The comms unit vibrated in Alys's hand.

Location Locked. Security Team Inbound.

"Damn it," Alys hissed. It was biometrically locked to the man in the mud. It was a beacon, not a tool.

She threw the device into a tide pool and scrambled up the scree slope. Her legs burned. The adrenaline from the jump was fading, replaced by the bone-deep chill of the Pacific.

A beam of light cut through the bushes ahead of her.

"Over here! I saw movement!"

Elena's private security.

Alys dropped to the ground. She grabbed a handful of loose dirt. When the boots crunched next to her head, she threw the dirt upward.

The guard cursed, rubbing his eyes. Alys swept his legs. He went down hard.

She grabbed the taser from his belt. She didn't hesitate. She drove it into his neck and pulled the trigger. The crackle of electricity was the only sound in the canyon.

Alys stood up to run, but a sharp sting hit the back of her neck.

Her hand flew to the spot. A dart.

The world tilted sideways for Alys. Her knees turned to water.

Elena stepped out from behind a boulder. She looked impeccable, not a hair out of place, holding a tranquilizer pistol.

"You always were the dramatic one, Alys," Elena said.

The ground rushed up to meet Alys's face.

Alys woke up to the smell of hairspray and fear.

She was in the basement of the Flores estate. She knew the cracks in the ceiling. She knew the damp smell.

"Hold still," a woman snapped.

Alys was being measured. Three stylists swarmed around her, pulling at her limbs like she was a mannequin. They stripped off the dirty hospital gown.

"Look at these scars," one whispered, touching the old cigarette burns on her shoulder-souvenirs from her time in the 'care' facility.

"Cover them," Elena's voice came from the shadows. "Thick foundation. The groom is a cripple, not blind."

Alys sat on the stool, naked and shivering. She didn't speak. She let her eyes go vacant. The 'mute' act was her only shield.

"If she makes a sound at the wedding," Elena said, walking into the light, "pour her mother's ashes down the toilet."

Alys stared at the floor. Her hand drifted to her mouth. She coughed, covering her lips.

In that second, she slid the micro-SIM card she had taped behind her molar out. It was tiny, her only link to the outside world, to Zero. She palmed it and pretended to scratch her ear, slipping the chip into the hollow backing of the heavy pearl earring they had just clipped onto her.

"She's ready," the stylist said.

Elena grabbed Alys's chin, forcing her to look at her.

"You are going to marry Gustaf Greer. You are going to sign over your trust fund to us. And then, you are going to disappear into his estate and never be heard from again. Do you understand?"

Alys blinked once.

"Good."

Elena left. The door locked with a heavy thud.

Alys walked to the mirror. The foundation covered the bruises, but it couldn't hide her eyes. They weren't the eyes of a victim anymore.

She thought about the man in the canyon. The way he fought to stay alive.

Gustaf Greer.

Everyone said he was paralyzed in a skiing accident six months ago. A recluse. A broken man. But that helicopter crash was fresh. The world didn't know about it. He was hiding something much more recent, much more violent.

He wasn't paralyzed.

Alys touched the cold glass of the mirror.

"I'm coming for you, husband," she mouthed.

St. Patrick's Cathedral was cold, vast, and filled with people who hated Alys.

She walked down the aisle alone. The organ music was a funeral dirge. The pews were packed with New York's elite, whispering behind their programs.

"That's the crazy sister."

"I heard she tried to kill herself yesterday."

"Look at the dress. It's wearing her."

Alys kept her head down. At the altar, there was no groom. Just a lawyer in a grey suit, checking his watch.

Proxy marriage.

Gustaf Greer couldn't be bothered to show up for his own acquisition. Elena had explained he was still in 'fragile recovery' and his doctors forbade travel. A perfect excuse.

Brisa, Alys's perfect sister, stood in the front row as the maid of honor. She wore white. Of course she did. As Alys passed her, Brisa stuck her foot out, the heel of her Louboutin catching the lace of Alys's hem.

Alys felt the tug. She could have stepped over it.

Instead, she stopped. She turned to look at Brisa, widening her eyes, trembling like a frightened deer.

The cameras flashed. Pop. Pop. Pop.

They caught the image perfectly: The cruel, beautiful sister tripping the fragile, mute bride.

Brisa's smile faltered. She pulled her foot back, hissing, "Move, you mute bitch."

Alys stumbled forward, letting a single tear roll down her cheek. The crowd murmured. The narrative shifted. Alys wasn't the crazy one anymore. She was the martyr.

The lawyer placed a ring on Alys's finger. It was too big. It slid around her knuckle, cold and loose.

"I do," the lawyer said for Gustaf.

Alys nodded.

It was done. She was property of the Greer estate.

