Claire left the Manor an hour later. She didn't go back to the apartment. She directed Piper to a nondescript address in Midtown.

It was a steakhouse. The kind with no sign, just a heavy wooden door and a bouncer who knew everyone's net worth by their shoes.

"Wait here," Claire told Piper.

She walked inside. The air was thick with cigar smoke and the smell of aged beef. It was a boys' club.

She found him in the back booth.

Branch Brewer was nursing a tumbler of amber liquid. He had changed out of the tuxedo shirt into a dark grey cashmere sweater. The sleeves were pushed up, revealing forearms corded with muscle.

He was holding the receipt from Harry Winston.

He looked up as she approached. His eyes raked over her, lazy and dangerous.

"Thirty million dollars," Branch said. "You trying to buy a small country, Claire?"

Claire slid into the leather booth opposite him. She placed her hands on the table.

"That was a deposit," she said. "To show you I'm serious."

"Spending my money shows me you're expensive," Branch countered. "Not serious."

Claire reached into her bag. She pulled out a single, folded napkin. She slid it across the table.

"This is the return on investment."

Branch picked it up. He opened it. Inside were not photocopies, but a series of numbers and names, written in her elegant, frantic script. An offshore account number in the Caymans. A date. A transfer amount. The name of a shell corporation.

Branch scanned the napkin. His eyebrows drew together. He stopped drinking.

"Where did you get this?" he asked. His voice lost the slur. It was razor sharp.

"Derrick talks in his sleep," she lied, her voice flat. It was a plausible lie for a fiancée. "He mumbles about numbers. I started writing them down."

"These look like federal crimes. This is RICO act territory."

"I know."

Branch looked up at her. For the first time, there was no mockery in his gaze. Only respect. And caution.

"So," he said, leaning back. "What do you want? Besides my credit limit."

"I want you to crash the engagement party tonight."

Branch laughed. "Like in The Graduate? Screaming your name from the balcony?"

"No," Claire said. "I want you to stand up during Derrick's speech and announce that you have purchased the Osborn family debt."

Branch paused. He swirled his drink. "Go on."

"Derrick is leveraged to the hilt. His loans are toxic. You buy them for pennies on the dollar this afternoon. When the party starts, you own him. You own his house, his campaign bus, the suit on his back."

Branch smiled. It was a cruel, beautiful smile. "You want me to repossess the groom-to-be."

"Exactly."

"And in exchange?"

"You get 10% of Avila Corp when I take over as CEO. And you get the satisfaction of watching Derrick cry on live TV."

Branch stared at her. He drummed his fingers on the table.

"I don't want the shares," he said.

Claire blinked. "10% is worth four hundred million."

"I have money," Branch said dismissively. He leaned forward. His face was inches from hers. She could smell the peat of the scotch. "I want a favor."

"What kind of favor?"

"An open-ended one. A blank check. One day, I will come to you, and I will ask for something. And you will say yes. No questions asked."

A chill ran down Claire's spine. This was dangerous. Branch was a shadow broker. His 'favors' could be anything.

But she had no choice.

"Deal," she said.

She held out her hand.

Branch took it. His palm was rough, calloused. He didn't shake her hand. He held it, his thumb brushing over her knuckles.

"Deal."

His phone rang on the table. Derrick.

Branch smirked. He tapped the speaker button.

"Brewer," he answered.

"Stay away from her!" Derrick screamed through the phone. "I know she's with you. My driver tracked the car."

Branch looked at Claire. He winked.

"Relax, Osborn," Branch drawled. "We're just discussing... engagement gifts. I think you're going to love what I got you."

Claire walked into the lobby of Avila Corp at two o'clock sharp, looking pale and contrite. The power suit was gone, replaced by a soft cashmere dress in a demure cream color. She looked exactly like a woman who had just had a minor breakdown and was now ready to be compliant.

The receptionist gasped. Claire Avila never came to the office.

"I need to see my cousin, Kaia," Claire said softly, her voice just loud enough for the nearby security guard to hear. "I said some things this morning... I need to apologize."

She didn't take the executive elevator. She walked to the main bank and rode up with a crowd of junior analysts, keeping her eyes downcast.

She found Kaia in the 14th floor intern pit, ostentatiously sorting mail.

Kaia spotted Claire. She put down a stack of envelopes and rushed over, her eyes wide and feigning innocence.

"Claire! Oh my gosh, what are you doing here?" Kaia chirped. "Are you okay?"

Claire looked at her. She remembered how Kaia had smiled at her funeral in the last life. She remembered Kaia sleeping with Derrick in her bed.

"Can we talk?" Claire asked, gesturing to a small, empty conference room. "In private?"

Kaia's eyes flickered with suspicion, but she couldn't refuse without making a scene. "Of course."

Once the glass door was closed, Claire's entire demeanor shifted. The fragile penitent vanished. Her spine straightened, and her eyes turned to ice.

"Sit down, Kaia."

Kaia hesitated, then sat. The smile on her face wavered.

Claire didn't say a word. She pulled out her burner phone and placed it on the table between them. She hit play on an audio file.

It was grainy, but the voices were clear. It was Kaia and Heber talking in a car.

