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."

Claire stepped out of the elevator into the lobby.

It was a circus. Flashbulbs popped like strobe lights, blinding her.

Derrick stood in the center of the chaos, holding a massive bouquet of red roses. He looked like Prince Charming.

"Claire!" he shouted, waving to the cameras.

Reporters surged forward, thrusting microphones in her face.

"Claire! Is it true the engagement is on the rocks?"

"Are the rumors about your mental health true?"

"Derrick, is she unstable?"

Derrick stepped in front of her, shielding her with his body. It looked protective. It was actually controlling.

"Please!" Derrick shouted. "Give her space! My fiancée has been under a lot of stress. She's fragile right now."

Fragile. The narrative was being spun in real-time. If she got angry, she was crazy. If she cried, she was unstable.

Claire took a deep breath. She didn't fight him. She leaned into him.

She let her body go limp, resting her head on his shoulder.

"Oh, Derrick," she said, loud enough for the microphones to pick up. "Thank you for protecting me."

She looked up at the cameras. She made her lip tremble.

"I'm sorry everyone," she said. "I just... I love him so much. And the pressure of the election... it's just so hard to be perfect."

The reporters softened. Aww.

"But," Claire continued, her voice gaining a strange edge. "I promise you all. Tonight, at the party, you will see the real Derrick. The man behind the mask."

Derrick stiffened. He squeezed her arm hard. "That's enough, darling."

"I feel..." Claire put a hand to her forehead. "I feel faint."

She collapsed.

It was a graceful fall. She went down like a swan.

"Claire!" Derrick yelled. He had to drop the flowers to catch her. The thorns scratched his face.

Chaos erupted. Security guards rushed in.

"Get the car!" Derrick screamed.

As he lifted her, Claire's face was pressed against his chest. Her eyes remained closed, her breathing shallow. She gave him nothing. No whisper, no threat. She was the perfect, unconscious victim, a blank slate onto which he and the press could project their own stories. Her silence was more unnerving to him than any insult could have been.

Robert's security team took over, pulling her from Derrick's arms and hustling her into the waiting limo.

Inside the car, the tint was dark.

Claire sat up instantly. She smoothed her hair.

Piper was in the jump seat, cackling. "That was Oscar-worthy! Did you see his face when you dropped?"

Claire checked her phone. Twitter was trending. PoorClaire. The narrative had shifted. Derrick looked pushy; she looked sympathetic.

"Where to?" Piper asked.

"Brooklyn," Claire said. "Red Hook. I need to pick up my armor."

The warehouse in Red Hook looked abandoned. Graffiti covered the brick walls, and the windows were boarded up.

"Are you sure this is the place?" Piper asked, wrinkling her nose. "This looks like where people go to get murdered."

"Stay in the car and keep the engine running," Claire said, her tone leaving no room for argument. "This part is solo."

Piper frowned but nodded. This new Claire was terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure.

Claire walked to the rusted steel door. She pressed a hidden panel under a loose brick.

Hiss.

The door slid open on hydraulic rails.

Inside, it was not a high-tech Batcave, but a high-end private garage. A gearhead's paradise.

A row of modified cars-matte black, engines exposed-sat in the center under spotlights. On the far wall, instead of server banks, were floor-to-ceiling tool chests and diagnostic equipment. The air smelled of motor oil and expensive leather.

"Holy shit," Claire whispered to herself. It was more than she'd expected.

Branch slid out from under a '69 Mustang. He was wearing a grease-stained tank top. His arms were covered in oil.

He stood up, wiping his hands on a rag. He looked raw. Primal.

"Welcome to the playground," Branch said.

Claire walked over to a large tablet mounted on a workbench. She pointed. "Is that the feed from the hotel ballroom?"

"Yep." Branch tapped the screen. An image of the stage and podium appeared. "I have a friend on the hotel's AV crew. He's given me a backdoor into the system. We can override the broadcast feed for the local news stations covering the party."

"Can you run video?"

"Child's play." Branch picked up a USB drive from the desk. "I had my guys pull the files based on the account info you gave me. The video of Derrick meeting with the cartel's money launderer? The one named Elsa?"

"Yeah?"

"It's disgusting," Branch grinned. "It's perfect."

He tossed the drive in the air and caught it. "Dash will be at the party, near the control booth. When the moment is right, he gives the signal."

"Good."

Branch walked over to a covered rack in the corner.

"I have something for you," he said. "Since you're going to war, you need a uniform."

He pulled the sheet off.

Claire gasped.

It was a dress.

It was made of black silk charmeuse that looked like liquid midnight. Off-the-shoulder, with a sweetheart neckline that plunged dangerously low, and a slit up the thigh that screamed murder. It was a whisper-thin, deadly statement.

"You're not wearing white tonight," Branch said. "You're wearing this."

Claire ran her hand over the silk. It was soft as sin.

"I can't just show up in this," she said. "Derrick would have a fit before we even got through the door."

"You wear the pastel dress he picked out," Branch explained. "This goes in a garment bag. You change in the ladies' room right before his speech. You walk out in that thing, and no one will be able to look away. He'll be so stunned by the dress, he won't see the knife coming."

Claire looked at him. He had thought of everything.

"Why?" she asked.

Branch stepped closer. He smelled of motor oil and musk. He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His thumb lingered on her cheek.

"Because," he murmured. "If you're going to break his heart, you should look like a nightmare he'll never wake up from."

Claire's breath hitched. For a second, the revenge didn't matter. Only the heat of his hand mattered.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"Don't thank me yet," Branch said, pulling away. "Wait until the fireworks start."