"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.

The air in the Diamond Lounge smelled of cedarwood and aged tobacco. It was a masculine, oppressive scent that instantly triggered a memory in Abbey's hindbrain-Armond's cologne.

Armond didn't stand up. He remained sprawled on the leather, flanked by three other men in suits who were murmuring about market shares. In the far corner, near the window, Abbey saw Sophie. She was sitting on a stool, looking dazed, while a balding man with a red face leaned uncomfortably close to her, whispering in her ear.

Abbey started to lunge toward Sophie, but Miles clamped a hand on her shoulder.

"Easy," Miles whispered. "We have to pay respects first."

He steered her toward Armond. Abbey felt like a doll being dragged by a toddler.

"Armond," Miles said, extending his hand with a practiced, politician's smile. "Thanks for the pass. Appreciate it."

Armond didn't take the hand. He let Miles's hand hang in the air for three agonizing seconds before he finally, lazily, shifted his gaze from Abbey to Miles.

"Sterling," Armond said. His voice was a low baritone that vibrated in Abbey's chest. "You're wet."

"Ah, yeah, the rain," Miles laughed nervously, dropping his hand. He pulled Abbey closer, his fingers digging into her hip through the silk jacket. "This is Abbey. She's... with me."

Armond's eyes snapped back to Abbey. He looked at Miles's hand on her hip. His expression didn't change, but the temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

"With you," Armond repeated. The words sounded like he was tasting something rotten. "Your taste is... unique."

"She's special," Miles beamed, oblivious to the razor blades in Armond's tone.

"Indeed," Armond said softly. He took a sip of his whiskey, his eyes never leaving Abbey's face. "Very special."

Abbey couldn't breathe. She pulled away from Miles. "I need to get Sophie."

She walked toward the corner. The balding man had his hand on Sophie's knee now.

"Hey!" Abbey said, her voice shaking but loud. "Get away from her."

The man looked up, annoyed. "Excuse me? We're having a conversation."

"She's drunk," Abbey snapped. She grabbed Sophie's arm. "Sophie, stand up."

"Abbey?" Sophie blinked, her eyes unfocused. "Is that you?"

"Who invited the wet dog?" the man sneered, standing up. He blocked Abbey's path. "This girl is on my tab. She goes when I say she goes."

"She's leaving," Miles said, coming up behind Abbey. "She's a friend of mine."

The man squinted at Miles. "Sterling? The kid? Go run to daddy. The adults are playing."

Miles flushed red. He opened his mouth to retort, but he looked unsure, weak.

Abbey saw the man reach for Sophie again. Pure, white-hot rage flared in her chest. She grabbed a heavy crystal ice bucket from the table.

"Touch her again," Abbey warned, lifting the bucket, "and I will break this over your head."

The man laughed. "You wouldn't da-"

CRASH.

The sound of shattering glass exploded through the room. But it wasn't the ice bucket.

Everyone froze.

Armond had thrown his whiskey glass against the wall. The shards glittered on the carpet.

He stood up. He unfolded his height slowly, towering over everyone in the room. He adjusted his cuffs, his face a mask of bored lethargy, but his eyes were burning.

He walked toward them. The crowd parted instantly. The balding man took a step back, his arrogance evaporating.

Armond stopped in front of the man. He didn't shout. He didn't posture. He just looked down at him.

"Get out," Armond said.

"Mr. Woodward, I was just-"

"I said get out," Armond interrupted. "And take your trash with you. If I see you in one of my properties again, I'll have security break your legs before they ban you."

The man turned pale. He grabbed his jacket and scrambled toward the elevator without a backward glance.

Armond turned to Abbey.

For a moment, she thought he was going to yell at her. Instead, he reached out and plucked the ice bucket from her hands. He set it down on the table with a gentle clink.

"Violence, Rose?" he murmured, using the name only he knew, a private joke from a Parisian summer about the blush on her cheeks. "That's new."

"Don't call me that," Abbey whispered.

"Armond, man, thanks," Miles interjected, stepping between them again. "I owe you one."

Armond ignored Miles completely. He snapped his fingers. Two massive bodyguards materialized from the shadows.

"Take Miss..." He gestured to Sophie. "Take her to Lenox Hill. Private room. Make sure she's hydrated and safe."

"I'll take her," Abbey said.

"No," Armond said. He took a step closer to her, invading her personal space. He smelled of whiskey and power. "You're staying."

"I'm leaving with Miles," Abbey said, though her voice lacked conviction.

Armond leaned down. His lips brushed her ear. The intimacy of the gesture made her knees buckle.

"Do you really want to owe him for tonight?" Armond whispered. "Or would you rather owe me?"

Abbey looked at Miles, who was checking his reflection in the window. Then she looked at Armond.

It wasn't a choice. It was a trap.