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?"

The ballroom of the Plaza Hotel was a sea of silk, diamonds, and fake laughter. It was Sloan's twenty-first birthday, but for the Upper East Side, it was just another arena.

Ashton wore a vintage black dress. It was three seasons old, but it fit her like a second skin. She stood near a pillar, holding a glass of water she pretended was vodka.

Charity entered with Isadore. She was clinging to his arm, flashing a diamond the size of a skating rink at every camera. Isadore looked bored. His body was stiff, leaning slightly away from her.

Charity spotted Ashton. Her smile turned into a baring of teeth. She whispered something to Brittany Pierce, her loyal lapdog.

Brittany marched over, holding a glass of red wine. "Ashton. Brave of you to show up. Is that the same dress you wore to the spring formal? I guess the dry cleaners are too expensive now."

A few people nearby tittered.

Ashton didn't blink. "Fashion is cyclical, Brittany. Unlike your personality, which has been trash since kindergarten."

Brittany's face flushed. She raised her glass, clearly intending to 'trip.'

Sloan stepped in, catching Brittany's wrist. "Don't even think about it."

Charity glided over. "Ladies, please. Ashton, if you need money for clothes, just ask. I know you're desperate. I heard you were begging for a place to sleep last night."

The circle of listeners gasped. The implication was clear: Ashton was selling herself.

Isadore was standing ten feet away, talking to a senator. He stopped. He turned his head, listening.

Ashton stepped closer to Charity. She dropped her voice to a whisper that cut through the noise. "You're so worried about last night. Is it because you realized money can buy a ring, but it can't buy his interest?"

Charity's mask cracked. Her eyes widened in genuine rage.

Ashton stepped back and raised her voice. "You think Isadore Grimes is a god? I bet I can make him lose control tonight."

"You're delusional," Brittany spat. "He hates you."

"Watch me," Ashton said.

She turned and walked toward the terrace doors. She passed Isadore. She didn't look at him. She didn't stop. But she trailed a hand along the back of a velvet chair near him, leaving a scent of rain and cedar-the same scent that was on his shirt this morning.

Isadore's nostrils flared. His eyes tracked her exit.

Charity saw the look. Panic flared in her chest.

Ashton stepped onto the terrace. The air was freezing. She walked to the railing, looking down at the dark garden below.

"Thought you could run?"

Ashton turned. Carter was there. He was drunk, swaying slightly, blocking the door. Charity must have let him in.

"Get out of my way, Carter," Ashton said, backing up.

"You ruined my reputation," Carter slurred, stepping closer. "You owe me."

Ashton glanced at the glass doors. She saw Isadore's silhouette approaching.

She moved. She didn't run past Carter. She climbed onto the stone railing.

It was reckless. A thirty-foot drop.

"What are you doing?" Carter yelled, sobering up instantly. "Get down, you psycho!"

Ashton stood on the ledge, the wind whipping her dress. She looked at the glass door. She saw Isadore's hand hit the handle.

She wasn't going to jump. But she needed Isadore to think she might. She needed to know if the machine had a heart, or at least, a liability clause.

The glass door shattered open. Isadore didn't walk; he stormed onto the terrace.

"Sterling!" His voice was a whip crack. "Back off."

Carter stumbled back, nearly tripping over a planter. "Mr. Grimes. I... she's crazy. She climbed up there herself!"

Isadore ignored him. He walked straight to the railing. He didn't look panicked. He looked furious.

"Get down," he ordered Ashton. "Now. Do not turn my evening into a crime scene."

Ashton looked down at the drop, then back at him. She held out a hand.

Isadore grabbed it. His grip was iron. He didn't just help her down; he yanked her off the ledge.

She collided with his chest. For a second, she was pressed against the solid wall of his tuxedo. She smelled expensive scotch and starch. She let herself linger for a heartbeat, pressing her face into his lapel.

Isadore stiffened. He pushed her back to arm's length, his hands lingering on her shoulders for a fraction of a second too long before dropping.

"Go," he said to Carter, not looking away from Ashton. "If you come within ten feet of her again, I will buy your father's company and liquidate it for sport."

Carter turned white. He scrambled back inside.

Ashton shivered. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me," Isadore said, his voice low. "You staged that."

"Did I?" Ashton challenged.

She turned and ran. Not back inside, but toward the service fire escape.

Isadore watched her go. He adjusted his cuffs, his heart rate slightly elevated. He hated that.

Ashton took the stairs down to the kitchen level. She grabbed a waiter's jacket from a rack and a tray with a single glass of champagne. She rode the service elevator to the penthouse floor.

She knocked on the door of the Presidential Suite.

Isadore opened it. He had loosened his tie. He looked at her, then at the tray.

"How did you get up here?"

"Room service," Ashton said, pushing past him into the room. "Hide me. Carter is waiting in the lobby."

Isadore closed the door. "Ten minutes. Then security escorts you out."

Ashton walked to the window. The city sprawled below them, a grid of electricity.

"Charity let him in," Ashton said. "She wanted a scene. She doesn't care if it ruins your gala, as long as it hurts me."

Isadore poured himself a drink. "I don't care about your catfights."

"You care about your reputation," Ashton said, turning to face him. She walked over and took the glass from his hand. She took a sip, her eyes locked on his. "Charity is a liability. She's messy. She's emotional."

She stepped closer, invading his personal space. "You need a partner, Isadore. Not a child."

Isadore looked at the glass she had just drunk from. He looked at her mouth. "And you're the partner? You have nothing."

"I know how to unlock the Harmon Trust's voting rights," she said, her voice dropping. "They're trapped behind a legal firewall Carter created, but I know the loophole. And I know where all the bodies are buried."