Voice of Kaia: "She's so stupid, Dad. She doesn't even read the financial reports. Once she marries Derrick, we can push her out in six months."

Voice of Heber: "Just keep playing the victim, sweetie. She buys it every time."

Claire stopped the recording.

The conference room was dead silent.

Kaia's face went white. Her eyes turned venomous.

"What do you want?" Kaia hissed, her sweet-girl act disintegrating.

"You're not fired," Claire said calmly. "You're promoted. You are now my personal informant. You will tell me everything Heber and Derrick are planning. Every meeting, every phone call. You will forward me every email."

"And why would I do that?" Kaia sneered. "You'll expose me anyway!"

"Because if you don't," Claire said, leaning forward, "I won't just send this recording to the board of directors. I'll send it to the SEC, along with a detailed tip about your father's insider trading. You'll still be disowned, but you'll have to visit him in federal prison."

Kaia stared at her, shaking with rage. She was trapped.

"You're a bitch," Kaia spat.

Claire smiled, a thin, cold curve of her lips. "I'm learning from the best. My first instruction: go back to your desk and tell everyone I came here to apologize for my pre-wedding jitters and that we're closer than ever. I expect your first report by midnight."

Claire stood up and walked to the door. She paused with her hand on the handle, turning back to look at her cousin.

"And Kaia? Cry a little when you tell them. Make it believable."

She walked out of the conference room, leaving Kaia stewing in a prison of her own making.

Claire found her uncle Heber in the executive dining room, holding court with two junior board members.

She didn't lunge. She didn't shout. She approached the table with a serene smile.

"Uncle Heber," she said sweetly. "May I have a word?"

Heber, flushed from his two-martini lunch, beamed at her. He assumed she was there to apologize for her earlier behavior at the manor. "Of course, my dear! Join us!"

"In the hallway, if you don't mind," Claire said, her smile never wavering.

Heber excused himself, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. The moment they were out of earshot, his face hardened. "What is this about, Claire? I hope you're not planning another scene."

Claire didn't flinch. "I just had the most interesting chat with Kaia."

Heber's jovial mask slipped. "And?"

"She told me everything," Claire lied, her voice a soft, conspiratorial whisper. "About your side deals. The construction contracts for the new shipping warehouse. The ones you've been skimming from."

Heber began to sweat. Profusely. "My daughter would never-"

"She would to save herself," Claire cut in smoothly. "I have the account numbers, Uncle. The ones in the Caymans. She gave them to me in exchange for my silence about her own little schemes." She was pitting them against each other, using the truth of their greed as the blade.

Heber looked like he had been slapped. The betrayal, even a fabricated one, hit him harder than any financial threat.

Claire stepped forward, adjusting his crooked tie.

"So here is the deal," she whispered. "At the next board meeting, when I make a motion, you will second it. Whatever it is. You will vote with me, always. Or Kaia's confession, along with those account numbers, finds its way to the IRS."

Heber opened his mouth, then closed it. The fight drained out of him. He was a bully, and bullies crumbled when you punched back.

"Fine," he croaked.

"Good. Now go finish your lunch. And smile. We wouldn't want anyone to think there's trouble in the family."

She patted his cheek and walked away, leaving him pale and trembling in the corridor.

She went straight to the CEO's office.

Robert was behind his desk. He looked tired.

"The auditors found something," Robert said, his voice grim. "A shell corporation. Funds are being diverted from our joint marketing account for the merger."

"I know," Claire said. She sat down. "Dad, we need a defense plan. When this blows up tonight, the stock will wobble. We need to be ready to fight off a hostile takeover."

"We don't have the liquid assets for a massive share buyback," Robert admitted. "Not without selling off a subsidiary."

"I found a partner."

"Who? The banks won't touch us with this uncertainty."

"Branch Brewer."

Robert frowned. "The playboy? He's all flash, no substance."

"Call him."

Claire dialed Branch's number and put it on speaker.

"Brewer," the voice answered.

"Branch, I'm with my father. Tell him."

Branch's voice changed. The lazy drawl vanished. It was replaced by the crisp, authoritative tone of a man who moved markets.

"Mr. Avila," Branch said. "I've established a discretionary fund dedicated to shorting Osborn Industries and its political affiliates. Any instability in their camp tonight will trigger a cascade. My fund is prepared to acquire a significant, non-controlling stake in Avila Corp post-dip, acting as a friendly anchor against external threats."

Robert's jaw dropped. He looked at the phone, then at Claire.

This wasn't a loan. It was a strategic alliance. Branch wasn't giving them money; he was weaponizing his own to protect their flank.

"What are the terms?" Robert asked.

"No terms. It's my own play. I just want a front-row seat. And I want first right of refusal on any future stock issuance."

It was a brilliant deal. A predator's deal.

"Why are you doing this, son?" Robert asked.

There was a pause on the line.

"Because," Branch said, his voice softening slightly. "Your daughter is the only person in this city who sees things clearly. And I bet on winners."

Robert looked at Claire with new respect. "Done. My team will coordinate with yours."

"They're already in your inbox."

Claire hung up.

"You're full of surprises," Robert said.

The intercom buzzed.

"Mr. Avila? Derrick Osborn is in the lobby. And... he brought the press."