Flavia returned to the corporate apartment just as the sun was setting behind the Hudson. Her body ached with fatigue. The audit had revealed a massive embezzlement scheme at BioGenix, and she had spent the last four hours tracing wire transfers.

The elevator doors opened directly into the foyer.

The front door was ajar.

Flavia stopped. Her hand went to her keys, threading them through her fingers like brass knuckles. This building had biometric security.

She pushed the door open with her foot.

Inside, she heard the click of heels on the hardwood.

Sloane Kensington walked out of the kitchen. She was holding a glass of Eliseo's rare scotch. She was wearing nothing but a white dress shirt.

Eliseo's shirt.

Flavia recognized Sloane instantly. The socialite. The childhood friend. The woman who had been trying to get into Eliseo's bed for years.

"Oh," Sloane said, feigning surprise. "The hired help returns."

Flavia set her bag down. She didn't scream. She didn't attack.

"This is a private residence, Sloane. How did you get in?"

Sloane took a sip of the scotch, leaving a red lipstick stain on the rim. She dangled a key card from her pinky finger.

"Eliseo gave it to me ages ago. For emergencies."

It was a lie. Flavia knew this apartment was leased under her firm's name. Sloane must have charmed or bribed the new doorman.

Sloane plucked at the hem of the shirt. "I spilled wine on my dress. I had to borrow something. You don't mind, do you?"

It was a territorial pissing contest. Sloane was marking her ground.

Flavia looked at her. She looked at the shirt.

"I don't mind," Flavia said. "That's the shirt Eliseo was planning to throw out anyway. It had a stain."

Sloane's smile faltered. Her knuckles turned white around the glass.

She set the drink down and turned toward the hallway. "I'll just go check if Eliseo is back."

Flavia stepped into her path. She didn't touch her, but her presence was a wall.

"That is my bedroom."

Sloane leaned in. The smell hit Flavia-vanilla and musk. The exact same scent that had been on Eliseo's jacket this morning.

"It's only a matter of time," Sloane whispered. "Before the room is mine. Just like him."

Flavia felt bile rise in her throat. Not from jealousy, but from disgust. It was unsanitary.

She stepped aside.

"Be my guest."

Sloane blinked, confused by the surrender. She smirked and sashayed down the hall.

Flavia picked up her keys and her bag. She walked out of the apartment and pulled the door shut, locking it from the outside.

She stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the lobby. She pulled out her phone and dialed the building's security desk.

"This is Flavia Lancaster in Penthouse A. There is an intruder in my apartment. Unauthorized entry. Please remove her immediately."

She hung up.

Flavia walked out of the building and hailed a cab. She gave the driver the address of a hotel in Midtown.

She checked her watch. Eliseo would be home in twenty minutes.

Eliseo stepped out of the elevator and froze.

Two burly security guards were dragging Sloane Kensington out of Flavia's apartment door. She was kicking and screaming, her mascara running down her face.

"Eliseo!" Sloane shrieked when she saw him. "Help me! That crazy bitch called security!"

Eliseo stared. Sloane was wearing his shirt. His favorite white shirt.

"Mr. Fitzpatrick," one of the guards said, panting. "Ms. Lancaster reported an intruder. We are executing the removal protocol."

Eliseo's face darkened. Intruder.

Sloane tried to lunge toward him. "I just came to bring you your jacket! I was waiting for you!"

Eliseo took a step back. He looked at her with pure revulsion.

"I didn't invite you."

He looked at the guard. "Get her out of here. Revoke her access. If she steps foot in the lobby again, call the NYPD."

Sloane screamed as they dragged her into the service elevator. The doors closed, cutting off her wails.

Eliseo walked into the apartment.

"Flavia?" he called out.

Silence.

He walked through the living room. Empty. He checked the guest room. Empty. He checked the master bedroom. The closet door was open.

He looked inside. The few items of clothing Flavia kept there were gone. Her trench coat was gone. Her overnight bag was missing.

Panic, cold and sharp, pierced his chest.

She left.

He ran to the kitchen. On the marble island, sitting alone in the center, was not a thermos, but a single sheet of paper. An invoice.

He picked up the note. The handwriting was elegant, precise.

It was a bill from Lancaster Resolutions for 'Emergency Security Services' and 'Premises Decontamination,' itemized to the last cent.

There was no signature. No "Love, Flavia." No heart.

It was a business transaction.

