The Blue Velvet was dark, loud, and smelled of expensive perfume and regret.

Francesca sat in a booth in the back, nursing a glass of water. Anna was next to her, rubbing her back.

"They are garbage," Anna said for the tenth time. "Human garbage."

Francesca stared at the table. She felt hollowed out.

"I need a drink," Francesca said.

"You have a concussion," Anna warned.

"I don't care."

Anna signaled the waiter. "Two whiskeys. Doubles."

Francesca's phone buzzed. A text message. From Janeen.

Why does she still have this number?

It was a voice memo.

Francesca's thumb hovered over the play button.

"Don't," Anna said.

"I have to know," Francesca whispered.

She pressed play.

Janeen's voice, tinny and distorted, cut through the bar noise.

"Oh, one more thing, dear. Since you're already at rock bottom. That doctor in Switzerland? The one who said it was a stillbirth? He sent a letter to your father's office today. A blackmail attempt. He says he has records proving the child was born alive. That he cried. He wants more money to keep quiet about where we sent him."

The phone slipped from Francesca's hand. It clattered onto the sticky table.

Time stopped. The music faded. The laughter of the crowd became a distant hum.

He cried.

Stillborn babies don't cry.

Dead babies don't cry.

"Did you hear that?" Francesca whispered. Her voice was barely audible.

Anna picked up the phone, her face pale. "Fran..."

"He cried," Francesca said. The shock was cracking, revealing a core of molten lava underneath. "They told me he was dead. They showed me a... a bundle."

"They lied," Anna breathed. "Oh my god, Fran. They stole your baby."

Francesca grabbed the whiskey glass. She downed it in one swallow. The burn felt good. It felt like fuel.

"He's alive," she said. She wasn't crying anymore. Her eyes were dry and hard. "My son is alive. And they... they gave him away? Sold him?"

"We'll find him," Anna said, gripping her hand. "We will burn the world down to find him."

A commotion at the entrance.

Laughter. Loud, obnoxious laughter.

Francesca looked up.

Lance walked in. He was wearing a tuxedo. And hanging on his arm, in a shimmering silver dress, was Dollie.

They were celebrating.

Francesca felt a physical blow to her chest.

Lance looked around, scanning the room for admirers. His eyes landed on the back booth.

He froze.

Dollie followed his gaze. She smirked. She whispered something in Lance's ear and pulled him toward the booth.

"Don't," Lance muttered, trying to hold back.

"No, let's say hi to my sister," Dollie chirped.

They stopped at the table.

"Celebrating your freedom, Fran?" Dollie asked, flashing the diamond ring. It caught the dim light, mocking her.

Anna stood up. "Get the hell away from here."

"Relax, Anna," Lance said. He looked at Francesca. There was no pity in his eyes. Only annoyance. "You look like a mess, Fran."

"You stole my life," Francesca said. She stood up slowly.

"You gave it away," Lance sneered. "You were always too weak for this world. Too emotional. That's why your father chose Dollie. She knows how to play the game."

"The game?" Francesca laughed. It was a terrifying sound. "You think this is a game?"

She reached for Anna's whiskey glass. Full to the brim.

"Francesca, don't," Lance warned.

Francesca threw it.

The amber liquid splashed squarely into Dollie's face. Ice cubes hit her forehead.

Dollie shrieked like a banshee. "My eyes! My dress!"

Lance shoved Francesca. Hard.

She stumbled back, hitting the wall.

"You crazy bitch!" Lance raised his hand.

From the shadowed corner of the bar, a large figure detached himself from the wall. He had been watching them since they walked in.

The bouncer stepped forward, but the man in the shadows moved faster.

Cooper stepped between them. He didn't touch Lance. He just stood there, a wall of kinetic violence waiting to happen.

"Problem here?" Cooper asked, his voice low.

"She assaulted my fiancée!" Lance yelled.

Cooper looked at Francesca, then at Lance. He turned his back on Lance, facing Francesca. "Time to go."

Lance, feeling ignored and humiliated, reached out to grab Cooper's shoulder. "Hey, I'm talking to you!"

Cooper didn't even turn. He simply shifted his weight, and as Lance lunged, Cooper hooked his foot behind Lance's ankle.

Lance stumbled, flailing, and crashed to the floor in a heap of tuxedo and humiliation.

The bar erupted in laughter.

Francesca looked at the man. Cooper. She knew it instantly. He had been here the whole time.

Lance scrambled up from the floor. His face was red, a vein bulging in his neck.

"You're dead," he spat at Francesca. "I'll sue you for everything you don't have."

He grabbed Dollie, who was still wailing about her mascara, and dragged her toward the exit.

"Not yet," Francesca said.

She ran after them.

"Fran!" Anna yelled, but Francesca was already weaving through the crowd.

She burst out the back door into the alleyway.

Lance was there, trying to wipe a stain off his jacket. Dollie was by the car, checking her reflection in the window.

"Lance!"

He turned. "What? Haven't you done enough?"

"Why?" Francesca asked. She stood in the rain, shivering. "Five years, Lance. Was any of it real?"

Lance stopped wiping his jacket. He looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time that night. He let out a sigh, dropping the act.

"The first year? Maybe," he said. He took out a pack of cigarettes. "But then you got... sad. After the 'miscarriage'. You were depressing, Fran. And your dad made it clear: the money follows the winner. You were losing."

"So you just switched sisters? Like buying a new car?"

