Bronwyn woke up on a slab of concrete.

That was the only explanation. The surface beneath her was brutally hard and cold. It smelled of bleach and regret. Her head felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to her frontal lobe.

She reached out blindly, her hand seeking the familiar chipped wood of her bedside table. Instead, her fingers brushed against gritty, cold metal.

Her eyes snapped open.

She wasn't in her apartment. She was in a holding cell, the fluorescent lights overhead humming a merciless, flat note. The walls were painted a sterile, calming grey that did nothing to calm the panic piercing through her hangover.

Memories flashed. The bar. The tequila. The suit. The vomit.

She sat up, a thin, scratchy blanket falling to her waist. She looked down. Her uniform-the stained polo and the grease-spattered apron-was gone. She was wearing a paper-thin, dark blue jumpsuit. It was huge on her, the fabric crinkling with every movement.

She checked underneath. She was wearing her own underwear. Thank God.

The sound of a key turning in a lock echoed down the hall. Bronwyn scrambled backward, pulling the blanket up to her chin, pressing her back against the cinderblock wall.

The man from the bar walked in, escorted by a uniformed officer.

He looked different under the harsh institutional lighting. Less like a shadow, more like a statue carved from marble. He was wearing a different, equally expensive suit, this one a sharp charcoal grey. He held a sleek leather folio.

He stopped just outside the bars, looking at her with that same detached, clinical expression.

"You're awake," he said. "Miss Brewer."

He knew her name.

"Who are you?" Her voice was a croak. "Where am I? What did you do to me?"

He didn't answer immediately. He gestured for the officer to open the cell door. The officer complied, then stood at a respectful distance. Jennings walked in, stopping a careful ten feet away from her, as if measuring a contamination zone.

"Is that how you usually speak to the person who had you scraped off a bar floor?" he asked.

Bronwyn swung her legs off the concrete slab. Her muscles felt like jelly. She gripped the edge of the slab to steady herself.

"My clothes," she demanded, trying to summon some dignity despite wearing nothing but a paper jumpsuit. "Where are my clothes?"

"Bagged as evidence," he said calmly.

Bronwyn blinked. "What?"

"They smelled like a distillery and failure," he said. "The arresting officer was kind enough to quarantine them. Assaulting a citizen tends to have consequences."

"You had me arrested?" Her voice rose. "For spilling a drink?"

He reached into his folio and pulled out a slip of paper. He placed it on the small metal table bolted to the floor.

"That check will cover a thousand of those polyester rags," he said. "Consider it a severance package for your dignity. And bail money. In return, you will sign a non-disclosure agreement and never speak of this again."

The arrogance radiated off him in waves. He wasn't just rich; he was the kind of rich that viewed other people as NPCs in his video game.

Bronwyn stood up. Her legs shook, but she forced them to hold her weight. She walked over to the table and picked up the check. She didn't look at the amount.

She ripped it in half. Then in quarters.

She let the pieces flutter onto the grimy concrete floor.

"I don't want your money," she said, her voice shaking with rage. "I want to know what happened last night. Did you... did we..."

She couldn't finish the sentence.

The man stood up. He moved with a predator's grace, closing the distance between them in two strides. He towered over her, forcing her to crane her neck to look him in the eye.

He leaned down, his face inches from hers. She could smell coffee and mint.

He stayed silent for a long moment, letting the tension stretch until it was almost unbearable. He saw the fear in her eyes, the way her pulse jumped in her throat.

"What do you think?" he whispered.

It wasn't an answer. It was a taunt. A punishment for tearing up his money.

Bronwyn's face drained of color. She stepped back, her heel catching on the edge of the cot.

He straightened up, looking bored again. He turned toward the door.

"The matron will return your personal effects upon your release. I suggest you accept the bail. The alternative is less comfortable." He paused at the door, turning his head slightly. "And one of my men retrieved your phone from the bar floor. He took the liberty of copying its contents before placing it in your property bag. Just in case you needed a reminder of who holds all the cards."

The cell door clanged shut behind him.

Bronwyn sank to the floor, her hands trembling. She had to get out. She had to get to a pharmacy. Plan B. She needed Plan B. Just in case.

The fluorescent lights of the CVS aisle were blinding. Bronwyn stood in line, clutching the small box of emergency contraception like it was a grenade. She wore oversized sunglasses she found in the bottom of her purse to hide her red-rimmed eyes.

The woman in front of her was arguing about a coupon for fabric softener. Bronwyn tapped her foot, her anxiety spiking with every second.

When she finally reached the counter, the clerk scanned the box. Fifty dollars.

Bronwyn swiped her debit card.

Declined.

She felt the heat rise up her neck. "Try it again," she whispered.

Declined.

"Insufficient funds, honey," the clerk said loudly.

Bronwyn dug through her wallet, finding a credit card she kept for emergencies. It went through. She grabbed the bag and practically ran out of the store.

On the sidewalk, she ripped the box open. She didn't have water. She popped the pill into her mouth and swallowed it dry, the chalky taste sticking in her throat.

Her phone buzzed.

She pulled it out. Unknown number.

Save your fifty dollars. I don't have a fetish for vomit.

Bronwyn froze. The box slipped from her fingers and hit the concrete.

A second text followed immediately.

Your clothes were changed by a female police matron. Also, the bill for the rug cleaning at my club will be mailed to you.

Shame, hot and intense, flooded her system. He hadn't touched her. He had let her panic, let her run out to buy a pill she didn't need, just to teach her a lesson. He had watched her, or had her watched. The detail about her phone's data being copied slammed back into her mind. He knew everything.

