A soft knock on the door made Elenor freeze. She scrambled back into bed, pulling the sheet up to her chin, feigning exhaustion.

The door opened. Dr. Sophie Chen walked in, holding a clipboard. Two nurses followed her.

"Vitals check," Sophie said briskly. She moved around the bed, checking the monitors. "BP is stable. Pupils reactive."

She turned to the nurses. "Give us a moment. I need to conduct a cognitive assessment in private."

The nurses nodded and left.

The moment the latch clicked, Sophie's demeanor shattered. She dropped the clipboard on the bed and pulled a small white device from her pocket. She switched it on. A static hiss filled the room-a white noise generator.

"El," Sophie whispered, grabbing Elenor's hand. "You scared the hell out of me."

Elenor sat up, her eyes sharp and alert. The fragility was gone. She pointed to her throat.

"It's minor laryngeal edema from the intubation," Sophie explained quickly. "It's a perfect excuse. We'll tell everyone the trauma from the crash caused temporary aphonia. It gives you a physical reason to stay silent and buys us time to figure out how to handle your... usual aversion to speaking."

Elenor grabbed a notepad from the bedside table. She wrote furiously. Silas?

Sophie's face fell. She looked away. "Missing. The lab... El, the lab burned down the night of your crash. It's gone."

Elenor's pen tore through the paper. Gone. The data. The algorithms.

She wrote again. My brain scan?

"Concussion," Sophie said. "But no structural damage. Your memory is fine." She lowered her voice further. "And the baby... is fine too. The heartbeat is strong. You're tough, both of you. But Elenor, you cannot let Hilliard find out. Not yet."

Elenor flipped the page. Tell Hilliard I have amnesia. Dissociative. From the trauma.

"What?" Sophie hissed. "Why? He's your husband. He's paying for all of this."

Elenor wrote: He is a shark. If he knows I am The Analyst, he won't protect me. He will lock me in a basement and make me trade for him.

Sophie read the note. She sighed, rubbing her temples. "Okay. I'll fake the notes."

Elenor wrote one last thing. I need to leave. Now.

"You can't," Sophie argued. "The press is outside."

Elenor's new phone-smuggled in by Sophie-buzzed under the pillow. Elenor pulled it out.

A text from an unknown number. An image. A single, charred loafer lying on the front steps of the Becker Manor. Silas's shoe.

Elenor showed the screen to Sophie.

Sophie went pale. "Okay. Okay. We have to get you out."

"MRI," Sophie said, formulating a plan. "I'll order an emergency MRI. The guards can't come into the magnet room. There's a staff exit in the back."

Sophie turned off the noise machine. She opened the door and shouted, "Get a gurney! Patient is showing signs of cerebral swelling. We need a scan immediately!"

The guards stepped forward. "Mr. Blackburn said she stays in the room."

"Mr. Blackburn isn't a doctor," Sophie snapped. "If she strokes out, you can explain it to him."

The guards hesitated. Then, they stepped aside.

Elenor was loaded onto a gurney. She closed her eyes, letting her lashes flutter weakly against her cheeks. But under the sheet, her fists were clenched so hard her nails cut into her palms.

The MRI machine clanged and banged, a rhythmic, industrial techno beat. In the control room, Sophie was distracting the technician.

Inside the scanning room, Elenor slid off the table. She stripped off the hospital gown, shivering in the cool air, and pulled on a set of scrubs Sophie had stashed behind the supply cabinet. They were too big, but they would do.

She pushed open the heavy rear door. The hallway was empty.

Elenor ran. Her bare feet slapped against the tile. She found the side exit and pushed into the cool New York afternoon.

She kept her head down, pulling a surgical cap low over her forehead. She just needed to get to the subway.

A black SUV screeched to a halt across the sidewalk, blocking her path.

Elenor spun around. Three photographers jumped out from behind a parked van. Flashbulbs exploded like grenades. Pop. Pop. Pop.

She was blinded. She threw her hands up to cover her face.

"Elenor!"

The voice was amplified. Julian.

