The iron gates of the Grimes estate were twice the height of a man and black as pitch. Ashton stood before them, the wind whipping her loose hair across her face. She wore a grey hoodie and jeans, stripped of makeup, clutching the book to her chest like a shield.

She pressed the intercom button. The metal was cold under her finger.

"State your business," a voice crackled. It wasn't human; it was the flat, bored tone of private security.

"I have something for Mr. Grimes," Ashton said. "Regarding the 1920 Keynesian manuscript."

"Mr. Grimes is not accepting visitors. Leave it at the gate."

Ashton didn't move. She looked up at the camera mounted on the stone pillar. She held the book up, turning it so the spine was visible. A flicker of memory surfaced-her grandfather, smelling of pipe tobacco and old books, patiently explaining the theories scribbled in its margins. He had groomed her to take over a financial empire, not to be cast out of it. That knowledge was the one thing they couldn't freeze or foreclose on. Then, she looked directly into the lens and mouthed a single phrase: Liquidity Trap.

It was a gamble. A massive one. She was betting that Isadore, a known micromanager, monitored his own perimeter feeds when he was in the study.

Ten seconds passed. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.

Then, a heavy mechanical groan vibrated through the ground. The gates began to swing inward.

Ashton exhaled, a small puff of white in the chill air. She walked up the long, gravel driveway. The estate was immaculate-manicured hedges, sharp lines, a main house that looked more like a museum than a home. It was cold. It lacked life.

A butler met her at the heavy oak doors. He patted her down with professional detachment, checking her pockets, her waistband. He found nothing but a cheap lip balm.

"This way," he said.

He led her down a hallway lined with monochromatic art. He opened a set of double doors and stepped aside.

The study was cavernous. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined every wall. In the center of the room, behind a desk that looked like a slab of obsidian, sat Isadore Grimes.

He didn't look up. He was signing documents, his pen moving with fluid, brutal efficiency.

Ashton walked to the center of the room and stopped. She didn't speak. She knew men like Isadore. They viewed silence as a power play. If she spoke first, she lost.

The grandfather clock in the corner ticked. One minute. Two. Five.

Ashton's legs began to ache, but she locked her knees and stared at a point on the wall behind him.

Finally, Isadore capped his pen. The click was loud in the quiet room. He looked up. His eyes were colder than the photos. They dissected her, layer by layer.

"Miss Harmon," he said. His voice was deep, devoid of warmth. "That notebook better be authentic."

Ashton stepped forward and placed the book on the edge of his desk. She kept her hand on the cover. "It is. But I'm not here to sell it."

Isadore leaned back, the leather of his chair creaking. "You want an invite to the gala? Or are you here to beg for your ex-boyfriend?"

"I don't care about Carter," Ashton said, her voice steady. "And I don't want your money. I need access to your library. Two hours. That's the price."

Isadore blinked. It was the only sign of surprise he gave. "You want to read?"

"I'm writing a thesis on market volatility. This book," she tapped the cover, "is the only source material I can't find digitally. I know you have the rest of the collection."

Isadore stood up. He was tall, imposing, wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms that were unexpectedly muscular for a man who pushed paper. He walked around the desk and picked up the notebook.

He flipped through the pages, his eyes scanning the handwritten notes. He nodded, once.

"If you make a sound," he said, not looking at her, "or if you touch anything other than the books in section C, I will have you removed."

"Understood, Mr. Grimes."

He went back to his chair and ignored her completely.

Ashton took a seat in the corner armchair. She opened a random book, but her eyes weren't on the text. She watched him in the reflection of the window glass.

He worked like a machine. Every thirty minutes, he drank water. Every time his phone buzzed with a specific ringtone-Charity's-he let it ring three times before answering.

"What?" he answered one call. His tone was clipped. "No, I don't care about the flower arrangements. Do whatever you want."

He hung up without saying goodbye.

Ashton turned a page, her heart beating a little faster. He didn't love Charity. He barely tolerated her.

Outside, the sky turned a bruised purple. Thunder rumbled, low and menacing. A storm was coming.

Ashton looked at the rain starting to lash against the glass. A plan formed in her mind. It was dangerous, but she was already in the lion's den. She might as well see if she could stay for dinner.

"Time is up," the butler said, appearing in the doorway like a ghost.

Ashton closed the book immediately. She stood up, smoothing her jeans. "Thank you."

She looked at Isadore. He didn't look up from his laptop. "Goodbye, Mr. Grimes."

He didn't respond.

Ashton walked out of the study and into the foyer. Through the glass panels of the front door, she could see the world had turned into a washing machine. Rain fell in sheets, horizontal and violent.

"Shall I call a car for you, Miss?" the butler asked.

"No need," Ashton lied smoothly. "My Uber is two minutes away."

She pushed open the heavy front door and stepped out. The wind hit her instantly, soaking her hoodie in seconds. She walked down the steps and stood near the gate, just out of the direct line of sight of the house, but perfectly framed by the security camera.

She pulled out her phone. She dialed a dead number, held it to her ear, and then pulled it away, staring at the screen with feigned panic.

A black sedan-Sloan's rental-pulled up to the gate, idling ominously. It sat there for a moment, headlights cutting through the rain, looking for all the world like a stalker lying in wait.

Inside the study, a small alert chimed on Isadore's screen. Perimeter Alert: Loitering Vehicle.

Isadore clicked the feed. He saw the black car. Then he switched cameras and saw the girl. Ashton was hugging herself, shaking violently, water streaming down her face. She looked terrified, glancing between her phone and the car outside.

Isadore's jaw tightened. He didn't care about her. But he refused to have a kidnapping-or worse-happen on his doorstep. The paperwork alone would be a nightmare.

