Erline didn't go to the dining room. She found a guest bathroom on the first floor and threw herself inside, locking the door with trembling fingers.

She slid down the door until she hit the cold tile floor. She hugged her knees to her chest, trying to stop the shaking.

She saw her suitcase, a small leather weekender, tucked beside the vanity. Her things. They had at least given her that. She scrambled over and unzipped it. Inside, nestled amongst a few changes of clothes, was the small, beaded clutch she had carried the night before. She fumbled with the clasp and dumped the contents onto the tiles. Lipstick. A mint. She ran her thumb along the silk lining, found the hidden seam, and pulled. The false bottom came away, revealing a slim, black smartphone.

It wasn't the phone Arnulfo had given her. It was her burner.

She pressed the power button. The screen cracked to life.

It vibrated immediately. Incoming Call: Verity.

Erline stared at the name. Hate, hot and pure, flooded her veins. She swiped to answer, pressing the phone to her ear. She didn't make a sound.

"Good morning, little sister," Verity's voice purred. "Did you enjoy your wedding night?"

Erline bit her lip so hard she tasted copper.

"Don't think about running," Verity continued, her voice hardening. "And don't think about telling Arnulfo the truth."

"If you speak, or if he returns you like a defective product..."

A sound came through the speaker. A high-pitched, rhythmic beeping. Beep... beep... beep...

"Switch to video," Verity commanded.

Erline pulled the phone away and tapped the camera icon.

The screen filled with the sterile white of an ICU room. Aunt Meredith lay in the bed, looking small and frail. Tubes ran from her nose and arms. The rhythmic beeping was her heart monitor.

A hand-manicured, with perfect red polish-came into the frame. It hovered over the power cord of the ventilator.

"Aunt Meredith's care costs five thousand dollars a day," Verity said. "If you aren't Mrs. Bond, who pays that bill? Dad is broke. I'm broke. You're broke."

Tears spilled over Erline's lashes. She stared into the camera and mouthed the words: Don't touch her.

Verity laughed. It was a light, tinkling sound. "Then play your part. Be the mute little doll. As soon as the Bond transfer hits the family accounts, I'll pay the hospital for another month."

The screen went black.

Erline dropped the phone. She buried her face in her hands, a silent scream tearing at her throat. She slammed her fist into the tile floor. Once. Twice. The pain in her hand grounded her.

She hated Verity. But she hated her own helplessness more.

She sat there for five minutes, breathing through her nose. In. Out.

Then, her eyes changed. The fear receded, replaced by a cold, hard resolve.

She picked up the phone again. She didn't call anyone. She opened a hidden partition in the operating system. Her fingers flew across the tiny keyboard, accessing a secure node.

The screen turned into a black terminal with green text.

LOGIN: THE_GHOST

ACCESS GRANTED.

She wasn't just a mute antique restorer. She was the forensic accountant the SEC hired when they couldn't find the money. She lived on the dark web.

She didn't perform a search; she initiated a diagnostic on a ghost protocol she'd embedded in Bond Industries' network six months ago, part of her ongoing investigation for the SEC.

STATUS: DORMANT. UNDETECTED.

If she was going to survive this, Verity's money wasn't enough. She needed leverage. She needed a weapon. And in the Bond house, money was the only ammunition that mattered.

She would find the skeletons in Arnulfo's closet. She would find the illegal accounts, the bribes, the blood money. And she would hold it over his head.

Footsteps approached the bathroom door. Heavy. Deliberate.

Erline killed the screen and shoved the phone back into the hidden lining of her clutch.

She stood up. She looked in the mirror. Her face was pale, her eyes red. She splashed cold water on her cheeks. She smoothed her hair.

She put the mask back on. The scared, mute girl.

She unlocked the door and stepped out. She wasn't running anymore. She was infiltrating.

The dining room was a cavern. A mahogany table, long enough to seat twenty people, dominated the space.

Arnulfo sat at the head of the table. He was dressed in a charcoal suit now, crisp and immaculate. He looked like a king on a throne.

He didn't look up as Erline entered. He was reading a newspaper, a cup of black coffee steaming near his hand.

"Sit," he said.

A place was set for her at the complete opposite end of the table, five meters away. The distance was intentional. It was a canyon.

Erline sat. The silverware was heavy, pure sterling silver. It felt cold against her fingers.

The double doors to the kitchen swung open. A short, round man in a chef's uniform bustled out pushing a cart. He was sweating. This was Chef Pierre.

"Madame," Pierre murmured nervously. He placed a plate in front of her.

It was foie gras. A large, fatty lobe of liver, seared, sitting in a pool of dark reduction. Truffles were shaved over the top.

The smell hit Erline instantly. Rich, oily, and metallic. Her stomach, already churning from the stress and the residual drugs, lurched.

She stared at the plate. She saw the pink veins in the liver.

She didn't pick up her fork.

At the other end of the table, Arnulfo lowered the newspaper. The rustle of the paper was deafening in the silence.

"Not to your liking?" he asked. His voice carried effortlessly across the distance.

Erline shook her head slightly. She picked up the fork, her hand trembling. She tried to cut a piece, but her hand wouldn't cooperate. She put the fork down.

Arnulfo slammed the newspaper onto the table.

"I don't like waiting," he said. "And I don't like picky eaters."

He turned his gaze to the chef. Pierre was wringing his hands in his apron.

"Is this your Michelin standard, Pierre? Food that makes my wife look like she's going to be sick?"

