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.

The scalpel stopped moving. He held it by the tip, extending it toward Alys.

"Lift your chin."

Alys obeyed. The cold metal pressed against her skin, right over her jugular.

"Elena sold me a mute," Gustaf said, his voice low and dangerous. "But you have a lot to say with your eyes."

Alys trembled. She made sure he felt it-the vibration of fear traveling through the blade to his fingers.

He leaned forward. He sniffed.

"Sage," he murmured. "And... sea salt."

His eyes narrowed. He remembered the smell.

He grabbed Alys's wrist. His grip was iron. He was feeling for a pulse, for the calluses of a fighter, or maybe the gun oil from a weapon.

Alys had to break the moment.

She let her knees buckle. She pitched forward, flailing.

Her hand swept across the desk, knocking over the cup of steaming tea. The hot liquid splashed directly onto his lap.

If he were paralyzed, he wouldn't flinch.

But his thigh muscles jumped. A microscopic reaction, instantly suppressed.

Alys fell to her knees, her hands landing on his legs. She pressed her thumb into the inside of his thigh-a pressure point.

He grunted. A sharp intake of breath.

He felt it.

"Clumsy," he snarled, pushing Alys away.

She scrambled back, wiping at the tea with her sleeve, hiding her face. Hiding the smirk.

Got you.

Gustaf stared at Alys. He was calculating. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a scrap of white fabric. It was torn, stained with mud and blood.

"Have you seen this before?" he asked.

It was a piece of Alys's hospital gown.

She looked at it blankly. She shook her head.

He studied her face for a long time. The silence stretched, tight as a piano wire.

"You're moving in here," he said suddenly.

Alys froze. She shook her head frantically. No.

"I don't trust you out of my sight," he said. "Your things are already being moved to the suite."

That night, Alys lay on a rug at the foot of his massive bed.

The room was dark. She could hear his breathing. It was steady, rhythmic.

Alys knew he wasn't asleep. She knew he had a gun under his pillow.

She waited until 3:00 AM.

Alys rolled over, silent as smoke. She crawled toward the nightstand where his laptop sat charging.

She didn't open it. That would trigger an alert.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out the USB charger she'd modified in the greenhouse. It looked like a standard cable, but inside the casing was a keylogger.

She unplugged his cable. She plugged hers in.

The bathroom door opened.

Alys froze.

Gustaf stood there, wrapped in a towel. Water dripped from his hair onto his chest. He was looking right at her.

Alys snatched a book from the nightstand-The Art of War. She held it up, looking innocent.

He stared at her, then at the book.

"You read Sun Tzu?" he asked.

Alys shrugged. She pointed to the cover art.

He walked past her. He flicked his wet hair, sending a spray of cold water onto her face.

"Don't drool on the carpet," he said.

He got into bed.

Alys lay back down, her heart thumping against the floorboards.

The keylogger was in. The Trojan Horse was inside the walls of Troy.