A gray Toyota Camry with a dented bumper idled in the alleyway behind a bodega in Brooklyn. The back door flew open, and Katharina dove inside, dripping wet.

Chloe, a woman with purple hair and a nose ring, sat in the driver's seat. Without a word, she tossed a towel and a bundle of clothes into the back.

"Huff security is sweeping the credit card records," Chloe said, her eyes on the rearview mirror. "They're looking for hotels."

Katharina stripped off the sodden black dress. She shoved the designer fabric into a trash bag like it was dirty laundry. She pulled on a pair of gray sweatpants and an oversized hoodie.

"Let them look," Katharina said. She opened a laptop that was wedged between the seats. She connected to a secure hotspot.

Lines of code reflected in her eyes. This was her domain. Not the gala, not the penthouse. This.

"Mrs. Higgins just got fired," Chloe said softly.

Katharina's fingers froze on the keyboard. "What?"

"She tried to tell Grafton about the medication schedule. He thought she was spying for you. Harlow brought in her own 'wellness team'."

Katharina closed her eyes for a second. Mrs. Higgins was the only one who knew how to mix the compounds without triggering the side effects.

"He's going to crash," Katharina whispered. Then she opened her eyes. "Focus. What's the job?"

"Hedge fund manager. West Village. Overdose. He doesn't want an ambulance record."

Katharina typed a command. "Get the Naloxone and the rapid chelation kit."

Her old phone-the sleek iPhone Grafton paid for-rang in her bag. The screen lit up: Arthur Sterling (Lawyer).

Katharina looked at it. She didn't answer. She popped the SIM card tray open with a paperclip. She took the tiny chip, snapped it in half, and rolled down the window. She flicked the pieces into a puddle.

"What if they trace the medical IP to the shell companies?" Chloe asked, merging into traffic.

"They won't," Katharina said. "They don't read code. They only read bank statements."

In the penthouse, Grafton rubbed his chest. A dull ache was spreading behind his sternum. He frowned, massaging the muscle.

"You okay, baby?" Harlow asked. She was sitting on the floor of the closet, pulling out Katharina's vintage Chanel jackets.

"Just stress," Grafton grunted. "Heartburn."

Harlow jumped up. She grabbed a bottle of orange pills from her bag. "Here. Take this. It's a high-potency vitamin blend. My yoga instructor swears by it. It'll clear that energy block."

Grafton looked at the pill. It looked generic. But Harlow looked so concerned, so attentive.

"You're good to me," he said. He swallowed the pill dry.

"Without her negative energy, this house already feels lighter," Harlow said, kissing his cheek.

Grafton nodded. The pain in his chest didn't go away, but he convinced himself it was fading. "Much better."

Katharina knelt on the floor of a luxury loft in the West Village. A man in a three-piece suit was convulsing on the rug, foam gathering at the corners of his mouth.

She moved with mechanical precision. Tourniquet. Vein. Injection.

"Easy," she murmured. "Breathe."

The man gasped, his eyes flying open. He sucked in air like a drowning victim breaking the surface.

He looked at Katharina, his eyes wide with terror and gratitude. "Oh god. You saved me. You're an angel."

Katharina packed the syringe back into her kit. She stood up, pulling her hood over her head.

"I'm not an angel," she said flatly. "I'm the Broker. And angels don't charge consulting fees."

Her burner phone buzzed.

Payment Received: $50,000.

She walked out of the loft, leaving the man alive, anonymous, and in debt.

The private clinic smelled of antiseptic and money. Grafton paced the VIP waiting room, his phone pressed to his ear.

"What do you mean his platelets are crashing?" he shouted.

His brother, Preston, sat in the corner, head in his hands. Preston's son, Tripp-Grafton's favorite nephew-was in the ICU.

A doctor in a white coat stepped in. "Mr. Huff, we need a bone marrow transplant. Immediately. The donor registry is too slow. We need a match we've used before."

Grafton froze. There was only one person who had been a perfect match for Tripp's rare blood type three years ago.

"Call her," Preston said, looking up. His eyes were red. "Get Katharina."

Grafton swallowed. "She's... unavailable."

"Unavailable?" Preston stood up, knocking his chair over. "My son is dying, Grafton! You said you were 'handling' her! Did you exile our only compatible family donor?"

Grafton turned to Arthur, his CFO, who was standing by the door. "Find her. Now."

Arthur typed furiously on his tablet. "She logged into an old cloud account to transfer a school file for... someone named Leo? I have a location ping. A coffee shop in Brooklyn."

"Send the team," Grafton ordered. "Bring her here."

Katharina was sitting in a corner booth, sipping lukewarm black coffee. She was emailing the admissions office of a boarding school upstate.

Two men in dark suits entered the shop. They didn't look like customers. They looked like hammers looking for a nail.

They spotted her. One of them grabbed her upper arm.

"Ms. Wiley. You're coming with us."