"It's business," Lance said, lighting the cigarette. "Dollie is fun. She's uncomplicated. And she comes with a seat on the board."

"I loved you," Francesca whispered.

"That's your problem," Lance said, blowing smoke in her face. "You love too hard. It's pathetic."

Something snapped inside Francesca.

She stepped forward and slapped him.

It wasn't a movie slap. It was a palm-heel strike to his jaw, fueled by five years of grief.

Crack.

Lance stumbled back, dropping his cigarette. He touched his lip. It was bleeding.

His eyes went dark.

"You stupid whore," he growled.

He lunged at her. He grabbed her wrist, twisting it.

Francesca cried out.

"I'm going to teach you a lesson," Lance hissed, raising his other hand.

"I wouldn't do that."

A voice from the shadows. Deep. Gravelly.

Cooper stepped out from the rear exit door, closing it softly behind him. He was wearing a leather jacket now, collar up. He looked like trouble.

Lance laughed. "Who the hell is this? A hobo?"

"Let her go," Cooper said. He walked closer. His movements were fluid, predatory.

"Get lost, man," Lance said. "This is a domestic dispute."

"It looks like assault to me," Cooper said.

He didn't wait for a response. He moved.

One second he was three feet away. The next, he had Lance's finger in one hand and his wrist in the other.

He twisted.

Lance screamed. He dropped to his knees.

"My finger! You broke my finger!"

Cooper released him, shoving him into a pile of wet cardboard boxes.

"Touch her again," Cooper said, his voice dropping to a whisper that carried more threat than a scream, "and I'll break the other nine."

Lance scrambled up, cradling his hand. He looked at Cooper with pure terror. He didn't know who this was, but he knew violence when he saw it.

"You're crazy! Both of you!"

Lance ran toward his car, leaving Dollie standing there, mouth open.

Cooper turned to Francesca.

She was leaning against the brick wall, sliding down slowly. The fight had drained the last of her energy.

"You," she breathed.

"Me," Cooper said.

"Are you following me?"

Cooper took off his leather jacket. He draped it over her shoulders. It was heavy, warm, and smelled of him.

"I had a drop-off nearby," he lied. "Saw a lady in distress."

"You broke his finger," she said, looking at his hands.

"He tripped," Cooper said.

Francesca looked up at him. The rain matted his hair to his forehead. He looked dangerous. And he was the safest thing she had ever known.

"Thank you," she said.

"Don't mention it," Cooper said. "You still owe me money. Can't have you dying on me."

The rain had slowed to a drizzle.

Anna burst out the back door. "Fran! I saw Lance running like a-"

She stopped, seeing the tall, dark stranger standing over Francesca.

"Who's this?" Anna asked, stepping in front of Francesca protectively.

"This is Cooper," Francesca said. She pulled the leather jacket tighter. "My... driver."

Anna looked Cooper up and down. She saw the cheap clothes, the scuffed boots. But she also saw the way he was shielding Francesca from the wind.

"Driver, huh?" Anna raised an eyebrow. "Well, Driver, thanks for handling the trash."

"All in a day's work," Cooper said.

"I need to go," Francesca said. Her stomach let out a loud, traitorous growl.

Cooper smirked. "Hungry?"

"Starving," she admitted.

"I know a place," Cooper said. "Cheap. Greasy."

"I'm coming with you," Anna said.

"No," Francesca shook her head. "Go back inside. Make sure Dollie doesn't spin this story. Please, Anna."

Anna hesitated, then nodded. "Call me. Tomorrow. Or I'm calling the cops."

She went back inside.

Cooper led Francesca to the Ford.

They drove in silence to a 24-hour diner on the edge of town. The fluorescent lights were buzzing. The vinyl seats were cracked.

Cooper ordered two cheeseburgers and a basket of fries.

Francesca ate like she hadn't seen food in weeks. Grease coated her fingers.

Cooper watched her, sipping a black coffee. He didn't eat.

"Why are you helping me?" Francesca asked, wiping her mouth with a napkin. "Really?"

Cooper leaned back. "I told you. The debt."

"It's more than that," she said. Her eyes were glassy. The whiskey was catching up with her. "You look at me like... like you know me."

"I know trouble when I see it," Cooper said.

"My son is alive," she blurted out.

Cooper froze. "What?"

"My baby. From five years ago. They told me he died. But he didn't. They stole him." Tears welled up in her eyes again. "I have to find him, Cooper. I have to."

Cooper felt a cold knot in his stomach. Stolen children. This was darker than he thought.

"We'll find him," Cooper said. The 'we' slipped out before he could stop it.

Francesca reached across the table and took his hand. Her skin was hot.

"You're a good man, Cooper," she slurred slightly. "Not like him. Not like Ortega."

Cooper flinched. "Ortega?"

"The monster," she whispered, leaning in. "He burns people. Did you know that? He wears a mask because he has no face."

Cooper forced his face to remain neutral, though his jaw tightened. "Is that so?"

"Yeah. I'm glad I didn't marry him. I'd rather be with a driver than a monster."

She blinked slowly, her head swaying.

"I think I'm going to pass out," she announced.

And she did. Her head hit the table with a soft thud.

Cooper sighed. He signaled the waitress for the check.

He paid with cash.

He picked Francesca up. She was limp in his arms.

"Where to?" he asked her sleeping form.

"Home," she mumbled into his chest.

She had no home.

"My place it is," Cooper said.