The seaside terrace of The Onyx Room was windy. The salt spray coated the railing.

Aine stood alone in the corner, away from the heat lamps and the laughing crowd. Her dress whipped around her legs. She looked small. Lonely.

She heard the footsteps before she saw him.

Julian.

He was holding two glasses of champagne. He looked confident again. The embarrassment from the stage was gone, replaced by the thrill of the hunt.

"I was too forward earlier," he said, sliding up next to her. "Drink? As an apology."

Aine turned, pressing her back against the railing. She eyed him warily.

"Mr. Talley, please leave me alone."

"Call me Julian." He stepped closer. "Take off the mask. I want to see you."

"No. I'm not with him," Aine said. "I'm nobody's."

"Everyone belongs to someone." He put the glasses down on a table and moved in. He boxed her in against the railing. "You're shivering. Let me warm you up."

Aine looked down. Below them, the water of the harbor was black and churning. It was high tide.

She shifted her weight. She knew this spot. During her audition, she'd noticed the rusted bolt on this section of the railing. A little pressure was all it would take.

Julian reached for Aine's waist. His hand was heavy.

"Don't touch me!" Aine shouted.

She shoved him. It wasn't a hard shove, but she used the momentum to throw herself backward.

Aine hit the railing.

Crack.

The wood gave way.

Aine screamed. It was a genuine scream-gravity is terrifying, even when you plan for it.

She tumbled backward into the void.

"Siren!" Julian yelled.

Aine hit the water.

It was freezing. The shock punched the air out of her lungs. The cold was like a thousand needles stabbing her skin. She sank.

She didn't swim up immediately. She forced herself to stay under. One second. Two seconds. Three.

Up on the terrace, chaos erupted. Glass shattered. People screamed.

Julian stared at the black water. His face went pale. This wasn't a game anymore. If she died... the press... the police...

He didn't think. He jumped.

From the window of the VIP lounge above, Augustine watched the splash. He didn't move. He just tapped his finger against the glass.

"Idiot," he muttered.

Julian hit the water. He flailed until he found Aine. He grabbed her arm and hauled her to the surface.

They gasped for air, coughing up salt water.

Security guards were already at the dock, pulling them out. Aine collapsed onto the wooden planks, shaking violently. Her teeth chattered so hard her jaw ached.

Julian was panting, his expensive suit ruined. He stripped off his jacket and wrapped it around Aine's shoulders.

"Call an ambulance!" he roared at the guards.

Aine grabbed his wet shirt. Her fingers were blue.

"No," she wheezed. "No police... please... I can't lose this job. Please."

Julian looked down at Aine. She looked like a drowned rat. Pathetic. Fragile. And she was worried about her job after almost dying.

Something broke in his eyes. The predator vanished. The savior appeared.

"Get my car," he ordered the valet. "No ambulance. No police."

He scooped Aine up in his arms.

"You're not going to lose your job," he promised. "I've got you."

From the shadows, Sierrah, the headliner vocalist, watched with eyes full of hate. Her nails dug into her palms.

Augustine watched from the window as Julian carried Aine to his car.

"Should we stop them?" Mercer asked.

"No," Augustine said, turning away. "Let's see how long she can keep the act up."

Inside Julian's sports car, the heater blasted hot air. Aine curled into the passenger seat, wrapped in his jacket.

Julian looked at Aine. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I... I didn't mean for that to happen."

Aine looked at him through wet lashes.

Guilt, she thought. The strongest leash in the world.

She closed her eyes and let her head fall back against the seat.

"I'm taking you to Mount Sinai," Julian said, swerving through traffic.

"No," Aine said, her voice raspy. "I don't have insurance. I can't afford the ER copay."

"I have a private doctor. I'll pay for it."

"I don't take charity." Aine pulled his jacket tighter around her. "Just take me home. Please."

He looked at Aine, frustrated. But he nodded. "Where?"

Aine gave him an address. Deep in Brooklyn. A decoy address. A neighborhood where the streetlights didn't work and the cops didn't go unless they were in a squad of four.

Julian frowned. He typed it into the GPS. He didn't say anything, but Aine saw his grip on the steering wheel tighten.

In the dashboard, a small red light blinked. Augustine was watching. He was listening.

In his penthouse, Augustine looked at the map on his tablet.

"She's lying," he said. "That's a slum."

Julian's car pulled up to the curb. A group of men were standing around a burning trash can on the corner. The building looked like it had been condemned ten years ago.

Julian looked out the window, then at Aine. There was horror in his eyes. Genuine shock.

"You live here?"

Aine unbuckled her seatbelt. "This is my life, Mr. Talley. It's not a game for people like me."

She opened the door.

"Wait," he said. He reached out. "Keep the jacket."

Aine paused. She looked at the expensive fabric, then at him.

"Thank you," she whispered.

She ran into the building. The door didn't even lock.

Aine waited in the dark hallway until she heard his engine rev and fade away.

She didn't go upstairs. She went out the back exit, into the alley.