Katharina didn't scream. She didn't fight. She saw the desperation in their grip. "Is it Tripp?" she asked.

The guard blinked. "Just get in the car."

She went. Not because they forced her, but because Tripp was seven years old and innocent.

When she walked into the clinic waiting room, Grafton didn't hug her. He didn't look relieved. He looked entitled.

"Prep her," Grafton barked at the nurse. "She needs to be in surgery in ten minutes."

He turned to Katharina. "You took your time."

Katharina stood still. She looked at Preston, who was weeping. She looked at Grafton, who was checking his watch.

"No," she said.

The room went silent. The air conditioning hummed.

"Excuse me?" Grafton stepped closer.

"My familial obligations are void," Katharina said. "No."

Preston lunged at her. "You bitch! He's a child!"

Katharina sidestepped him. She pulled a folded document from her hoodie pocket-a standard medical liability waiver she carried for her Broker jobs.

"I donated three years ago because I was family," she said. "Now, I am a stranger. And strangers require consent."

"I'll sue you," Grafton snarled. "I'll sue you for negligence. I'll destroy you."

"Bodily autonomy, Grafton," Katharina said, her voice cold. "Supreme Court precedent. You can't court-order a needle into my spine."

She looked toward the ICU doors. Her heart ached for Tripp. But she knew if she gave in now-if she gave them this without a fight-she would never be free. They would harvest her until she was dry.

"I have a condition," she said.

Grafton's eyes narrowed. "Name it."

"Return the IP rights to the shell companies listed under my maiden name. Full transfer. Today."

Grafton's face turned purple. "You're holding a child hostage for patents? You monster."

"I'm learning from the best," Katharina said. "You have one hour to decide. Or you can wait for the public registry."

She turned and walked toward the elevator.

"Where are you going?" Grafton screamed.

"To get a real coffee," she said. "Call my lawyer if you want to save your nephew."

Grafton stormed into Arthur Sterling's office at Huff Enterprises. He kicked the door shut.

"Freeze it all!" he roared. "The trust. The checking accounts. I want her card to decline when she tries to buy a pack of gum. I want her starving."

Arthur looked pale. He was sweating through his dress shirt. He tapped a key on his keyboard and turned the monitor toward Grafton.

"Sir... there's a problem."

Grafton looked at the screen. It was a transaction history for the Wiley Legacy Trust.

"It's empty?" Grafton asked, hopeful.

"No," Arthur said. "It's full. She hasn't touched the principal in ten years. The only withdrawals were for approved charitable donations and medical research grants."

Grafton stared. He had spent years calling her a leech. He had convinced himself she stuck around for the prestige and the access.

"Dig deeper," Grafton commanded. "Where is she getting money?"

Arthur clicked a folder labeled External Assets.

"I ran a forensic audit when she demanded the IP rights," Arthur said. "Her name is attached to four offshore holding companies. They own the co-development rights to our three best-selling neurology drugs."

Grafton felt the room spin. "That's impossible. Those are Huff patents."

"The corporate charter," Arthur whispered. "Clause 14B, from your grandfather. 'Intellectual contributions to family business shall remain the property of the creator.' You signed off on it during the last shareholder meeting, assuming it only applied to her watercolor paintings."

Grafton remembered. He remembered laughing as he signed it, thinking he was protecting his grandfather's legacy from a hobbyist.

The fax machine in the corner whirred. A single sheet of paper slid out.

Arthur picked it up. His hands shook.

"It's a Cease and Desist," Arthur said. "From Elias Thorne. Her lawyer. She's demanding retroactive royalties. Fifty million dollars. Or she pulls the licenses."

Grafton grabbed the paper. The number was staggering.

"If she pulls the licenses, the stock tanks," Arthur said. "We lose the FDA approval."

Grafton crumpled the paper. He felt trapped. For the first time in his life, he wasn't the one holding the leash.

His phone rang. It was Ainsley.

"Uncle Grafton!" she wailed. "People are posting mean comments on my Instagram because of the gala photos. I lost ten thousand followers! Do something!"

Grafton squeezed the phone. His niece's voice grated on his nerves like a drill.

"Not now, Ainsley," he snapped.

"But Uncle-"

He hung up. He looked out the window at the skyline he thought he owned.

Somewhere out there, Katharina was watching.

He felt a sharp pain in his side. He reached for the bottle of vitamins Harlow had given him. He popped two. They tasted like chalk.

In a small office in Queens, Katharina sat across from Elias. She was looking at a hard drive.

"The audit scared them," Elias said. "But they won't pay. They'll fight."

"I know," Katharina said. "That's why I need the leverage."

"What leverage?"

"The Hamptons house," she said. "There's a safe in the wine cellar. Grafton thinks I don't know the combination."

"It's risky," Elias warned.

Katharina stood up. "He's letting his nephew wait for bone marrow because he doesn't want to lose a patent. I'm done being careful."