The helicopter blades chopped the air, a deafening rhythm that vibrated in her teeth. Dennie wore noise-canceling headphones, staring out at the Manhattan skyline shrinking below them.

Holmes sat opposite her. He held a tablet, but he wasn't reading. He was staring at her hands.

She instinctively pulled her sleeves down over her knuckles. There was a faint, yellowing bruise on her index finger from where she'd hit Keith's elbow.

"What happened to your hand?" His voice came through the headset, clear and intimate.

She didn't flinch. "Yoga. I lost my balance."

Holmes smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "Yoga. Dangerous sport."

The chopper touched down on the sprawling lawn of the Hamptons estate. The grass flattened under the wind.

Harrison Wilson, the patriarch, stood on the porch leaning on a cane. He looked like an old lion-scarred, mean, and still dangerous.

Holmes gripped her hand as they exited. His grip was tight. Too tight. "Play your part," he hissed in her ear.

They walked into the grand foyer. Victoria, his grandmother, was holding court in her wheelchair. Vanessa, Holmes's sister-in-law, was there with her daughter, Chloe.

Vanessa hated Dennie. She thought she was trash.

"Dennie," Vanessa announced, her voice shrill. "I heard you two were splitting up. Such a pity. I suppose the money ran out?"

The room went quiet.

Dennie opened her mouth to speak, but Holmes pulled her against his side. "Rumors. We are happier than ever."

Harrison banged his cane on the floor. "Enough. Men, in the study. Now."

Holmes left her. She was abandoned in the shark tank.

In the study, Harrison threw a file onto the desk. "The trust fund bylaws have changed. No heir, no voting rights on the board. You need a child, Holmes. Or you lose control."

Holmes's jaw tightened. They were cornering him.

In the living room, Vanessa was circling Dennie. "So, what will you do now? Go back to... whatever it is you did before?"

Chloe, the teenager, looked up from her phone. "Aunt Dennie? There's a video on TikTok. It looks like you."

Her stomach plummeted.

Holmes walked back into the room, followed by Harrison.

"What video?" Harrison asked.

Vanessa snatched the phone and cast it to the massive TV screen above the fireplace.

There it was. Grainy, shaky footage of a woman in a black dress breaking a man's arm and stabbing another with a shoe.

The room went dead silent.

She closed her eyes. This was it. The end.

"Look," Vanessa sneered. "She's a savage. A street fighter."

Harrison Wilson stared at the screen. He watched the elbow strike. He watched the takedown.

Then, he threw his head back and laughed. A booming, terrifying sound.

"Good!" he roared. "Finally! Some blood in this family!"

He looked at Dennie with newfound respect. "That's good stock, Holmes. That's the kind of mother we need for the next generation."

Harrison handed Holmes a cigar on the terrace. He pointed the glowing tip toward the garden, where Victoria was interrogating Dennie about flower arrangements.

"She's hiding something," Harrison said. "I had her vetted again. Her background is too clean. It's a ghost file."

Holmes lit his cigar. "I'll handle her."

"No," Harrison said. "You will utilize her. We need those genes. Breed her. Get me an heir."

Holmes felt a wave of revulsion, but he nodded. The vote was everything.

Inside, Dennie excused herself to the powder room. She locked the door and pulled a burner phone from her sock.

She texted Liam, her handler. Plan B required. Location: Hamptons. Compromised.

She waited. One minute. Two.

Nothing. Liam had been dark for three days.

Panic clawed at her throat. She splashed cold water on her face. You are on your own.

Lunch was an ordeal. A long table, heavy silver. Holmes sat next to Dennie. He put on a show, placing a hand on her thigh under the table.

Dennie smiled at Vanessa, and stomped on Holmes's foot with her heel. Hard.

He didn't even blink. Under the table, his hand moved, his fingers digging into her muscle. A warning.

"Dennie," Vanessa tried again. "Since you know kung fu, maybe you can perform for us?"

She set down her fork. "It's self-defense, Vanessa. It only works if someone is trying to hurt me."

The threat hung in the air. Vanessa shut up.

After lunch, Felix pulled Holmes aside. "We tracked her movements. Every week, she goes to a cyber café in Queens. She stays for ten minutes."

Holmes narrowed his eyes. "She's transmitting data. She's a corporate spy."

It made sense. The clean background. The skills. She was a plant from Knowles Energy. Or his cousin.

He decided to break her.

That evening, a storm rolled in. Rain lashed the windows.

"The east wing guest rooms are being renovated," Victoria announced. "Holmes, you and Dennie will take the master suite in the east wing."

Her blood ran cold. The east wing was isolated. No exits.

Holmes looked at Dennie. He saw the fear and mistook it for guilt. "Problem, darling? Don't want to share a bed with your husband?"

"I have my period," she lied through her teeth.

Holmes leaned down, his lips brushing her ear. "You finished last week. I see the receipts for the supplies Mrs. Higgins buys. Don't lie to me."

He gripped her arm and marched her up the stairs.

Mrs. Higgins was waiting at the door with a key. She looked like a warden.

They walked in.

The lock clicked behind them. The sound was final. The room smelled of ylang-ylang-someone had lit candles.

Dennie walked straight to the window and ripped the curtains open. Pitch black. Rain smashed against the glass. A two-story drop.

Holmes took off his jacket and threw it on the sofa. He loosened his tie.

"Don't bother," he said. "The windows have security film. And the Dobermans are out."

She turned, putting her back to the glass. "What do you want?"

He poured two glasses of whiskey. "To talk business. Real business."

"I thought we were done. Twenty million. I leave."

"That was the old valuation," he said, walking toward her. "Now, I'm re-evaluating the asset."

He tossed his phone onto the bed. It showed a photo of Dennie entering the cyber café.

"Who are you working for?" he demanded. "Knowles? My cousin?"

Dennie froze. He thought she was a spy.

Her mind raced. Spy is better than Witness. Spies go to jail. Witnesses get executed by the cartel.

She lowered her eyes. "If I were... what would you do?"

Holmes slammed his hand against the glass next to her head. "I'd bury you in litigation until you died in a federal prison. Unless..."

"Unless what?"

"Unless you give me a child. Secure my vote. Then you can go."

Dennie stared at him. "You're insane. You want a spy to mother your child?"

"It's the highest form of collateral," he sneered. "You won't betray the father of your child."

"You underestimate my survival instinct," she said.

Suddenly, the room plunged into darkness. The storm had knocked out the power.

Her body moved before she thought. She lunged. She grabbed his arm, twisting it to pin him.

But Holmes was fast. He blocked, sweeping her leg.

They crashed to the floor. She rolled, straddling him, her hands finding his throat. He bucked, flipping them over so he was on top, pinning her wrists above her head.

They froze. Breathing hard.

The backup generator kicked in. The lights blazed on.

They were tangled together on the Persian rug. His face was inches from hers. His shirt was torn. Her hair was wild.

The air between them crackled. It wasn't just violence. It was something else. Something hot and heavy.

Dennie realized their position. She shoved him off and scrambled back.

Holmes lay on the floor for a second, staring at the ceiling. Then he laughed. A breathless, dark sound.

"Well," he said, sitting up and wiping blood from his lip. "At least the physical genetics are acceptable."