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.

Morning sunlight hit Chanel's face. She woke up on Jojo's couch, her neck stiff but her mind clear.

Jojo was already up, sitting at the kitchen island, typing furiously on a laptop.

Good morning, Chanel said.

Jojo spun around. Coffee? It's cheap, but it's caffeine.

Chanel accepted the mug. She took a sip and looked around the room. She spotted a framed photo on the wall.

It was her and Jojo at a graduation ceremony. They were wearing gowns. Chanel was wearing a sash that read Summa Cum Laude.

Chanel pointed at it. I graduated with honors?

Jojo laughed. Top of the class, Wharton School of Business. You were a beast in finance. You made grown men cry in stats class.

Chanel was shocked. <b>My mother always said I bought my degree.</b>

<b>Jojo scoffed. "Your mother is a liar. And Isamar made sure that lie spread. She spent a year whispering to anyone who would listen that your Wharton acceptance was a backroom deal for a new library wing, that your honors were a fluke. She painted you as a fraud so Beckham would look like the genius for choosing her instead."</b> You were recruited by Wall Street. You turned it down to 'support' Beckham and his fragile ego.

A flash hit Chanel. Numbers. Charts. Moving averages. The logic of the market. It flooded her brain like a download completing.

Can I borrow your laptop? Chanel asked.

She sat down. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. She logged into a market simulator. She didn't know the password, but her fingers did. Muscle memory.

She analyzed a stock trend in seconds. She saw the patterns. The resistance levels. The breakout points.

Jojo watched her, amazed. The amnesia didn't take the brain, thank God.

Chanel checked her email. It was flooded with spam and hate mail from tabloids.

She found an old draft folder. Inside was a resume she had never sent.

It listed CFA, CPA, and internships at top firms.

I need a job, Chanel said decisively. I need to pay Duke Montgomery back.

Jojo choked on her coffee. You owe Duke money? The Duke?

Yes. And I'm going to apply to Montgomery Corp.

Jojo warned her. Beckham works there. It's the lion's den.

Beckham is an idiot, Chanel said coldly. I'm aiming for the strategic analysis department. He won't even understand what I do.

She updated the resume, deleting the "socialite" fluff. She hit submit.

But then she realized something.

I need my original documents, she said. Passport. Social Security. My degree certificates. I can't get hired without them.

They are in the safe at the estate, she remembered suddenly. A visual memory of a wall safe behind a painting popped into her head.

I have to go back, Chanel said, her eyes darkening.