The elevator opened directly into the apartment.

Dawn stepped out onto white marble floors. The space was cavernous. The walls were mostly glass, offering a panoramic view of Central Park, which looked like a dark, wet forest under the storm.

It was quiet. Not the stifling silence of Lydia's apartment, but a vast, expensive silence.

A woman was waiting for them. She was in her fifties, wearing a severe grey uniform. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun.

"Welcome home, Mr. Holcomb," she said. Her accent was German. She looked at Dawn, her eyes scanning her quickly but respectfully. "Mrs. Holcomb."

Dawn blushed. "Hi."

Gerhard shrugged off his wet jacket and handed it to the woman. "Marta, this is Dawn. Take her to the master suite."

Dawn spun around. "Master suite? I thought..."

"We have to make it look convincing," Gerhard said. He was unbuttoning his cuffs. "The maids talk. If we sleep in separate wings, the press will know by morning."

He saw the look of terror on her face. "Relax. The bed is big enough for four people. I won't touch you. I usually sleep on the sofa in my study anyway."

It was a lie, but he said it so easily that Dawn believed him.

"Go," he said.

Dawn followed Marta down a long hallway. The walls were hung with art. Real art. She stopped in front of a painting. It was a Rothko. A real, vibrating block of red and black.

"He likes the modernists," Marta said, noticing Dawn's stare.

They entered the master bedroom. It was bigger than Dawn's entire apartment in Queens. The bed was indeed massive, covered in white linens that looked like clouds.

"The closet is through here," Marta said, opening a set of double doors.

Dawn walked in and gasped.

One side of the walk-in closet was filled. Rows of dresses, blouses, cashmere sweaters. Shelves of shoes.

"Mr. Holcomb had them sent over an hour ago," Marta said. "From Bergdorf's."

Dawn touched the sleeve of a silk blouse. It was soft as water. "An hour ago? But we only just..."

He had been that sure she would say yes. Or he was that prepared for anyone to say yes.

"I will run a bath," Marta said. "You look... tired."

Dawn went into the bathroom. It was all marble and chrome. She stripped off the red dress and the trench coat. She sank into the deep tub. The hot water loosened the knot in her chest.

She cried, just for a minute. Silent, hot tears that mixed with the bathwater. She was safe. She was rich. And she was completely alone.

She dried off and put on a pair of silk pajamas she found in the closet. They were a pale blue. She put on a matching robe, tying the belt tight.

She walked back out to the living area.

Gerhard was sitting on a white sofa. He had a laptop open on his knees. He was speaking German into a headset, his voice sharp and commanding.

When he saw her, he stopped mid-sentence. He pulled the headset off and closed the laptop with a snap.

"Dinner," he said.

He walked to the dining table. It was set for two. But instead of a fancy meal, there were two steaming bowls.

"Chicken noodle soup," Gerhard said. "Marta said you looked pale. It's... comfort food, yes?"

Dawn stared at the bowl. It smelled like rosemary and thyme. "Yes. Thank you."

She sat down. Gerhard sat opposite her. He watched her take the first spoonful.

"It's good," she said.

"Good." He picked up his spoon.

They ate in silence for a few minutes. The rain lashed against the windows.

"I need to go back tomorrow," Dawn said suddenly.

Gerhard stopped eating. "I told you, I'll send someone."

"No," Dawn said. She put her spoon down. Her hand was trembling, but her voice was firm. "There's a box. Under my bed. I need to get it myself. Lydia... she won't give it to a stranger. She'll throw it out just to spite me."

Gerhard looked at her. He saw the fear in her eyes, but also the steel.

"What's in the box?"

"My parents," she said simply.

Gerhard studied her face. He nodded slowly. "Fine. But you don't go alone. My driver takes you. And he stays with you."

"Okay," Dawn said.

"Eat," Gerhard commanded gently. "You're too thin."

Dawn ate. For the first time in years, she felt full.

