The uniform was polyester. It scratched.

It was two sizes too small, the hem riding high on her thighs, the fabric tight across her chest. It was designed to humiliate, to strip away the last remnants of Aislinn Mann, the art appraiser, and replace her with a generic, nameless servant.

She stood in the hallway, the tray in her hands trembling slightly. Marta had ordered her to take coffee to the living room.

"I need a phone," she said to Marta's retreating back. "I have a right to a phone call."

Marta stopped. She turned slowly. She was a woman made of angles and starch. "There is no signal on the island, Miss Mann. And the landlines are restricted."

"Restricted? This is kidnapping."

"This is employment," she corrected. "To work off a debt."

She walked away.

She dropped the tray on a side table. The china rattled. She didn't care. She needed a way out.

She moved toward the double doors at the end of the hall. She could hear voices.

She pushed the doors open.

The living room was vast, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a churning grey ocean. But her eyes went to the center of the room.

The man-Augustine-was sitting in his wheelchair. His sleeve was rolled up. A doctor was prepping a vein in his arm. An IV bag hung from a stand, filled with a clear liquid.

"I am not a maid!" she shouted, stepping into the room. "And I am not staying here!"

The doctor jumped, the needle slipping in his gloved hand.

Augustine looked up. His face was grey. Sweat beaded on his upper lip. He looked worse than he had an hour ago.

"Get her out," he rasped.

Jericho moved from the corner, his hand going to his belt.

"I want to leave!" She took another step forward.

Augustine opened his mouth to bark an order, but no sound came out.

His eyes rolled back.

The glass of water in his hand slipped. It hit the hardwood floor and shattered.

Augustine's body went rigid. His back arched off the wheelchair, his arms seizing up against his chest. A guttural, choking noise came from his throat.

"He's seizing!" the doctor yelled. "Get the diazepam!"

The nurse fumbled with a bag. The doctor tried to hold Augustine's shoulders down, pushing him back into the chair.

"No!" she screamed.

She saw the color of Augustine's lips. They were turning blue.

"He's choking!" She ran across the room.

"Stay back!" Jericho shouted. He pulled his gun. The barrel was black and stared right at her chest.

She ignored it. She ignored the gun. She ignored the fear. She only saw the man dying in the chair.

"Get him on the floor!" She shoved the doctor aside. He was too panicked to resist. "He's swallowing his tongue! You can't keep him upright!"

She grabbed Augustine's shirt. He was heavy, dead weight and rigid muscle. She pulled. He tumbled out of the wheelchair, taking her with him.

They hit the floor hard. She scrambled to position herself.

"Don't shoot her!" the doctor yelled at Jericho.

She forced Augustine onto his side. His jaw was clamped shut. He was making terrible, wet gasping sounds.

"Come on," she gritted out. She jammed her fingers into the pressure point behind his jaw, forcing his mouth open. She swept two fingers into his mouth, clearing the saliva and blood where he'd bitten his cheek.

"Oxygen!" she barked at the nurse. "Now!"

She froze, staring at her.

"Do it!"

She scrambled to the tank.

She held him there, her body acting as a brace to keep him on his side. She could feel every tremor racking his body. He was burning up again.

"It's okay," she whispered, brushing the hair off his damp forehead. It was instinct. The same instinct she'd used for three years caring for her father after his stroke. "Breathe. Just breathe."

The seizure lasted forty seconds. It felt like forty years.

Finally, his muscles went lax. He slumped against her, heavy and limp. A ragged breath tore through his lungs. Then another.

She slumped back, sitting on her heels. Her hands were shaking. There was saliva on her uniform.

The room was silent.

Dr. Aris stared at her, his glasses askew. "Where did you learn that?"

"My father," she said, her voice hollow. "He was a vegetable for three years before he went to prison. I kept him alive."

A groan from the floor.

Augustine's eyes fluttered open. They were hazy, unfocused. He blinked, trying to clear the fog. His gaze landed on her.

She was kneeling over him, her hair falling around her face.

For a second, he didn't look like a tyrant. He looked... human. Scared.

"You..." he croaked.

"I saved your life," she said. "We're even."

Jericho stepped forward to help him up, but Augustine held up a hand. He stayed there, on the floor, looking at her. His vision was clearing. The coldness was returning to his grey eyes.

"Help him up," Dr. Aris ordered Jericho.

They hoisted him back into the wheelchair. He looked diminished, weak. He hated it. She could see the humiliation burning in his eyes. He hated that she had seen this.

"I saved you," she repeated, standing up. Her legs felt like jelly. "Let me go."

Augustine adjusted his cuffs. His hands were still trembling slightly. He clenched them into fists to hide it.

"You saved me because you know if I die, Jericho puts a bullet in your head," he said. His voice was raspy but steady.

"I saved you because I'm not a monster," she spat. "Unlike you."

He looked at Dr. Aris. "Is she useful?"

The doctor hesitated. "She... she knew exactly what to do. Better than the nurse. Her response time was immediate."