Eliseo crumpled the invoice in his fist. He sank to the floor, his back against the cabinets. The professional coldness of the gesture was more insulting than any screaming match. It was a clear statement: you are not my partner, you are a client, and a problematic one at that.

He remembered what he had said to her. Walmart clothes. Low maintenance.

And she had just billed him for evicting his childhood friend.

He pulled out his phone. His hands were shaking. He dialed her number.

It rang. And rang. Then voicemail.

He typed a text. 'Where are you? I'm sorry. I didn't know about Sloane. Please come back.'

He stared at the screen, willing the three dots to appear.

Ten minutes later, his phone buzzed.

'I'm at a hotel. We need a cooling-off period. I handled the Sloane situation. You're welcome.'

'You're welcome.'

It was so cold. So professional.

Eliseo put the phone down. He could almost feel the cold, hard lump in his throat. The apartment felt massive, a cavern of glass and steel that was slowly crushing him.

His personal cell phone rang. The ringtone was the default, jarring in the quiet kitchen.

He looked at the ID. Family Attorney.

He frowned. It was 9:00 PM.

He answered. "Hello?"

"Eliseo," the lawyer's voice was grave. "I'm afraid I have bad news. Your grandfather, Arthur... he passed away an hour ago."

Eliseo dropped the phone. It clattered onto the tile floor.

He sat there, the phantom scent of Sloane's perfume in the air, as his world completely fell apart.

The next morning, Flavia was in the glass-walled conference room at BioGenix.

The situation was catastrophic.

The R&D director was pacing, sweating through his shirt. "The FDA Phase 1 trial data was corrupted. We have to redo the sample set. It's a contamination issue."

Flavia looked at the financials on her tablet.

"We don't have the runway," she said, her voice steady. "We have cash for two weeks of operations. A redo costs three million dollars."

She needed this company to stay afloat. Her entire investigation hinged on the data hidden within its servers. Without it, she couldn't afford to expose the Fitzpatricks without revealing her own hand.

She spent the next hour on the phone. Venture capitalists. Angel investors. Everyone said no. BioGenix was radioactive.

The receptionist buzzed in. "Mr. Fitzpatrick is here again. He says he's here to talk business."

Flavia rubbed her temples. "Send him in."

Eliseo walked in. He looked terrible. He was wearing a black suit, but his eyes were red-rimmed, and he hadn't shaved.

He didn't say hello. He pulled a checkbook out of his jacket pocket. He wrote a check, tore it out, and slid it across the glass table.

"Five million," Eliseo said. "Equity investment. It's enough to cover the trial and keep the lights on for six months."

Flavia looked at the check. The zeros swam before her eyes. It was a lifeline.

Eliseo leaned forward, his hands on the table.

"Come home, Flavia. We can start over. I'll fund the company. You don't have to stress about this."

Flavia stared at him. He was doing it again. Transactional affection. Buying his way out of a problem.

She stood up. She placed her finger on the check and slid it back across the table.

"BioGenix does not accept charity," she said.

Eliseo looked incredulous. "You're being emotional. Without this money, this place folds. Your work is gone."

"I will find the funding," Flavia said. "My way."

Eliseo laughed, a harsh, dry sound. "No one on Wall Street will touch this. Not unless I vouch for it."

"Then watch me," Flavia said. "Please leave my conference room, Mr. Fitzpatrick."

Eliseo stared at her for a long moment. He snatched the check-up and stormed out.

The moment the door closed, Flavia picked up her phone. She dialed a number she had never used. It was an encrypted line.

It connected to a private equity firm in Zurich. The man on the other end owed her a favor from a forensic audit she had done under a pseudonym three years ago. She had saved him from a prison sentence.

"I'm calling in the marker," Flavia said. "I need a bridge loan. Three million. High interest, convertible note. But using this line will ping my location to my father's network. I'm accepting that risk."

She spoke for five minutes, using technical financial jargon that would have made Eliseo's head spin.

"Done," the voice said. "Wire is initiating. Be careful, Flavia."

Flavia hung up. She slumped back in her chair, exhaling a breath she felt like she'd been holding for hours.

She had done it. She didn't need him. But now, her enemies knew where to find her.

Down in the parking lot, Eliseo sat in his car, staring up at the office window. He felt a profound sense of defeat. His money, his ultimate weapon, was useless against her.

His phone rang. It was the lawyer again.

"Eliseo, where are you? The funeral arrangements need to be finalized. Your mother is asking for you."

Eliseo closed his eyes. The reality of his grandfather's death crashed back down on him. He was alone.