A black sedan was waiting there.

Aine opened the back door and slid in.

Mercer was in the driver's seat. He didn't look back.

"Mr. Haynes requested I bring you to your actual residence," Mercer said. "This area is unsafe."

Aine leaned back, closing her eyes. "He's watching me?"

"He is protecting his asset."

The drive back to Manhattan was silent. When Aine walked into the penthouse, Augustine was sitting on the leather sofa. He had a glass of whiskey in his hand.

He looked Aine up and down. She was still wet, her hair matted, wearing Julian's oversized suit jacket.

"Take it off," he said.

"What?"

"The jacket. It's filthy." His lip curled in disgust.

"It's warm," Aine said, clutching the lapels. "And he gave it to me."

Augustine stood up. He crossed the room in three strides. He reached out and ripped the jacket off Aine's shoulders. He walked to the fireplace and threw it in.

"I bought you new clothes," he said, gesturing to a pile of boxes on the table. Chanel. Dior.

"I don't want your clothes," Aine said. "I'm not a doll."

"You are a reflection of me," he said coldly. "My assets don't dress like refugees."

He was trying to control her. He was trying to buy her.

Aine looked at the boxes. Then she looked at him.

She smiled. She reached down and grabbed the hem of her ruined dress. She pulled it up and over her head, standing there in her wet underwear.

"Since the boss is so generous," Aine said, kicking the wet dress aside. "I suppose I should accept."

Augustine's breath hitched. His eyes raked over Aine's body. For a second, the control slipped.

He turned his back on her.

"Put something on," he growled. "And sleep in the guest room."

Aine watched his rigid back.

Got you.

Aine waited until Augustine left for the office.

At 9:00 AM, she was back on the subway. Not to the decoy address in Brooklyn, but to a different one, five blocks away. A nondescript brownstone with a separate entrance.

She checked the street. Clear.

Aine went down to the basement apartment. She unlocked the door.

Inside, it wasn't a home. It was a command center.

The windows were blacked out with heavy curtains. The walls were covered in photos, maps, and financial flowcharts. Red string connected the faces of the Talley family board members.

Aine walked over to the photo of Julian. She took a red marker and circled his face.

Weakness confirmed.

She sat down at a laptop. She pulled a small device from her purse and plugged it in. Last night, while Julian was fumbling with his phone in the car-his wet fingers unable to use the biometric scanner-he'd been forced to type in his passcode. Aine had been watching. 0429. His birthday. Predictable. More importantly, when he connected his phone to the car's bluetooth, her device, disguised as a charging cable, had initiated a full data clone.

Aine initiated a brute-force attack on a specific encrypted folder using the passcode as a seed.

It took ten minutes.

Folder after folder opened. Photos of women. Nudes. Text messages bragging to his friends.

"Standard trash," Aine muttered.

She dug deeper. She found a folder labeled "Dad - Foundation."

She clicked it. It was encrypted with a stronger key.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Julian.

Hope you slept well. I'm downstairs.

Aine's heart hammered against her ribs. He was at the decoy address. She ran to a monitor displaying a live feed from a hidden camera across the street.

His car was there. Right in front of the building.

He was early. Too early. Aine was wearing jeans and a t-shirt.

She grabbed an old, oversized sweater from a pile on the floor. She messed up her hair. She sprayed cheap vanilla perfume on her neck to mask the scent of Augustine's expensive shampoo.

Aine ran out of the command center, locking it behind her, and sprinted the five blocks. She entered the decoy building from the back and raced up the stairs, making herself breathless.

She burst out the front door.

Julian was standing there, holding a bag from a high-end bakery and a pharmacy bag.

"I was worried about infection," he said, holding up the pharmacy bag. "And I brought breakfast."

Aine stopped, putting a hand to her chest. "You can't just show up here, Julian."

"I wanted to see you."

People were staring. A homeless man Aine had paid twenty bucks to act crazy started yelling at a pigeon near Julian's car.

"Please," Aine said, her face flushing. "Go. Everyone is looking."

Julian looked around. He didn't look scared. He looked like a king visiting the peasants.

"Get in," he said. "I'm taking you somewhere."

"I have rehearsal."

"I called Lazlo. You have the day off."

"You don't control my life!" Aine snapped.

He stepped closer. "I'm a VIP, Siren. I get what I want. Get in the car."

Aine hesitated, then got in.

As they drove away, she looked at the dashboard.

"So," Aine said, trying to sound casual. "What do you do all day? Besides saving damsels?"

"Board meetings," he sighed. "My dad is obsessed with the Charity Foundation right now."

"Charity?" Aine asked. "That sounds nice."

He laughed. "It's a tax shelter. Boring as hell. Just moving money around so the IRS doesn't get it."

Aine kept her face blank.

"Sounds complicated," she said.

"I'll teach you sometime," he said, reaching over to squeeze her hand. "Let's go shopping."

Aine looked out the window.

Keep talking, Julian. Just keep talking.