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.