Abbey woke up with a gasp, her sheets tangled around her legs like vines. The dream had been vivid-Paris rain turning into black ink, drowning her while Armond stood on the banks of the Seine, watching.

She sat up, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Sunlight filtered through the grime of the window, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air of her tiny bedroom. It was morning. She was safe.

She wasn't safe.

She grabbed her laptop from the floor and opened it. Her fingers trembled as she typed the name she had avoided for five years.

Armond Woodward.

The search results populated in 0.34 seconds. Over two million hits.

The first result was a Forbes profile from last month: "The Ice King of Media: How Armond Woodward is restructuring the family legacy."

She clicked the images tab. There he was, shaking hands with the French President. There he was, cutting a ribbon in Tokyo. He looked older than the boy she had loved. His jaw was sharper, the lines around his mouth etched with stress and cynicism.

A sidebar ad popped up: Woodward Family Trust Crisis. The clock is ticking for the heir apparent.

Abbey slammed the laptop shut. She couldn't look at him. Seeing him in pixels made him real, made the threat tangible.

"Coffee!" Liz, her other roommate, kicked the door open. She was holding a cardboard carrier with three Starbucks cups. "I stole Sophie's card. Don't tell her."

Abbey forced a smile, but it felt like the skin on her face might crack. "Thanks, Liz."

"So," Liz sat on the edge of Abbey's bed, her eyes gleaming with gossip. "Sophie said Miles Sterling brought you home last night? Or, tried to? And you ran away?"

"I didn't run away," Abbey lied, taking the coffee. The heat of the cup burned her palms, grounding her. "I felt sick."

"Miles is texting everyone that you're playing hard to get. He's obsessed." Liz took a sip of her latte. "You know he's worth, like, nine figures, right? This is your ticket out of debt, Abbey. Just let him buy you dinner."

"He's not a ticket, he's a person," Abbey muttered, though the thought of her student loan balance flashed in her mind like a neon warning sign. "And he's annoying."

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. An unknown number.

Abbey stared at it. "Hello?"

"Look out your window," Miles's voice chirped.

Abbey dropped the phone. She scrambled to the window and peered through the slat of the blinds.

Double-parked on the narrow street below was a bright red Aston Martin. Miles was leaning against it, wearing sunglasses, holding a bouquet of roses that was so large it looked comical.

"Oh my god," Liz squealed, peering over Abbey's shoulder. "He is literally Prince Charming. Go down there!"

Abbey's gaze drifted past the Aston Martin.

Across the street, in the shadow of a bodega awning, sat a black Cadillac Escalade. The windows were tinted so dark they looked like voids. The engine was idling; she could see the faint puff of exhaust in the morning chill.

A shiver raced down her spine. The car didn't belong on this block. It was too clean, too menacing.

"Abbey! Go!" Liz shoved her.

Abbey pulled on a grey oversized hoodie, hiding her body, hiding herself. She walked down the three flights of stairs, her legs feeling like jelly.

When she pushed open the front door, Miles pushed off his car and grinned. "Morning, sunshine. Thought you might need a ride to campus."

He thrust the roses at her. The thorns snagged on her hoodie.

"Miles, this is..." Abbey took the flowers because she didn't know what else to do. "This is too much."

"Nonsense. Hop in." He opened the passenger door.

Across the street, the rear window of the Escalade rolled down. Just an inch.

Abbey froze. Through the sliver of open glass, she saw eyes. Dark. Cold. Watching.

Inside the Escalade, Armond Woodward sat perfectly still. The leather seat creaked softly as he shifted his weight. He watched the scene unfold with the detached interest of a scientist observing lab rats.

"Sir?" Ken, his assistant, sat in the front seat. He held out a blue folder. "The report on Miss Wynn."

Armond took the folder without looking away from the window. He opened it.

Abbey Wynn. Daughter of Marcus Wynn. Outstanding legal debts: $450,000. Law school tuition arrears: $32,000. Current account balance: $142.50.

She was drowning.

"Do you want me to intervene with Mr. Sterling?" Ken asked, glancing at the rearview mirror.

Armond watched Miles laugh at something, leaning close to Abbey. He saw Abbey flinch, a microscopic movement that only someone who had memorized her body language would notice.

"No," Armond said, his voice a low rumble. "Let him play. I want to see how much the little mouse will tolerate to survive."

On the street, Abbey stepped back from the Aston Martin.

"I can't, Miles. I take the subway. It's faster."

"The subway?" Miles wrinkled his nose. "Come on, Abbey."

"No." She turned, clutching the ridiculous roses to her chest like a shield. "I have to go."

She walked away, heading toward the subway station entrance. She could feel the gaze from the black SUV burning a hole between her shoulder blades. She didn't look back.

As she descended the stairs into the underground, her phone buzzed again. Not Miles.

BANK ALERT: Your tuition payment of $12,000 is due in 48 hours. Please remit payment to avoid un-enrollment.

