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.

The ride back to the penthouse was silent, but the air in the car felt charged. Gerhard sat close to her, his thigh pressing against hers. He kept checking the bandage on her forehead.

When they arrived, Marta gasped. "Mein Gott!"

"Ice," Gerhard ordered. "And tea."

He led Dawn to the sofa in the living room. He sat her down and placed a pillow behind her head.

Outside, the sky had darkened again. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

Dawn felt the painkillers the doctor had given her starting to kick in. Her body felt heavy and floaty.

Gerhard sat on the coffee table in front of her. He pointed to the iron box on the floor.

"Open it," he said. "I want to see what was worth six stitches."

Dawn reached down. Her fingers fumbled with the latch. It clicked open.

Inside, there was a stack of old polaroids. A few letters tied with ribbon. And a paintbrush. The handle was broken, taped together with masking tape. The bristles were worn down.

"My father's," Dawn said softly. "He was a painter. He wasn't famous. He painted street scenes in the Village."

Gerhard reached out and picked up the brush. He turned it over in his long fingers.

"The technique..." Gerhard said, his voice surprisingly soft. "He understood light."

Dawn looked up, surprised. "How did you know...?"

Gerhard froze for a microsecond. His eyes flickered. "I did a background check on you, Dawn. Standard procedure. The report mentioned your parents' occupations."

"Oh." Of course. It made sense.

"He was talented," Gerhard said, his gaze fixed on the worn bristles. He placed the brush back in the box with a reverence that surprised her. "His work had... soul."

"You've seen it?"

"I collect art," Gerhard said dismissively. "I've seen a lot of things."

Marta arrived with the tea and an ice pack. Gerhard took the ice and held it gently against Dawn's forehead.

"Go to sleep," he said. "I'll stay here."

Dawn drank the tea. Her eyelids grew heavy. She leaned back and closed her eyes.

She fell asleep to the sound of rain hitting the glass.

Sometime in the night, the world exploded.

A crack of thunder shook the building.

Dawn woke up gasping. The darkness of the room pressed in on her. She wasn't in the penthouse. She was in the subway tunnel. The lights were out. The air was hot. Or maybe she was in the car, the screech of tires, the glass shattering.

She couldn't breathe. Her throat closed up.

She curled into a ball, clutching the sheets. She tried to scream, but no sound came out. The silence was choking her.

One, two, three... She couldn't count. Her fingers were paralyzed.

Suddenly, the door burst open.

Light flooded the room. Not the harsh overhead light, but the warm glow of a bedside lamp being switched on.

"Dawn!"

Gerhard was there. He was wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt. He moved to the edge of the bed.

He saw her gasping, her face blue in the dim light.

"Look at me," he commanded. He grabbed her shoulders. "Dawn, look at me."

She stared at him, her eyes wide with terror.

"You are at 740 Park Avenue," he said, his voice low and steady, an anchor in the storm. "You are safe. The door is locked. I am here."

He sat on the edge of the mattress, a solid, grounding weight. He didn't pull her into his arms. Instead, he took her clenched fist and slowly, deliberately, began to uncurl her fingers, one by one.

"Breathe with me," he said, pressing his thumb into the center of her palm. "In. Out."

Dawn tried to match his breathing. The steady pressure in her hand was a focal point.

Slowly, the subway tunnel faded. The car crash faded. The smell of rain and cedar filled her nose.

She let out a sob. Then another. The dam broke. She cried, her shoulders shaking, gripping his hand until her knuckles turned white.

Gerhard didn't pull away. He held her hand tighter. With his other hand, he reached out and stroked her hair, his touch careful to avoid the bandage.

"I've got you," he whispered. "I've got you."

He didn't leave. He stayed sitting on the edge of the bed, a silent guard, until her ragged breaths evened out into the rhythm of sleep.