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.

Jojo lent Chanel two hundred dollars cash and a nondescript gray hoodie.

Don't get arrested, Jojo warned.

Chanel took the subway back to Long Island. It was a new experience. The noise, the smell, the crush of bodies. But she navigated it with a strange ease.

She arrived near the estate at dusk.

She knew the servants' shift change was at 7 PM. She remembered that rhythm.

<b>She moved toward the rear of the property, her body remembering a path her mind couldn't. She recalled the quarterly landscaping overhauls, how for forty-eight hours, the pressure plates along the north hedge were deactivated to prevent false alarms from the heavy machinery. She checked her phone. It was the first Tuesday of the month. The system would be down. She slipped through the perfectly manicured hedge, her feet landing silently on the soft mulch within the perimeter.

She crept through the garden, avoiding the sweeping arcs of the security cameras.

In the distance, she saw a car parked at the neighbor's estate-Montgomery Manor. It was a black Maybach. Duke's car.

She shuddered and focused on her own house.

She found the spare key hidden under a fake rock near the kitchen entrance. It was still there.

She entered the mudroom. It was quiet. She could hear voices in the dining room. Dinner was being served.

She sneaked up the back stairs to her old room.

Her room had been ransacked. Her clothes were gone. The closet was empty.

But the painting on the wall was untouched.

She moved it aside. The safe was there.

She tried the code. Her birthday. Error.

She tried Beckham's birthday. Error.

She paused, her mind a blank. Then, a ghost of a memory surfaced. Not of the code itself, but of setting it. She had chosen something that was hers alone, a number that represented her first real escape. The date she received her Wharton acceptance letter. Her family had scoffed at it, called it a triviality. They would never think to change something they deemed so insignificant. She typed in the six digits: 0-4-1-5-1-6.

Click. The light turned green.

The safe opened. Inside were her passport, birth certificate, and the degrees.

There was also a small velvet box. She opened it. A simple silver locket. She put it in her pocket with the documents.

She heard heavy footsteps in the hallway.

She froze.

The door handle turned.

Liam, her brother, entered. He was holding a beer bottle.

He spotted her immediately.

Well, well, he sneered. Look what the cat dragged in.

He blocked the doorway, a cruel grin spreading across his face. He was big, a former college linebacker who had gone to seed.

Chanel clutched the documents in her hoodie pocket. Her heart raced against her ribs.