The rain intensified, turning from a drizzle into a downpour. Water dripped down Dylan's neck, sliding under her collar like ice fingers. She pulled her hood up, shivering slightly.

Her phone rang. The screen lit up: Grandpa Firman.

She answered instantly, her voice softening, shedding the hardness she wore like armor. "Hi, Grandpa."

"Dylan?" Firman's voice was weak, wheezing. The sound of his breath rattling in his chest made her grip the phone tighter. "Are you here?"

"I'm... close," she lied. "Just got held up."

"Glyn says you're stuck in traffic," Firman said. "The food looks wonderful, Dylan. Glyn is having the steak. I wish you were here to taste it."

Dylan looked through the massive glass window of the first floor. She couldn't see the Penthouse, but she could imagine them. Glyn laughing. Lydia critiquing the wine. Beside them, her grandfather would look pale, a full plate of untouched food sitting before him as he nursed a glass of water.

"Yeah, traffic is bad," she said, forcing a lightness into her tone. "Don't wait for me."

"I missed you, sweetheart," Firman whispered. "I wanted us all together. Just once."

Dylan swallowed the lump in her throat. It tasted like bile. "We will be. Soon."

"Are they treating you well, Grandpa?" she asked, needing to know.

"Oh yes. Best suite. Glyn really went all out for you. He said this was to celebrate your return."

The lie stung. It burned. Glyn was taking credit for Chet's generosity, for her influence.

"That's... good of him," she choked out.

Firman coughed violently. It sounded wet, deep in his lungs. "I have a gift for you. Later."

"Rest, Grandpa. I'll see you at the house."

She hung up, her face wet with rain and suppressed tears.

Inside, the dinner wrapped up. Glyn signed the bill-which was zeroed out, thanks to Chet-with a flourish, leaving a pitifully small tip for the waiter.

They walked out of the revolving doors ten minutes later. Manager Franks was there, holding a massive umbrella over Belle and Lydia, protecting their blowouts.

They didn't see Dylan in the shadows at first.

Firman was in a wheelchair, being pushed by a private nurse. He looked frail, his skin like parchment paper.

Dylan stepped forward from the pillar. "Grandpa."

The family froze. Glyn's smile vanished instantly.

Belle wrinkled her nose, looking Dylan up and down. "Ew. Look at her. Like a drowned rat."

Firman's eyes lit up. He tried to lift his head. "Dylan!"

He tried to stand, his hands gripping the armrests, but he was too weak. He sank back down.

Dylan rushed to him, ignoring the disgust on her aunt's face. She knelt beside the wheelchair, taking his hand. It was cold. Too cold.

"Grandpa," she said softly.

Glyn stepped in between them. He shoved Dylan's shoulder. "Don't touch him with those dirty hands."

Dylan planted her feet. She didn't move an inch, her weight sinking into her heels in a practiced fighter's stance, absorbing the momentum. Glyn, expecting her to stumble, found himself pushing against something as unyielding as a steel post and lost his own balance, stumbling back a step.

"Dad, stop," Dylan said calmly, though her pulse was hammering in her ears. "He's happy to see me."

Lydia sneered, clutching her purse. "Happy? You look like a beggar, Dylan. You're embarrassing us. Look at this place! And you show up looking like that?"

Belle pulled out her phone, recording. "Did you sleep in a dumpster? Seriously."

Manager Franks stood by, watching with a look of polite disdain. He didn't intervene. He knew who the VIPs were.

Firman looked confused, his head swiveling between his son and his granddaughter. "Glyn? Let her come in the car."

Glyn leaned down to Firman, his voice dripping with fake concern. "She's sick, Dad. Look at her. She's filthy. She might be contagious. We can't risk your health."

Dylan clenched her fists at her sides. Her nails dug into her palms. "I'm not sick. I'm wet because you made me wait outside in the rain for an hour."

"Liar," Austin, her cousin, spat from behind Belle. "Concierge said you were late."

Dylan looked at Franks. Her eyes were hard, flinty. "Ask your staff why I was barred."

Franks stepped up, adjusting his tie. "She violated the dress code, sir. We have standards at The Sanctuary."

Glyn nodded, vindicated. "See? Standards. Something you lack."

Lydia stepped closer, lowering her voice so Firman couldn't hear over the rain. "You're white trash, Dylan. Always were. We took you out of that foster home, gave you a name, and this is how you repay us? By looking like this?"

The words were old weapons. They had used them for years. Foster home. Trash. Parasite.

Dylan stared at Lydia. "I repaid you by staying away."

"You should have stayed away forever," Belle whispered, ending her recording.

Dylan laughed. It was a cold, sharp sound that cut through the humidity. "Trust me, I wanted to."

She looked at Firman. "I'll visit you at the hospital, Grandpa. When they aren't there."

Firman looked distressed, reaching for her. "Dylan, no, come in the car."

Glyn signaled the valet. "Car's full, Dad. No room for her luggage. Or her smell."

The Bentley pulled up. They loaded Firman in, blocking Dylan's view of him with their bodies.

Glyn turned to Dylan one last time before getting in.

"Don't come to the house," he hissed. "You're not welcome."

The car door slammed.

The Bentley accelerated hard. The tires spun on the wet pavement, sending a spray of muddy, oily water splashing onto Dylan's legs and boots.

Manager Franks smirked. "Please leave the premises, Miss. You're loitering."

Dylan looked down at the mud on her boots. She wiped a single drop of water from her cheek.

"Gladly," she said.

Dylan walked to a nearby bus stop shelter. The plastic roof was cracked, leaking water onto the bench, but it was better than the open street.

She pulled out her phone. It buzzed with an email notification.

Sender: Glyn Clemons.

Subject: Formal Notice.

She opened it.

Your access to the family trust is revoked effective immediately. Do not contact us for money. You are on your own.

Dylan read it and chuckled. A dry, humorless sound.

She opened her banking app-the one linked to the debit card Glyn monitored.

Balance: $43.00.

"Tragic," she muttered.

She closed that app and opened a different one. It was a black icon with no name. It required a fingerprint, a retina scan via the camera, and a 16-digit passcode.

The screen loaded. First Cayman Sovereign Bank.

Account Holder: Genesis.

Liquid Assets: $85,000,000.00.

"I think I'll survive," she whispered.

She thought of Lydia's insult. Foster home. They thought her foster parents were poor nobodies. They didn't know her foster father had been a disgraced chemistry professor hiding from the government. They didn't know her foster mother was a cryptographer. They hadn't just raised her; they had built her.

Dylan shook off the memory. She was done playing the victim for the night. She was cold, she was wet, and she was angry.

She cancelled the Uber.

She dialed a number. "Zeke. Status?"

A deep voice answered instantly. "Five blocks out, Boss. Standing by."

"Good. Bring the car."

"The Audi or the Ferrari, Boss?"

"The SUV," she said. "The armored one. I'm in a mood."

Two minutes later, a matte black Range Rover Sentinel pulled up to the curb. It looked like a tank disguised as a luxury vehicle.

Zeke, a giant of a man in a tailored suit, stepped out with a large black umbrella. He ignored the puddle, opening the back door for her.

"Boss," he nodded. "You look wet."

"Astute observation, Zeke."

She climbed into the warm, dry leather interior. It smelled of nothing-just clean, expensive silence.

"Where to? The Safe House?" Zeke asked, glancing at her in the mirror.

Dylan leaned back, closing her eyes. "No. Sovereign Heights. I'm done hiding in the shadows."

Zeke grinned. "Penthouse One is ready."

The engine roared-a deep, powerful purr. The car sped away, leaving the bus stop and the mud behind.