The car ride was silent. The windows were tinted so dark the city looked like a bruise.

They arrived at Greer Manor at dusk. It was a fortress of grey stone and iron gates, perched on a hill overlooking the Hudson.

"Your rooms are in the East Wing," the butler, Arthur, said. He didn't look Alys in the eye. "Mr. Greer is not to be disturbed."

They put her in a guest room. It smelled of lemon polish and disuse.

Alys waited until the house slept.

At 2:00 AM, she stripped off the wedding dress. Underneath, she wore black leggings and a dark shirt she'd stolen from the laundry cart.

She opened the window. The ledge was narrow, but wide enough. She moved like a shadow, testing for sensors.

She needed to know the layout. She needed to know where the servers were.

Alys crept along the roofline toward the main tower. A light was on in the study.

She pressed herself against the stone, peering through the gap in the heavy velvet curtains.

Gustaf Greer was there.

He was sitting in a wheelchair behind a massive mahogany desk. He looked pale, weak. He wheeled himself toward the bookshelf.

Then, he stopped.

He looked at the door. He waited.

And then he stood up.

He didn't struggle. He didn't wobble. He stood with the grace of a predator. He walked to the window, his stride long and powerful.

Alys's breath hitched.

He threw the window open.

Alys dove into the ivy, pressing her face into the dirt, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

"Is someone there?" his voice was deep, rough gravel.

A stray cat hissed from the bushes below Alys.

Gustaf huffed. He leaned out, his hands gripping the sill. Alys saw the muscles in his forearms flex. Steel cords.

He wasn't a cripple. He was a liar. Just like her.

He closed the window.

Alys lay in the dirt for a long time, smiling.

The door opened at 7:00 AM.

Alys scrambled under the covers, pulling the duvet up to her chin.

It was Arthur. He carried a tray with toast and tea.

"Mr. Greer is indisposed," Arthur said, setting the tray down. "He suggests you acquaint yourself with the grounds. Stay out of the West Wing."

Alys nodded, playing the part.

For three days, she didn't see Gustaf. She didn't see anyone.

But her body was fighting her. The sanitarium had kept her sedated for years. Now, without the daily cocktail of pills, the withdrawal was hitting.

Alys was walking down the main corridor when the floor tilted. Sweat broke out on her forehead. Her bones felt like they were vibrating.

She collapsed.

"Mrs. Greer!"

Arthur was there. He caught her before her head hit the marble.

Alys seized, her teeth chattering.

"It's not epilepsy," Arthur muttered, checking her pupils. "It's chemical."

He didn't call a doctor. He didn't call Gustaf. He carried her to a small staff room and brewed a pungent tea that smelled of valerian and kava.

"Drink," he ordered.

Alys drank. The shaking stopped. She grabbed his hand, squeezing it.

"Thank you," she mouthed.

Arthur looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time. He saw the person, not the pawn.

"Be careful, child," he whispered. "This house eats weak things."

Once Alys could walk again, she found the greenhouse.

It was a glass cathedral attached to the rear of the house. Inside, the air was humid and thick with the scent of earth.

An old woman with silver hair stood by a workbench. She was pruning a Datura plant-Devil's Trumpet. Highly toxic.

She didn't turn around.

"Do you know this flower can stop a heart in three minutes?" she asked.

Victoria Greer. The matriarch.

Alys walked up to her. She picked up a pair of shears. She reached past Victoria and snipped a dead leaf off the Datura, careful not to touch the sap.

She pulled a notepad from her pocket and wrote: Only the dose makes the poison.

Victoria turned. Her eyes were sharp, blue ice. She read the note. She looked at Alys's hands, steady despite the withdrawal.

"You know botany?"

Alys nodded. Her mother taught her.

"Your mother was a smart woman." Victoria handed Alys the shears. "The gardener is an idiot. He's drowning the Wolfsbane. Fix it."

It was a test. Alys passed.

By the afternoon, Alys had the keys to the greenhouse. It was isolated. It had its own ventilation. And in the back office, under a pile of seed catalogs, she found an old desktop computer.

It wasn't connected to the main network, but it had power.

Alys pulled a bootable USB drive from the false bottom of her heel. It contained a sandboxed operating system, untraceable. She wasn't just coding a bypass algorithm; she was building a ghost inside their machine. The door beeped.

Her fingers flew across the keys, hitting a kill switch command. The screen went black instantly, the RAM wiped clean.

Gustaf rolled in. He looked at Alys, then at the computer.

He wheeled over and touched the casing. It was warm.

He looked at Alys. He didn't ask.

He tossed a velvet box onto her lap.

"Put it on. We're going out."

Alys opened the box. A diamond necklace. Heavy, gaudy, old-fashioned. It was a collar.

She put it on.