Augustine turned back to her. He studied her. Not as a woman, but as an asset. A piece of equipment that had just proven its functionality.

"You're no longer the maid," he said to her. "You're the nurse."

Jericho hesitated. "Sir?"

"She's not going anywhere," Augustine said. He rubbed his thumb over the heavy signet ring on his finger. "She's too valuable to lose now."

He looked at her. "You wanted a job? You have one. You keep me alive until the merger. Then we talk about your father."

"That wasn't the deal!"

"Deals change," he said. "Get her cleaned up."

He spun the wheelchair around and rolled toward his bedroom.

She stood there, panting, watching him leave. She walked to the window.

Ocean. Just endless, grey ocean crashing against black rocks.

She was on an island. There was no boat. No bridge.

She was trapped in a cage with a dying lion.

The study smelled of old paper and new money.

Jericho had escorted her here ten minutes ago. She was still in the maid's uniform, but she had washed the saliva off her hands.

Augustine sat behind a desk that was large enough to land a plane on. He wasn't looking at her. He was looking at a computer screen, a headset over one ear.

"...the volatility is temporary," he was saying. "The rumors of my health are exaggerated. A strategic alliance is imminent."

He pulled the headset off and turned the wheelchair to face her.

He didn't waste time on pleasantries. He slid a thick document across the polished mahogany.

"Strategic Alliance Agreement," she read the title upside down.

"I need a wife," he said. "Publicly. For six months."

She laughed. It was a dry, humorless sound. "You're joking. You assaulted me last night, held me prisoner today, and now you want to play house?"

"My stock dropped twelve percent this morning," he said. "The board thinks I'm dying. They think I have no heir, no stability. A wife fixes the stability. A pregnancy fixes the heir."

"I would rather die."

"Would you rather your father die?"

The air left the room.

"His bail is set at three million," Augustine said. "I pay it. I hire the best legal team in New York. He walks free in a week. Or..." He shrugged. "He stays in Rikers. I hear the general population is rough on stroke victims."

She stared at him. "You are a psychopath."

"I am a businessman."

"I have a fiancé," she lied. "Grant. He's coming for me."

Augustine's lip curled. It wasn't a smile. It was a sneer.

"Grant Sterling?" He tapped a key on his keyboard. "Your fiancé hasn't called the police. He hasn't called your lawyer. He's currently in the Hamptons."

"You're lying."

"Call him." He pushed a landline phone toward her.

She grabbed the receiver. She dialed Grant's number. Her fingers shook.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

"You've reached Grant. If this is about the Mann bankruptcy, please contact my attorney. If you're a creditor, fuck off."

Click.

The dial tone hummed in her ear. It sounded like mocking laughter.

"He's distancing himself," Augustine said softly. "Rats flee a sinking ship, Aislinn."

Rage, hot and blinding, exploded in her chest. Not at Grant. At the man sitting in front of her, looking so smug, so in control.

"Shut up!"

She grabbed the first thing her hand touched. A blue and white porcelain vase on the corner of his desk. Her appraiser's eye registered it instantly. A clumsy imitation, probably from the late 20th century, trying to pass as Ming Dynasty. The cobalt blue was too flat, the glaze too perfect. A fake.

She held it up, her hand steady.

Augustine didn't flinch. He didn't dodge. He just watched.

"You surround yourself with fakes, Augustine," she said, her voice dripping with contempt. "This vase, your staff's loyalty, your own health... it's all a lie."

CRASH.

She shattered the vase against the marble floor at his feet.

Blood sprayed instantly, dark red against his pale skin. No, not blood. A shard of porcelain had ricocheted, slicing a thin line across his temple.

His head snapped back. The wheelchair spun slightly from the impact. He slumped forward onto the desk, groaning.

She didn't wait to see if he was dead.

She saw the keycard sitting on the edge of the desk.

She snatched it.

She ran.

She was barefoot. The marble floor of the hallway was ice cold. The alarm began to blare-a high-pitched, rhythmic shriek that pierced her eardrums.

"Security breach! Sector 4!"

She sprinted. She didn't know where she was going. She just followed the scent of salt air.

She burst through a side door.

Wind hit her like a physical blow. It was still storming, rain lashing sideways.

She ran across the wet grass, toward the sound of the waves.

She stopped.

The ground ended.

She stood on the edge of a cliff. Fifty feet below, the ocean smashed against jagged black rocks. White foam churned like boiling milk.

There was nothing else. No dock. No boathouse. Just water. Endless, hopeless water.

"Miss Mann."

She spun around.

Jericho and three other guards stood in a semi-circle, blocking her path back to the house. They didn't have guns drawn, but they looked like walls of meat.

The crowd parted.

Augustine rolled through.

He held a white handkerchief to his temple. It was soaked red. Blood trickled down his cheek, staining his white collar.

He didn't look angry. He looked... exhilarated.

He stopped the chair ten feet from her.

"Jump," he said.

She stepped back, her heel catching on a loose stone. It tumbled over the edge. She didn't hear it hit the water.

"What?"

