Rain lashed against the windows of the Maybach. It was a torrential downpour, turning New York City into a blurred watercolor painting.

Bronwyn sat in the back seat, holding a bottle of Fiji water Jennings had thrust at her. The leather seat was warm.

"Drink," he said. He was typing on a tablet, not looking at her.

"Where are we going?"

"Your address is in Queens. The driver knows the way."

Bronwyn took a sip. The water was cold and clean.

"The Ghost," Jennings said suddenly. He put the tablet down. "Do you think I'm an idiot?"

"I don't care what you think," Bronwyn said. "Let me out."

"We're on the bridge. Unless you want to swim, sit still." He turned his body toward her. "Why is a surgeon with your skills working in a dive bar?"

Bronwyn froze. "You investigated me?"

"I read the news. The kid who broke my nose is your brother."

"It's none of your business."

"You owe me three thousand dollars," Jennings said calmly. "If your brother goes to prison, you'll never pay me back. You'll be spending every dime on commissary."

It was cruel because it was true.

"He won't go to prison," she whispered. "I'll find a lawyer."

"Victoria Bowen has blacklisted the case," Jennings said. "You won't find a lawyer who values their career more than the Bowen account."

Bronwyn felt the tears prick her eyes. She hated him for saying it out loud.

"What do you want me to do? Watch him die?"

Jennings looked at her. He saw the desperation. It annoyed him. He hated messy emotions.

"Work for me," he said.

Bronwyn blinked. "What?"

"Your skills are... valuable. I have use for a surgeon who operates outside the lines. Work for me exclusively, on retainer. In return, the Bowen Group's legal team eats people like your brother's D.A. for lunch."

"What's the price?" Bronwyn asked, her voice hardening. "Do I have to be your mistress? Or your private surgeon?"

"The price is obedience," Jennings said. "You belong to me. Your hands, your skills, your time. I will own you. And in return, I will solve your problem."

Bronwyn went cold. It was a gilded cage, but a cage nonetheless. She had run from one master, she wouldn't willingly walk to another.

"Stop the car," she said.

"We aren't there yet."

"Stop the car!" she screamed. "I'm going to be sick!"

Jennings flinched. The memory of the bar was visceral. He tapped the partition. "Pull over."

The car screeched to a halt on the shoulder.

Bronwyn threw the door open and scrambled out into the rain. She didn't vomit. She ran. She ran toward the subway entrance a block away, disappearing into the dark, wet mouth of the underground.

Jennings watched her go. He sat in the dry, warm car, feeling a strange, unfamiliar sensation in his chest.

Frustration.

The apartment smelled of mildew and boiled cabbage. Bronwyn dripped water onto the linoleum floor.

Chloe was sitting on the couch, chewing her fingernails. She jumped up when Bronwyn walked in.

"Where were you? I've been calling."

"I went to ask for help," Bronwyn said, shivering. "It didn't work."

Chloe looked down. "The landlord came by. He said if we don't pay the arrears by Tuesday, he's changing the locks."

Bronwyn closed her eyes. Eviction. Prison. Bankruptcy. The trifecta.

"And the lawyers... the ones I called... they want a fifty thousand retainer just to look at the case."

Bronwyn walked past Chloe into her bedroom. She pulled a Pelican case from under her bed, a case that held a portable, military-grade tissue scanner she'd acquired in a previous life. It was worth a fortune on the black market. She took out her burner phone and sent a single, encrypted text: "Scanner for sale. Need cash. Now."

An hour later, a courier met her in a back alley, handing her a thick envelope of cash in exchange for the case. Four hundred dollars. Enough for a trip, but not nearly enough for bail.

She walked over to the table and sat down. She stared at the water stain on the ceiling. It looked like a map of a country that didn't exist.

She pulled Chloe's laptop toward her. She opened a browser.

She typed: Kidney donation price black market.

Chloe gasped. She slammed the laptop shut. "Are you insane? That's illegal! You could die!"

"What else do I have to sell?" Bronwyn shouted, the dam breaking. "My dignity? Nobody wants it! My body? I'm worth nothing, Chloe! Nothing!"

They hugged each other, crying in the damp, dark living room.

When the tears ran out, Bronwyn felt a cold, hard resolve settle in her gut.

She had one card left. The card she swore she would never play.

She went into her bedroom. She knelt down and dragged a dusty box from under the bed.

Inside was a set of unmarked, non-reflective surgical scalpels made of a matte black ceramic composite. And a photo. A photo of a massive estate in Long Island. Tucked behind the photo was a tarnished silver locket, engraved with a crest. A serpent wrapped around a staff.

She was the bastard daughter of the Phelps dynasty. The secret Elsworth Phelps had paid her mother to keep hidden.

She put on a black dress. It was cheap, but it was clean.

"Where are you going?" Chloe asked.

"To hell," Bronwyn said. She put the scalpels in her purse. "Or heaven. Depends on who answers the door."

She called an Uber. Destination: The Hamptons.

The fare was $420. Almost every last dollar she had just made.

She got in the car. The rain beat against the roof like a drumroll for an execution.

The iron gates of the Phelps Estate were taller than Bronwyn remembered. She pressed the buzzer.

"Private property," a voice crackled.

"I'm Bronwyn Brewer. Tell Elsworth Phelps I brought the Silver Lancet."

Silence. Long, heavy silence.

Then, the gates groaned and swung open.

The driveway was a mile long. The house at the end was a palace of light. There were cars parked out front-Bentleys, Rolls Royces. A party.

The butler met her at the door. He looked at her wet hair and cheap dress with open disgust. "The study. Don't touch anything."

Bronwyn walked through the foyer. In the living room, a woman was holding court. She was blonde, beautiful, and wearing diamonds that could feed a country.

Buffy Patrick. The adopted daughter. The "perfect" heir. The Imposter.

Buffy saw her. Her smile faltered. A flicker of recognition, quickly masked by disdain, crossed her face. She recognized the jawline, the eyes, from old forbidden photographs. "Who are you? How did you get in?"

Bronwyn walked past her. "I'm here to see Elsworth."

Buffy stepped in front of her. "Grandfather is ill. He isn't seeing charity cases. Security!"

The door at the top of the stairs opened. Elsworth Phelps stood there, leaning on a cane. He looked old. frail. But his eyes were still sharp.

He looked at Bronwyn. He saw her mother's face.

"Let her up," he rasped.

Bronwyn walked up the stairs, feeling Buffy's hatred burning into her back.

In the study, Elsworth sat behind his massive desk. "You came back. Money run out?"

Bronwyn placed the case of scalpels on the desk. "I don't want money. I want you to save Leo."

"The boy who isn't even blood?" Elsworth sneered. "Why would I waste resources on him?"

"Because I can save your life," Bronwyn said.

Elsworth paused. "What?"

"I know about the aneurysm," Bronwyn said. "I saw the tremor in your hand. I saw the micro-seizures in your facial muscles."

"No one will operate," Elsworth said. "It's inoperable."

"I will," Bronwyn said.

Elsworth laughed. A dry, hacking sound. "You? You didn't even go to medical school."

"I have the gift," she said. "You know I do. It's in the blood." As she spoke, Elsworth's face went slack. The cane he was holding clattered to the floor. His left arm twitched, and a low gurgling sound came from his throat.

The door opened.

"Sorry to interrupt," a deep voice said.

Jennings Bowen walked in. He held a glass of scotch. He looked from Elsworth to Bronwyn, his eyebrows shooting up.

"Well," Jennings said. "The plot thickens."