contacts. Names flashed by. Socialites. Party friends. People who would laugh at her.

She stopped at a name: Jojo Vance.

She didn't have a face for the name, but looking at it triggered a warm, fuzzy feeling in her chest. It felt safe.

She texted: SOS. I have nowhere to go.

Three dots appeared immediately.

The phone rang.

Chanel? I saw the news. Are you okay? The voice was rough, concerned.

Chanel's voice cracked. They kicked me out, Jojo.

Send me your location. I'm coming.

Chanel waited for forty-five minutes. She fought off panic. She fought off the cold.

A beat-up Honda Civic pulled up, screeching to a halt. The muffler was loud.

A girl jumped out. She had bright pink hair and a leather jacket covered in patches.

Jojo looked at Chanel's dress, the bruises, the trash bags.

Holy shit, they actually did it, Jojo whispered.

She pulled Chanel into a fierce hug. Chanel stiffened, then melted. It was the first human touch she had received that wasn't violent or clinical.

They loaded the bags into the messy backseat of the Honda.

Jojo drove fast, cursing the Maldonados with creative profanity the whole way.

Why are you helping me? Chanel asked, staring out the window. Everyone says I'm awful.

Jojo glanced at her. Because you paid for my mom's surgery two years ago, you idiot. You just don't brag about it.

Chanel was stunned. I did?

Yeah. Amnesia, right? We have a lot to catch up on.

They arrived at a brick apartment building in Queens. It was a fourth-floor walk-up.

They hauled the bags up the narrow stairs.

The apartment was small and cluttered, but it was warm. It smelled of vanilla and old books.

Jojo gave Chanel a clean towel and an oversized t-shirt.

Chanel showered. She washed off the hospital smell, the rain, and the feeling of her mother's hand on her face.

When she stepped out, Jojo had made instant ramen.

Dinner of champions, Jojo grinned.

Chanel took the bowl. The warmth seeped into her hands. She took a bite. It tasted better than any banquet food she could remember.