He stepped out of the SUV. He was holding a bouquet of red roses so large it looked comical. A camera crew was right behind him.

"I knew you'd come out!" Julian shouted, performing for the lens. "You were running to me, weren't you?"

Elenor stumbled back. The audacity was breathtaking. He was spinning her escape as a romantic rendezvous.

A crowd began to form. Phones were raised. TikTok live streams started.

Ursula appeared from the crowd, dabbing at dry eyes with a handkerchief. "She's so confused, the poor dear! Just like Hertha warned us she would be. But true love always finds a way. Don't let the Blackburns bully you, Elenor!"

Julian dropped to one knee on the dirty pavement. He held up the ring-the same cheap ring from the hospital.

"Marry me, Elenor," he said. "Let me save you from that loveless arrangement."

Elenor felt dizzy. The flashes, the noise, the smell of exhaust fumes. It was too much.

She shook her head frantically. She tried to back away, but the crowd had formed a wall.

Julian stood up. He closed the distance. He grabbed her hand, forcing the flowers into her arms. He leaned in for a kiss, blocking the camera's view of her face with his shoulder.

"Put the ring on," he hissed into her ear. "Or I send the hard drive I took from Silas's lab to the FBI. I know what was on it."

Elenor froze. The blood drained from her face. He had the drive? Or was he bluffing?

She looked at him. His eyes were cruel, triumphant.

She reached into her scrub pocket and pulled out the phone.

Julian smiled, preening. He thought she was typing a 'yes'. He waved at the camera.

Elenor turned the screen around. She shoved it toward the camera lens, then toward Julian's face.

The text was large. Bold.

YOU MAKE ME SICK.

The crowd gasped. A few people laughed.

Julian's smile curdled.

Elenor looked past him. At the corner of the block, a black Rolls Royce was idling. The window was down. Hilliard Blackburn was watching. He hadn't moved. He was waiting.

Julian saw the screen. His face turned a mottled purple. He slapped the phone out of Elenor's hand.

It hit the pavement with a crunch.

"You ungrateful mute bitch!" Julian roared. The mic on the camera picked it up. The crowd went silent.

He grabbed her by the front of the scrubs. He shook her. "I'm trying to help you!"

Elenor was thrown backward. Her spine collided with a lamppost. Pain shot through her ribs. She slid down, gasping for air.

Ursula was shouting now. "She's having an episode! Grab her! We need to get her home!"

Julian lunged for her. His fingers dug into her arm, bruising the skin. He was dragging her toward the SUV.

"No," Elenor mouthed. No sound came out.

She looked past the chaos, past the flashing lights, and her gaze locked with Hilliard's in the distant car. There was no plea in her eyes, no request for salvation. Instead, there was a cold, clear message: This circus is a liability. Your investment is being publicly degraded. It was a strategic look, not a desperate one.

He wouldn't help a victim. But he would protect an asset.

Julian opened the car door. He was shoving her inside.

Elenor felt a surge of panic, not for her safety, but for the plan. This was not part of the plan. She closed her eyes, preparing to fight, to bite, to do anything to stop him.

The door of the Rolls Royce opened.

Hilliard stepped out. He didn't rush. He buttoned his jacket. He took a drag of the cigar and exhaled a plume of blue smoke.

The crowd parted for him like the Red Sea. The aura of money was a physical barrier.

He walked up to Julian. He looked at Julian's hand, which was still gripping Elenor's arm.

"Count to three," Hilliard said. His voice was conversational. "If your hand is still on my wife at three, you lose the hand."

Julian blinked. "What?"

"One."

Hilliard took a step closer.

Julian released her as if she were made of fire. He stumbled back, nearly tripping over his own feet.

Elenor slumped forward, her legs giving out.

She didn't hit the ground.

Hilliard's arm swept around her waist. He caught her, pulling her flush against his chest. The wool of his suit was rough against her cheek. He smelled of tobacco and cold winter air.

He looked down at her. His eyes were hard, but his grip was secure.

"Creating a scene, Mrs. Blackburn?" he murmured, his voice low and mocking near her ear. "This will be expensive."