Pierre went pale. "Monsieur Bond, it is the finest grade, flown in this morning from..."

"Shut up," Arnulfo said. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to.

"You're fired. Get out."

Pierre's eyes widened. "Sir, please. My mortgage... my daughter is in university..."

Arnulfo snapped his fingers. Two security guards materialized from the shadows of the hallway. They grabbed Pierre by the arms.

"No!" Pierre cried as they dragged him backward. "Please, Mr. Bond!"

Erline stood up, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. She reached out a hand, her mouth opening to protest. She couldn't let a man lose his livelihood because she was nauseous.

Arnulfo looked at her. His eyes were ice.

"Sit down."

Erline froze.

"If you don't eat it," Arnulfo said, gesturing to the plate, "the trust that pays for your Aunt Meredith's care will find itself under... immediate review. For fiscal irresponsibility."

The threat hung in the air. Collective punishment. It was the tactic of a dictator.

Erline slowly sank back into her chair. She looked at the foie gras. She thought of Aunt Meredith, helpless in that hospital bed.

She picked up her knife and fork. She cut a large piece. She stabbed it.

She put it in her mouth. The texture was soft, coating her tongue in warm grease. She chewed once and swallowed. It felt like swallowing a stone.

Arnulfo watched her, his chin resting on his hand. He looked fascinated by her misery.

"Good," he said. "Lesson one: Your actions have costs. Usually for other people."

He stood up and buttoned his jacket.

"I'm going to the office. I'll be back this evening to inspect your... performance."

He walked out without looking back.

The moment the front door slammed, Erline bolted from her chair. She ran to the nearest decorative trash can in the corner of the room and retched.

The silence that followed Arnulfo's departure was short-lived.

Mrs. Higgins appeared in the doorway of the dining room. She wasn't wearing her mask of servitude anymore. Her face was twisted in ugly triumph.

"Since the Master is gone," Higgins said, her voice grating, "as the mistress of the house, you have duties. The wine cellar needs inventory."

She didn't wait for an answer. She turned and marched toward the basement door.

Erline wiped her mouth with a napkin and followed. She knew this was a power play, but she had to learn the layout of the house anyway.

The wine cellar was two levels down. The air grew colder with every step, smelling of damp earth and old cork. It was dimly lit by flickering bulbs in wire cages.

Rows of dust-covered bottles stretched into the darkness. Hundreds of thousands of dollars in alcohol.

"Count them," Higgins ordered, pointing to a wall of crates. "If one bottle is missing, I will tell Mr. Bond you drank it."

Erline looked at the wall. It would take hours. She didn't argue. She stepped forward and began to count, her finger hovering over the bottles.

Higgins didn't leave. She stood on the bottom step, watching.

"Don't think wearing Chanel makes you anything other than what you are," Higgins spat. "You're just a whore he bought to breed with. A mute whore."

Erline's hand paused over a bottle of 1982 Bordeaux. She took a breath and continued.

Higgins, emboldened by the lack of reaction, stepped down. She walked up behind Erline and shoved her hard between the shoulder blades.

"Are you listening to me?"

Erline stumbled forward. She crashed into the wooden rack. A bottle wobbled and tipped over.

Reflex took over. Erline lunged, catching the bottle by the neck just before it hit the stone floor.

But as she caught it, the back of her hand scraped violently against the rough, unfinished wood of the rack. A splinter tore through her skin. Blood welled up instantly, bright red against her pale skin.

Higgins saw the blood and smiled. She reached out and grabbed Erline's injured arm, digging her nails into the wound.

"Does that hurt?" Higgins whispered. "I can make it hurt more."

Pain shot up Erline's arm. Her eyes went cold.

She shifted her weight. She knew Krav Maga. She knew exactly how to grab Higgins' thumb and snap it backward to break the joint. It would take one second.

She tensed her muscles, ready to strike.

Step. Step. Step.

Heavy footsteps echoed from the stairs above. Leather on stone.

Erline released her tension instantly. She let her body go limp. She allowed herself to fall to the floor, curling in on herself, clutching the bottle to her chest like a shield.

Arnulfo appeared at the top of the stairs. He had come back.

He stopped. He took in the scene. Erline on the floor, bleeding. Higgins standing over her, face twisted in malice, hand still raised.

The temperature in the cellar seemed to drop ten degrees.

"Sir!" Higgins gasped, jumping back. "She... she fell! She's clumsy!"

Arnulfo walked down the stairs. He moved slowly. The sound of his shoes was the only sound in the room.

He walked past Higgins as if she were furniture. He knelt beside Erline. He took her hand, the one dripping blood onto the dusty floor.

He looked at the cut. Then he looked at the bottle she was still clutching. It was unbroken.

He stood up and turned to Higgins. His expression was terrifyingly blank.

"Are you deaf, Mrs. Higgins?"

Higgins was trembling now. "Sir?"

"I said she is my asset," Arnulfo said softly. "You damaged my property."

"I..."

"Can you afford to pay for her?" Arnulfo asked. "Can you afford the repairs?"

Higgins fell to her knees. "Please, Mr. Bond."

Arnulfo looked toward the stairs. "Security."

Two guards came down.

"Throw her out," Arnulfo said, boring. "Ensure she is blacklisted from every agency in the state. If she finds work walking a dog, I will be disappointed."

Higgins screamed as they dragged her up the stairs. Her nails scraped against the stone.

Arnulfo looked down at Erline. He didn't offer her a hand.

"Clumsy," he muttered. "Get upstairs. You're bleeding on my vintage."