He hit the intercom button. "Let her back in. Get rid of that car."

The gates opened. Security personnel swarmed the black sedan, which peeled away into the night.

Moments later, Ashton stood in the foyer again. She was dripping wet. Her wet clothes clung to her skin, outlining her frame. She was shivering, her teeth chattering audibly.

Isadore descended the stairs. He looked annoyed. "Why are you still here?"

Ashton wrapped her arms tighter around herself. "Carter... he was outside. That car. I couldn't..."

Isadore remembered the video from the club. The screaming, the glass. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I am not your bodyguard, Harmon."

"I just need to wait out the storm," she said, her voice trembling. "Or throw me out. But if he grabs me, the press will ask why you opened the gate for him."

Isadore let out a short, cynical laugh. "You have nerve." He pointed down the hall. "Guest room. Stay there. Be gone by six a.m."

The butler led her to a sterile, beige room. "I will bring you something dry," he said.

He returned with a white dress shirt. "Mr. Grimes does not keep women's clothing. This belongs to him."

Ashton took it. "Thank you."

When the door clicked shut, she stopped shivering instantly.

She stripped off her wet clothes and showered quickly. She put on Isadore's shirt. It was massive on her, the hem hitting her mid-thigh. It smelled of cedar and rain-a cold, expensive scent. She undid the top two buttons. Not enough to be trashy. Just enough to be a question.

She waited until the house was silent. The thunder covered the sound of her bare feet on the hardwood.

She crept into the hallway. The master bedroom door was ajar. Isadore was still downstairs working.

She slipped inside. The room was Spartan. A massive bed, grey sheets. On the nightstand, a stack of papers. Prenuptial Agreement Draft.

She didn't touch the papers. Instead, she reached up to her neck and unclasped the black velvet choker she always wore.

She heard a footstep on the stairs. He was coming.

Ashton moved to the side of the bed, near the massive oak headboard. She let the choker slip from her fingers, watching it fall into the narrow, dark gap between the mattress and the headboard. It was a place one would never feel, but a place an angry, suspicious fiancée, yanking pillows around, might just find.

She sprinted back to the door, slipping into the shadows of the hallway just as Isadore reached the landing. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She watched him walk into his room and close the door.

She leaned against the wall, letting out a breath she didn't know she was holding.

The alarm on her phone vibrated at 5:30 a.m. Ashton was already awake.

She folded Isadore's shirt with military precision and placed it on the foot of the bed. She dressed in her own clothes, which the butler had dried overnight.

In the bathroom, she took a tube of red lipstick. On the corner of the mirror, she wrote a six-digit number. A stock ticker for a company Charity's father was secretly shorting. She wiped it away with a tissue, leaving only a faint, red smear, as if she had tried to clean it in a hurry and failed.

She slipped out of the house like a shadow. Sloan was waiting down the road.

"Did you do it?" Sloan asked as Ashton climbed in.

"The seed is planted," Ashton said, buckling her seatbelt. "Isadore doesn't trust Charity. The prenup is brutal. He's protecting his assets from her."

Back at the estate, Isadore woke up. He slept efficiently, without moving much. He didn't check behind the headboard.

He went to the gym. While he was boxing, Charity arrived. She breezed past the butler, her heels clicking on the marble. She was early, manic with wedding planning energy.

"Isadore?" she called out.

"In the gym," the butler said. "He is not to be disturbed."

"I'm his fiancée," Charity snapped. "I'll wait in the bedroom."

She walked into the master suite, her eyes scanning the room, possessive and critical. She sat on the edge of the bed, smoothing the duvet. She reached out to fluff the pillow, her movements jerky and annoyed. She gave the heavy pillow an aggressive shove against the headboard.

Her fingers brushed against something soft. Velvet.

She pulled it out. A black choker with a small silver charm.

Charity froze. She knew this choker. She had seen it in a hundred paparazzi photos of Ashton Harmon.

Her face went white, then a blotchy, furious red. Her grip on the velvet tightened until her knuckles popped.

Isadore walked in, a towel draped around his neck, sweat glistening on his chest. He stopped when he saw her face.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

Charity held up the choker. Her hand was shaking. "Explain this."

Isadore looked at the object. He recognized it immediately. He remembered the girl in the rain, the oversized shirt.

He didn't flinch. He didn't apologize. "It belongs to the Harmon girl. She crashed in the guest room last night to avoid a stalker."

The truth was so blunt it took the wind out of Charity's sails. But the fact remained: Ashton had been here. In his house. And her jewelry was in his bed.

"In the guest room?" Charity hissed. "Then why was this in your bed?"

"She's a child playing games," Isadore said, walking past her to the dresser. He snatched the choker from her hand and tossed it into the wastebasket without looking at it. "Don't let her trash ruin my morning."

Charity stared at the bin. He had thrown it away. That should have been enough. But his indifference was worse than anger. He didn't care enough to lie.

"I'm going to destroy her," Charity whispered.

"Do it quietly," Isadore said, pulling on a fresh shirt. "I have a merger to close."

Later, at a campus coffee shop, Ashton's phone buzzed. An unknown number.

Stay away from him or you're dead.

Ashton showed the screen to Sloan. "She took the bait."

"You're playing with fire," Sloan said.

Ashton typed a reply. See you at the gala tonight, sis.

Back at the estate, Isadore waited until Charity stormed out. He walked over to the wastebasket. He looked at the black velvet ribbon lying among the tissues.

He reached down and picked it up. He didn't know why. Perhaps because it was evidence. Perhaps because he admired the sheer audacity of the move.

He opened his bedside drawer and dropped the choker inside.

"Ashton Harmon," he muttered. "What do you want?"