Abbey stopped on the platform. The stale air of the subway rushed past her. She looked at the roses in her hand. Miles Sterling could pay that bill with the change in his cupholder.

For a second, just a second, she considered it. She could be the girl Miles wanted. She could smile and nod and let him save her.

Then Armond's face from the night before flashed in her mind. The mockery in his toast.

If she went to Miles, she was just a gold digger. If she stayed on her own, she was prey. But Armond... Armond wasn't offering to save her. He was waiting for her to break.

She tossed the roses into a trash can overflowing with newspapers.

"Miss Wynn?"

The professor's voice snapped like a whip. Abbey jerked in her seat, her pen skidding across her notebook.

"I asked you about the Rule Against Perpetuities regarding the Woodward Trust case study," Professor Miller said, peering over his spectacles.

The class tittered. Of course. The case study was about his family.

"I..." Abbey's throat went dry. "The... the vesting period is contingent on the life in being plus twenty-one years, unless... unless there is a specific clause regarding direct lineage."

"Adequate, but barely," Miller scoffed. "Try to join us in the present, Miss Wynn. The real world won't wait for you to daydream."

Abbey sank lower in her seat, her cheeks burning. She wasn't daydreaming. She was calculating how many shifts she needed at the coffee shop to cover the interest on her dad's legal fees.

When the lecture ended, she packed her bag quickly, trying to escape before anyone could talk to her. But Sophie and Liz were waiting at the door.

"Look!" Sophie shoved her phone in Abbey's face. It was a digital invitation, black and gold, spinning in 3D. "The Vault. Tonight."

Abbey stopped walking. "The Vault?"

"Liz's new guy, the promoter? He got us on the list," Sophie said, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "It's impossible to get in. It's owned by Woodward Group. They say the walls are lined with actual gold leaf."

Abbey felt the blood drain from her face. "No."

"What do you mean, no?" Liz asked. "It's Friday."

"I have to work," Abbey said, clutching her bag strap. "And I have to study."

"You live like a nun!" Liz groaned. "Come on, Abbey. You might meet someone who can actually help you with a job. It's networking."

"I can't," Abbey said firmly. "Have fun."

She turned and walked away, her heart pounding. She couldn't go to Armond's territory. That was suicide.

Her shift at the coffee shop was brutal. The espresso machine was broken, spewing steam every ten minutes. Around 8 PM, a group of girls from her old social circle-before her father's arrest-walked in.

Abbey pulled her cap down low. She took their orders, staring at the register screen.

"Oh my god, is that Abbey?" one of them whispered. Loudly.

"Don't look," another giggled.

When they paid, the girl with the platinum blonde hair tapped the screen. "Keep the change, sweetie. You look like you need it."

She left a fifty-dollar tip on a twelve-dollar order.

Abbey stared at the receipt. It was charity. It was an insult. Tears pricked her eyes, hot and stinging. But she didn't tear it up. She couldn't afford pride. She put the fifty dollars in her pocket. Groceries, she told herself. This buys groceries.

By the time she got back to the apartment, it was midnight. The place was empty. Sophie and Liz were at The Vault.

Outside, a storm had broken. Rain lashed against the windows, rattling the glass. Abbey made a cup of instant noodles and sat on the couch, wrapped in a blanket. The exhaustion was a physical weight, pressing her down into the cushions.

She drifted off.

Paris. The rain was falling there, too. Armond was standing in the doorway of their bedroom, holding the note she had written. "I can't do this anymore," it said. His face crumpled, then hardened into something unrecognizable. He grabbed her wrist. His grip was iron. "You think you can just leave? You think I'll let you?"

Abbey woke up screaming.

She sat up, gasping, sweat drenching her shirt. The apartment was dark. Thunder rumbled overhead.

Her phone was buzzing on the floor. It was vibrating so hard it was moving across the wood.

Sophie.

Abbey grabbed it. "Sophie?"

"Abbey..." Sophie's voice was slurred, panicked. The background noise was a deafening thrum of bass. "Abbey, help."

"What's wrong? Where are you?" Abbey stood up, the blanket falling away.

"The Vault. Liz is... passed out. These guys... they took her phone. They won't let us leave the booth." Sophie sobbed. "They said we owe them for the champagne. Please."

The line went dead.

Abbey stared at the phone. Her hands were shaking. The Vault. Private club. No cameras allowed. Security that answered only to the payroll. If she called the police, by the time they got a warrant to enter, it would be too late.

She needed someone with access. Someone with power.

She scrolled through her contacts. Her thumb hovered over Miles Sterling.

He was the only one.

She hated herself for it. She hated that she was about to use him. But Sophie was in trouble.

She hit call.

"Abbey?" Miles picked up on the first ring. He sounded surprised, and smug. "Changed your mind about me?"

"Miles," Abbey said, her voice trembling. "I need your help. Now."

"Whoa, okay." The smugness vanished, replaced by curiosity. "What's going on?"

"My friends are at The Vault. They're in trouble. I need you to get me in."