The next morning, the rain had stopped, but the humidity remained. The air was thick and gray.

Dawn sat in the back of the town car. Her hands were sweating. She was wearing jeans and a simple white t-shirt from the new closet, but she felt like she was wearing armor.

The car pulled up to the crumbling brick building in Queens. A group of teenagers on the stoop stopped talking and stared at the shiny black vehicle.

"Wait here," Dawn told the driver.

"Mr. Holcomb gave strict instructions to accompany you, ma'am," the driver, a large man named Frank, said.

"Please," Dawn said. "Just give me ten minutes. If I bring you in, she'll scream. It will take longer."

Frank hesitated, then nodded. "Ten minutes. Then I'm coming up."

Dawn got out. She walked to the front door. She tried her key. It didn't turn.

Lydia had changed the locks. Of course she had.

Dawn banged on the door. "Lydia!" she shouted, her voice cracking with the effort.

She heard shuffling inside, then the locks turning. The door swung open.

Lydia stood there. She was wearing a stained bathrobe. Her hair was a bird's nest. When she saw Dawn, her face twisted into a snarl.

"You have the nerve to come back here?" Lydia shrieked. "Mr. Vane called me fifteen times! He said you weren't there! He said you made a fool of me!"

She reached out to grab Dawn's arm. Dawn stepped sideways, dodging the claw-like hand.

"My... things," Dawn forced out, the two words feeling like gravel in her throat.

"Your things?" Lydia laughed, a harsh, barking sound. "You don't own anything! I paid for the roof over your head! Everything in here is mine!"

Dawn didn't argue. She ducked past Lydia and ran down the hallway to the small utility room she used as a bedroom.

It was a disaster zone. Her clothes were scattered on the floor. Her books were ripped.

Dawn dropped to her knees. She felt under the bed.

Her fingers brushed against cold metal.

Thank God.

She pulled out the rusted iron box. It was heavy.

"That's mine!" Lydia screamed from the doorway. She lunged at Dawn.

"No!" Dawn curled her body around the box.

Lydia grabbed Dawn's hair and yanked. Dawn cried out. She tried to stand up, but Lydia shoved her.

Dawn fell backward. Her head hit the corner of the wooden dresser.

A sharp, hot pain exploded in her forehead.

She touched her head. Her fingers came away red. Blood dripped down into her eye, blinding her on one side.

Lydia froze. She stared at the blood. Then her eyes narrowed. "Look what you made me do! You clumsy idiot!"

She reached for the box again. "Give me that! Your father owed me money! Whatever is in there is payment!"

Dawn scrambled back, clutching the box to her chest. The pain in her head was throbbing, making her dizzy. But a cold rage was rising in her gut.

"Don't," Dawn whispered, the single word a raw, guttural sound.

"Or what?" Lydia sneered. "You'll cry?"

Dawn didn't speak. She couldn't. The words were locked away. Instead, she acted. She held up her left hand. The pink diamond caught the light from the singular, dirty window. It blazed like a star in the dim room.

Lydia's eyes widened. She stared at the ring. The greed on her face was instant and terrifying.

"Who..."

Dawn shook her head, her throat too tight to form a name. She fumbled for her phone, her fingers slick with a mixture of sweat and blood. She had prepared for this. She opened a note she had typed in the car and held the screen up for Lydia to see. The text was simple, brutal, and legally vetted:

ANY FURTHER CONTACT OR HARM WILL BE MET WITH IMMEDIATE LEGAL ACTION FROM HOLCOMB INDUSTRIES' COUNSEL. CEASE AND DESIST.

Lydia stepped back. She looked at the ring, at the blood on Dawn's face, and at the name on the screen. Fear flickered in her eyes.

"You're lying," Lydia whispered.

Dawn just stared, her silence more damning than any shout.

She used the moment of shock to scramble to her feet. She hugged the box tight and ran. She pushed past Lydia, ran down the hallway, and burst out the front door.

