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.

It was midnight when Flavia's phone rang in her hotel room.

She saw Eliseo's name. She almost let it go to voicemail, but something stopped her. She answered.

"Flavia."

His voice was broken. It was a sound she had never heard from him. It cracked and splintered.

"Grandpa is gone."

Flavia sat up in bed. The breath left her lungs. Arthur Fitzpatrick. The only man in that family who had treated her with respect. The only one who knew her true purpose in New York.

"I'll be right down," she said.

She packed her bag in three minutes. She put on a black dress she kept for emergencies-a habit from a childhood where sudden departures were common.

She walked out of the hotel. Eliseo's car was idling at the curb.

She got in. Eliseo was gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were white. He was staring straight ahead.

Flavia didn't get in the back. She sat in the passenger seat.

She reached out and placed her hand over his on the wheel. His skin was ice cold.

"I'm so sorry, Eliseo."

At her touch, the tension in his shoulders collapsed. He let out a shuddering breath. He turned his hand over and gripped hers, holding on like he was drowning.

They drove north, toward the Hudson Valley. The rain started to fall, drumming a rhythmic beat against the roof of the car.

"He died in his sleep," Eliseo said quietly. "Heart failure."

Flavia nodded. She opened a bottle of water and handed it to him. He took it, his hands shaking slightly.

"We have to face them," Eliseo said. "The vultures."

He meant his family. His parents. His uncles. His cousins.

Flavia's eyes hardened. "I will handle them. You just focus on saying goodbye to Arthur."

Eliseo glanced at her. In the dim light of the dashboard, her profile was sharp, determined. She didn't look like a grieving fiancée. She looked like a general going to war.

For the first time in days, they weren't enemies. They were allies.

Flavia pulled out her phone. She started making calls. The florist. The security team. The catering. She issued orders with a calm authority that stunned Eliseo.

Within an hour, she had organized the entire wake.

The car turned through the massive iron gates of Fitzpatrick Manor. The driveway was lined with ancient oak trees, their branches skeletal against the night sky.

The main house was lit up like a Christmas tree. Cars were already parked in the circular drive.

Eliseo pulled up to the front steps. He took a deep breath and put on a pair of dark sunglasses, shielding his red eyes.

Flavia unbuckled her seatbelt. "Ready?"

Eliseo looked at her. "Thank you for coming. Even though you hate me."

Flavia paused. Her hand was on the door handle.

"I'm here for Arthur."

They stepped out into the rain. Eliseo extended his arm. It was a reflex, a habit of their public life.

Flavia hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then, she slid her arm through his.

Together, they walked up the steps and into the lion's den.