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.

Liam stepped into the room, kicking the door shut behind him.

Mom said you were gone, he said. Here to steal the silverware?

Chanel stood tall. I'm taking my documents. That's it.

Liam laughed. You don't own anything here. Dad paid for those degrees.

He lunged for her pocket.

Chanel dodged. She moved with a speed that surprised him.

The noise attracted attention. Victor, her father, and Isamar appeared in the hallway.

Victor pushed the door open. What is this noise?

Liam pointed. She broke in! She's stealing!

Victor looked at Chanel with disdain. Empty your pockets.

Chanel refused. These are my legal IDs. You can't keep them.

Isamar leaned against the doorframe, holding her phone up. Maybe she's hungry, Dad. Make her cook for it.

Victor nodded. The maid is sick. Go down and finish making dinner. Then you can leave.

They expected her to submit. Chanel had always submitted.

Chanel looked at them. The absurdity of it made her laugh. A short, dry sound.

I am not your servant, she said clearly.

Victor's face turned red. You live on my dime-

Not anymore, Chanel interrupted. You kicked me out.

She moved to push past Liam.

Liam grabbed her arm. His fingers dug into her bicep, bruising the skin.

Do as you're told, bitch, Liam hissed.

Isamar was recording. Chanel could see the red light on the phone.

Chanel looked at Liam's hand on her arm. A memory flashed. Self-defense class. Junior year.

Let go, she warned. Her voice dropped.

Liam tightened his grip. Or what?

<b>A sharp, searing pain shot through Chanel's bruised ribs as Liam's grip tightened, but beneath the pain, a cold memory clicked into place: a self-defense seminar her sophomore year. Target the small bones. Use your body weight, not your strength. Her mind went quiet, shutting out everything but the target. Ignoring the scream from her own muscles, she shifted her weight onto her back foot, raised her other leg just enough, and brought the heel of her boot down with focused, desperate precision onto the delicate arch of Liam's instep. Hard.</b>

Liam howled in pain. He let go, hopping on one foot.

Victor was shocked. You dare attack your brother?

Chanel backed into the hallway. Don't touch me again.

The dynamic had shifted. The prey had just bitten back.