"Jump," he repeated. He lowered the handkerchief. The cut on his forehead was deep, jagged. "If you want to leave so badly, that's the exit. Take it."

She looked down at the swirling death below. Then back at him.

"Or," he said, his voice dropping an octave, cutting through the wind, "you come back inside. You sign the paper. And you pay for the vase."

"I can't pay for that," she whispered. "It was a fake."

"No," he agreed, a cruel smile touching his lips. "But the insurance report will say it was a three-million-dollar antique. Coincidentally, the exact amount of your father's bail."

He held out a hand. It was covered in his own blood.

"Your choice, Aislinn. Death or debt."

She looked at the water one last time. She thought of her father, alone in a cell, unable to speak properly. She thought of Leo, who would have no one if she died.

She stepped away from the edge.

She walked toward Augustine.

She didn't take his hand. She fell to her knees in the wet grass in front of his wheelchair. Defeated.

He looked down at her. He reached out and gripped her chin, tilting her face up to the rain.

"Good girl," he whispered. "Now we go to the mainland. You have a dress to try on."

She woke up screaming.

A hand clamped over her mouth, stifling the sound.

"Quiet."

She thrashed, her back hitting the headboard. She was back in the bedroom. The monster's room.

Augustine was sitting on the edge of the bed.

She scrambled backward, curling into a ball in the corner. "Don't touch me."

He held up a small jar. "It's arnica. For the bruises."

He reached out. She tried to kick him, but he caught her ankle. His grip was firm, inescapable. He dragged her leg toward him.

He scooped a dollop of the clear gel and smeared it on her shin, right where she had hit the floor yesterday. His fingers were cool. He massaged the gel into her skin with efficient, circular motions.

It was confusing. His touch was clinical, yet possessive. He was tending to the damage he had caused.

"Is this part of the inventory check?" she asked, her voice trembling with rage. "Polishing the merchandise?"

He didn't look up. "Damaged packaging lowers the asset value."

He moved to her wrist. He rubbed the gel over the purple marks left by his fingers.

"We have a schedule," he said. "Tomorrow night is the Sterling Foundation Gala. We are attending."

Her heart skipped a beat. "Sterling? Grant's family foundation?"

"Yes."

"Grant will be there," she said. Hope, foolish and bright, flared in her chest. "He'll see me. He'll help me."

Augustine stopped rubbing. He looked at her then. His eyes were filled with a terrible mix of pity and amusement.

"You still think he cares."

"We've been together for four years," she said. "He loves me."

Augustine pulled a tablet from the bedside table. He tapped the screen and held it up.

It was a video. A news interview. Grant was standing on the steps of a courthouse, microphones shoved in his face.

"Mr. Sterling, do you have any comment on the charges against your fiancée's father?"

Grant looked handsome. And completely unbothered.

"Let me be clear," Grant said, his voice smooth. "I was unaware of Mr. Mann's illegal activities. The Sterling family does not condone fraud. As for Aislinn... our engagement is effectively terminated. I cannot be associated with a criminal enterprise."

She stared at the screen. The world tilted.

"It's fake," she whispered. "It's AI. You made it."

Augustine tossed the tablet onto the duvet. "Your life has been liquidated, Aislinn. You are bankrupt. Emotionally and financially."

He leaned in, his face inches from hers. She could smell the antiseptic from his head wound.

"Your only asset left is the title of Mrs. Hoover."

"I don't believe you," she said, tears hot in her eyes. "I need to see him."

"Fine." Augustine sat back. "I'll let you see him. I'll let you watch him ignore you."

He snapped his fingers.

Marta entered carrying a garment bag. She unzipped it.

A dress spilled out. It was black silk, backless, with a slit that went up to the hip. It was beautiful. And it looked like armor.

"Wear it," Augustine ordered. "Don't embarrass me."

An hour later, she stood in front of the mirror.

The dress fit like a second skin. It was designed to distract. To make people look at her body so they wouldn't look at the fear in her eyes.

Augustine rolled up behind her. He was wearing a tuxedo. He looked like the devil dressed for dinner.

He held up a diamond necklace. A choker.

"Lift your hair."

She obeyed.

He fastened the clasp. The metal was ice cold against her neck. It felt heavy. Like a collar.

"Remember," he whispered, his breath ghosting over her ear. "Tonight, you belong to me."

A low thrumming sound vibrated through the floorboards.

"The helicopter is waiting," he said.

Jericho came in and pushed the wheelchair. She followed, walking in her high heels like a doll on a string.

They went up to the roof. The helicopter was a black insect against the grey sky.

As they lifted off, she looked down at the island. It was shrinking, disappearing into the mist.

She put on the headset. The noise of the rotors was deafening.

Augustine's voice came through the headphones, clear and distorted by the static.

"Try to run," he said, "and your father has an accident in the shower block at Rikers."

She looked at him across the small cabin. She clenched her hands in her lap until her knuckles turned white.

"I hate you," she said into the microphone.

He looked out the window at the approaching skyline of Manhattan.

"Good," he said. "Hate is a motivator."