But beneath the shame was a massive, overwhelming wave of relief. Nothing had happened.

She bent down, picked up the empty box, and tossed it into a trash can. She exhaled, a long, shaky breath.

Okay. Crisis averted. Now she just had to deal with her life.

She dialed her brother, Leo. He should be out of his morning classes by now.

It rang. And rang. And rang.

Voicemail.

"Leo, call me back. I'm worried."

She hung up. Leo never ignored her calls. Even when he was mad, he'd text.

She called the landline at their apartment. Nothing.

She called Chloe, their neighbor.

Chloe picked up on the first ring. She was crying.

"Bronwyn! Oh my god, where are you? The police... they took Leo!"

Bronwyn's world stopped spinning. The noise of the street faded out.

"What? Why?"

"They said he assaulted Jennings Bowen," Chloe sobbed. "Bronwyn, they said it's a felony charge."

Jennings.

Bronwyn felt the blood drain from her face.

"I'm coming," she said.

She hailed a cab, ignoring the cost. "The 19th Precinct. Drive fast."

In the back of the cab, she Googled "Felony Assault New York sentencing." The results made her nauseous. Up to seven years.

When the cab pulled up to the precinct, there was a crowd. Cameras. Microphones. Jennings had called the press. Of course he had.

Bronwyn pushed through the mob. A flash went off in her face, blinding her.

"Miss Brewer! Is it true your brother attacked Mr. Bowen over your broken engagement?" a reporter shouted, shoving a microphone into her cheek.

Bronwyn kept her head down, using her shoulder to shove past a cameraman. She burst into the precinct lobby.

It was chaos. But in the corner, sitting on a wooden bench like a king on a throne, was Jennings.

He had a bandage across his nose. His eye was slightly swollen. But he was smiling.

He saw her and stood up.

Bronwyn marched over to him. "Drop the charges. You know Leo is just a kid."

Jennings smoothed the lapel of his jacket. "He's nineteen, Bronwyn. He's an adult in the eyes of the law. And he broke my nose."

"He was defending me!" Bronwyn hissed. "He saw what you posted."

Jennings stepped closer. He smelled of expensive cologne and malice.

"He has a temper. Just like his sister." Jennings leaned down, his voice dropping to a whisper so the officers nearby couldn't hear.

"You want to save him?" Jennings smiled. "Sign the NDA. Disappear. And beg me."

Bronwyn forced herself to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The way she did before making an incision.

"What do you want, Jennings?" Her voice was ice.

Jennings looked at her, his eyes traveling down her body with a familiarity that made her skin crawl. "I want you to remember your place. You were a project. An amusing diversion. You seem to have forgotten that."

"You're engaged," she said. "To my cousin."

"Tiffany is a merger," Jennings waved his hand dismissively. "She's boring. You... you have fire. It's a shame that fire is attached to such a worthless background."

"I would rather die," Bronwyn said.

Jennings' smile vanished. "Then watch Leo go to prison. I have the best lawyers in the city. We'll bury him."

A man in a sharp grey suit walked over to them. He handed Jennings a file folder.

"Mr. Bowen," the lawyer said, not even glancing at Bronwyn. "The arraignment judge has set bail. We argued for the maximum due to the flight risk and the severity of the injury."

"How much?" Bronwyn asked.

The lawyer looked at her then, his eyes flat. "Fifty thousand dollars."

Bronwyn felt the floor drop out from under her. She had four thousand dollars in her savings account. Maybe five if she sold her car.

Fifty thousand was impossible.

Jennings tapped the folder against his palm. "If you change your mind, my office will accept your signature at any time."

He turned and walked out, his lawyer trailing behind him like a shark's pilot fish.

A young female officer approached Bronwyn. She looked sympathetic. "You can see him for five minutes."

Bronwyn followed her into a small holding room. Leo was sitting at a metal table, his hands cuffed. His face was bruised, his lip split.

"Bron," he whispered. He looked so young. "I'm sorry. I saw the picture... I just saw red."

Bronwyn sat down and reached across the table, gripping his hands. "Don't apologize. I'm going to get you out."

Leo shook his head. "Don't ask him. Please, Bron. Don't beg him. I'd rather rot in here."

"I won't," she promised. "I'll find a lawyer. A real one."

The officer knocked on the door. "Time's up."

Bronwyn walked out of the precinct into the blinding afternoon sun. She pulled out her phone and called Chloe again.

"Put your brother on," Bronwyn said. "I know he's a defense attorney."

There was a muffled conversation on the other end. Then Chloe came back on.

"Bron... he says he can't."

"Why?"

"The Bowen family made calls," Chloe whispered. "They've blackballed the case. He says no firm in New York will touch it. It's a conflict of interest trap."

Bronwyn lowered the phone.

She was blocked. Everywhere.

She scrolled through her contacts. Desperation clawed at her throat. Her thumb hovered over a picture she had saved five years ago. A blurry shot of a man's back.

The contact was simply labeled 'Ghost'. Her own call sign in a world she had tried to escape.

No. She couldn't. That world was worse than Jennings. It was a different kind of monster.

A sleek black sedan pulled up to the curb right in front of her. The back window rolled down.

Victoria Bowen sat inside. Jennings' mother. She wore oversized sunglasses and a look of permanent disdain.

"Mrs. Bowen," Bronwyn said, stiffening.

"Get in," Victoria said. "We need to talk."