"The Vault?" Miles whistled. "Okay. I'm ten minutes away. Be downstairs."

Abbey hung up. She grabbed her coat and ran out into the storm. She was walking straight into the lion's den. And she knew, with a sickening certainty, that the lion was waiting.

The rain was a deluge, soaking Abbey to the bone the second she stepped out of the taxi. She didn't care. She sprinted toward the massive, matte-black double doors of The Vault.

A bouncer the size of a vending machine stepped in front of her. He held a clipboard and wore an earpiece that probably cost more than her tuition.

"Membership," he grunted, not even looking at her.

"My friend is inside," Abbey shouted over the rain. "She's in trouble. I need to get her."

The bouncer looked her up and down-wet hair, cheap sneakers, panic. He smirked. "Yeah, honey. You and every other girl in the tri-state area. Step back."

"Please!" Abbey grabbed his arm. "She called me crying!"

He shook her off like she was a fly. "Back of the line, or I call NYPD."

A low roar cut through the sound of the rain. A red Ferrari tore down the street, splashing water onto the sidewalk, and screeched to a halt right in front of the velvet rope. The valet scrambled to open the door.

Miles Sterling stepped out. He was wearing a white suit that somehow repelled the rain.

"Mr. Sterling!" The bouncer's face transformed instantly. The scowl melted into a sycophantic grin. He unhooked the rope. "We weren't expecting you tonight."

Miles walked straight to Abbey. He took off his jacket-Italian silk, warm-and draped it over her soaking wet shoulders.

"She's with me," Miles said, pulling her into his side.

"Of course, sir. My apologies." The bouncer stepped aside, bowing his head.

Abbey felt a wave of nausea. The difference between being a person and being a nuisance was apparently a Ferrari and a last name. She didn't push Miles away. She let him guide her through the doors.

Inside, the bass hit her chest like a physical blow. The air was thick with expensive perfume and dry ice fog.

"Where are they?" Miles yelled into her ear.

"Sophie said a booth!" Abbey scanned the room frantically.

They pushed through the crowd on the main floor. Abbey spotted a VIP table near the DJ booth. Liz was slumped on a leather sofa, her head back. Two men in suits were laughing, clinking glasses over her unconscious form. Sophie was nowhere to be seen.

Abbey rushed over. She shook Liz. "Liz! Wake up!"

Liz groaned, her eyes rolling back. She pointed a limp finger toward the spiral staircase in the center of the room. "Up... took Sophie... up."

Abbey looked up. The staircase led to a glass-walled balcony overlooking the club. The Diamond Lounge.

"Oh, shit," Miles muttered behind her.

"What?" Abbey asked.

"That's the members-only deck. Like, founding members. I can't even get up there."

"Sophie is up there!" Abbey started toward the stairs.

Two security guards in suits blocked the staircase. These weren't street bouncers. These were ex-military types with earpieces and cold eyes.

"Private event," one said, crossing his arms.

"I'm Miles Sterling," Miles said, stepping up. "My father is-"

"We know who your father is, Mr. Sterling," the guard said calmly. "Mr. Woodward is upstairs. No guests."

Woodward.

Abbey's legs went weak. She grabbed the banister to steady herself. Of course.

"Look," Miles pulled a black Amex card from his wallet. "Just let us grab her friend. Five minutes."

The guard didn't even look at the card. "Money doesn't work here, sir."

Abbey gripped Miles's arm. Her nails dug into his sleeve. "Miles, please. Sophie."

Miles looked at the guards, then at Abbey's desperate face. His ego was bruising, but he pulled out his phone.

"I'm calling Ken," he hissed. "Armond's assistant."

He dialed, pacing in a tight circle. "Ken? Yeah, it's Miles. Look, I'm downstairs. My girl's friend is stuck in the Lounge... Yeah... Yeah, I know."

He paused, listening. Then he looked at Abbey.

"He says okay."

A moment later, a man appeared at the top of the stairs. Ken. He was dressed in a suit that cost more than Abbey's life earnings. He walked down, his face impassive.

He looked at Miles, then his gaze slid to Abbey. He took in the wet hair, the oversized men's jacket, the terror in her eyes.

"Mr. Woodward has granted access," Ken said. His voice was devoid of emotion. "You have five minutes."

Abbey took a deep breath. The air in the stairwell was cooler, filtered. She was walking up toward the sky, but it felt like descending into hell.

Miles put his arm around her waist again, tighter this time. Reclaiming his territory.

They reached the top. The glass doors slid open silently.

The noise of the club vanished, replaced by the soft hum of jazz and the clinking of crystal. The Diamond Lounge was dark, lit only by amber strip lighting and the city skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

And there he was.

Armond sat in the center of a massive U-shaped leather sofa. He was leaning back, one leg crossed over the other, a glass of whiskey resting on his knee. He looked like a king on a throne of shadows.

He wasn't looking at the view. He was looking at the door. At her.