Blood was running down her face, dripping onto her white t-shirt.

She didn't care. She had the box.

Dawn stumbled out of the building. The bright daylight stung her eyes. The blood was flowing freely now, warm and sticky on her cheek.

Lydia ran out onto the stoop behind her, waving a broom like a madwoman. "Thief! Come back here!"

Frank, the driver, was out of the car in a second. He saw the blood on Dawn's face and his expression went dark. He stepped between Dawn and the stoop, his massive frame blocking Lydia completely.

Lydia skidded to a halt. She looked at the car, then at the giant man in the suit, then at the diamond on Dawn's finger. She lowered the broom.

"She stole from me!" Lydia yelled, but her voice lacked conviction.

Frank ignored her. He opened the back door. "Get in, Mrs. Holcomb."

Dawn climbed in, clutching the iron box. Frank slammed the door and got into the driver's seat. He was already dialing a number.

"Sir. We have a situation. She's injured. Head wound. Yes. Bad."

Dawn leaned her head back against the leather seat. She felt faint. She heard Frank say, "Lenox Hill. Understood."

Twenty minutes later, the car screeched to a halt at the emergency entrance of Lenox Hill Hospital.

Before Frank could even open the door, another car-a silver sports car-roared up behind them and parked diagonally across the ambulance lane.

Gerhard got out.

He wasn't wearing a jacket. His sleeves were rolled up. His face was a mask of pure, cold fury.

He ripped Dawn's door open.

When he saw her-the blood matted in her hair, the red stain spreading on her white shirt-he stopped. His pupils dilated until his eyes were almost black.

"Dawn," he breathed.

He didn't ask if she could walk. He reached in and scooped her up into his arms.

He lifted her easily, as if she weighed nothing. Dawn instinctively wrapped her arms around his neck, still holding the iron box with one hand.

"Gerhard," she whispered. "I'm okay. It's just a cut."

"Quiet," he snapped. He strode into the ER.

The chaotic waiting room seemed to fall silent as he entered. He didn't roar. His voice, when he spoke to the approaching nurse, was low and laced with ice. "Get me your chief of surgery. Now."

The nurse saw his face. She saw the blood. She saw the look in his eyes that promised consequences. "Right this way."

They were ushered into a private trauma room. Gerhard placed her gently on the gurney, but he didn't let go of her hand.

A doctor came in and started cleaning the wound. "It's a nasty gash. You'll need stitches."

Dawn winced as the antiseptic stung the cut. Her grip on Gerhard's hand tightened.

Gerhard looked at the doctor. "Do it. Use the smallest gauge needle. I don't want a scar."

The doctor nodded nervously and began to stitch.

"Who did this?" Gerhard asked. He wasn't looking at the doctor. He was looking at Dawn. His voice was terrifyingly calm.

"Lydia," Dawn said. "We fought over the box."

Gerhard looked at the rusted iron box sitting on the foot of the bed. "That?"

"It's all I have," Dawn said.

Gerhard's jaw tightened. A muscle feathered in his cheek. He pulled out his phone with his free hand. He dialed Sterling.

"Execute Plan B," Gerhard said. "Lydia Roth. I want the foreclosure process started today. And file a police report for assault and attempted theft."

Dawn's eyes widened. "Gerhard, you don't have to..."

"She drew blood," Gerhard cut her off. He looked at her, his eyes blazing. "She hurt what is mine. No one touches what is mine."

Dawn shivered. It wasn't a romantic declaration. It was a territorial one. But in that moment, with her head throbbing and the adrenaline crashing, it felt like the safest thing she had ever heard.

"Is it done?" Gerhard asked the doctor.

"Yes. Six stitches. Keep it dry."

Gerhard nodded. He helped Dawn sit up.

"Can you walk?"

"Yes," Dawn said.

He picked her up anyway.

"Gerhard, people are watching," she murmured into his shoulder.

"Let them watch," he said. He carried her out to the car, the iron box tucked safely between them.