Elida didn't use the pepper spray. She knew Mercer. He could disarm her before she even uncapped it.

She got in the car.

But she refused to go to the penthouse.

"Take me home," she said.

"The boss said-"

"Take. Me. Home. Or I open this door while we're moving."

Mercer looked in the rearview mirror. The partition was down. Abraham was sitting in the back with her.

"Take her to Queens," Abraham said. His voice was tight.

The ride was silent. Abraham stared straight ahead. Elida stared out the window.

When they pulled up to the crumbling brick building in Queens, she felt a flush of shame. It was a stark contrast to the glass tower she had left yesterday.

"You live here?" Abraham asked. He looked at the graffiti on the door.

"It's what I can afford."

She got out. To her horror, the car door didn't close behind her.

Abraham got out.

He stood on the sidewalk, his cane in hand. He looked like a god descending into the underworld. His suit cost more than this entire building.

"You're not coming up," she said, blocking the doorway.

"The elevator is broken," he observed, his eyes scanning the derelict lobby beyond her. "Of course it is."

"A shame. You'll have to leave."

He took a single step forward, forcing her to step back into the entryway. "I'm not leaving until we talk."

"There's nothing to talk about. The DOJ is watching you, Abraham. Standing here, in this neighborhood, is reckless. Your performance is slipping."

His jaw tightened. He hated that she saw through the act. He hated that she knew.

He turned to her, his voice a low growl that echoed in the small, tiled space.

"Why?" he demanded. "Why this hovel? Why live like a rat when you have a check for three million dollars in your pocket?"

"I tore it up."

"I can write another one."

"I don't want it!" she shouted. The sound bounced off the close walls.

He stepped closer, backing her against the cold mailboxes.

"What do you want then?" he growled. "You want me to beg? You want an apology?"

"I want nothing from you."

"Liar." He slammed his hand against the metal door right next to her head. "You came back last night. You saved me. You slept with me."

"That was a mistake."

"Was it?"

He was too close. She could feel his heat.

"You were practice," she said. The lie tasted like bile.

Abraham froze. "What?"

"I needed to know if I could handle a man like you," she said, forcing her voice to be steady. "For when I find a real husband. Someone with a future. Someone who isn't... broken."

His eyes went dead. The fire in them extinguished instantly.

She had hit the one spot that wasn't armored. His insecurity about his body.

He stepped back. He adjusted his cuffs.

"I see," he said. His voice was ice. "Well. I'm glad I could be of service."

He turned and walked out.

He didn't look back.

She waited until she heard the SUV's engine roar to life and fade into the distance.

She slid down the front of the mailboxes until she hit the floor. She buried her face in her knees and sobbed.

Her phone buzzed.

She wiped her eyes and looked at the screen. It was the encrypted forum. The Void.

A private message from user The_King.

The_King: A contract is signed in ink, but its clauses are written in blood. Refusal is merely a request for a higher price.

She stared at the message. He was hurting.

She typed back, her fingers trembling.

The_Novice: Unless the commodity being sold is the soul. Then the currency itself is the insult.

The next morning, Elida went to St. Jude's.

It was the orphanage where she had spent weekends volunteering, mostly to escape the suffocating atmosphere of the Adkins estate.

Sister Margaret was waiting for her in the garden.

"You look terrible, child," she said, handing Elida a cup of tea.

"I'm fine, Sister."

"You're unemployed and homeless. I heard."

News traveled fast in the Catholic network.

"I have a proposition," she said. She pulled a photo out of her habit.

"Sister, I'm not doing a blind date."

"It's Preston Walsh. He's a tenure-track professor at Columbia. Sociology."

Elida looked at the photo. A man with thick glasses and a kind, slightly confused smile.

"He needs a date for his faculty dinners," Margaret said. "His mother is on my board. She's... persistent."

"And what do I get?"

"He specializes in medical law. He can help with the billing dispute at your mother's care facility."

Elida sighed. "Fine."

She met Preston at a coffee shop in the West Village an hour later.

He was wearing a corduroy jacket with elbow patches. He looked exactly like a stereotype.

"Sister Margaret said you're in a bind," he started, forgoing pleasantries. "And frankly, so am I."

Elida blinked. "Okay."

He slumped in relief. "My mother thinks I just haven't met the right girl. The truth is... my partner and I would like to adopt, and my 'bachelor' status is a hurdle with the board. I need a beard. Just for a few months."

"I need legal advice," she said. "And maybe a free dinner occasionally."

"Deal."

They shook hands. It was the most honest relationship she'd had in years.

"So," Preston said, stirring his latte. "You worked for Crane? Is it true they're under DOJ investigation?"

"Where did you hear that?"

"Academic circles. Rumor is they're looking into asset hiding. Using shell companies."

Her stomach tightened. Abraham.

She pulled out her phone under the table. She logged into the forum.

The_King: The board is set. The pieces move. A queen will be sacrificed to save the king.

He was angry today.

The_Novice: A queen is the most powerful piece on the board. Perhaps she's sacrificing the king instead.

Preston walked her to his car-a beat-up Volvo station wagon.

"Let me get the door," he said, playing the part. He leaned in close, whispering, "There's a guy in a gray sedan taking pictures of us."

Elida stiffened. Mercer.

"Smile," Preston said. "Make it look good."

She forced a laugh and touched Preston's arm.

Across town, in the back of the Maybach, Abraham's phone pinged.

He opened the photo.

Elida. Laughing. Touching another man. A man in a cheap jacket.

He felt a burn in his chest that had nothing to do with his spinal injury.

She moved on in twenty-four hours? With him?

He typed furiously into the forum.

The_King: Hypocrisy is a woman's natural state.

Elida felt her phone buzz in her pocket. She checked it as Preston drove away.

The_Novice: And prejudice is a tyrant's epitaph.

When Preston dropped her off at her building, a familiar white Porsche was parked illegally by the hydrant.

Jenna.

She rolled down the window.

"Is that your new ride?" she sneered, looking at the Volvo. "Very... vintage."

Preston leaned across Elida. "It's Swedish engineering, actually. Safer than a plastic marriage, wouldn't you say?"

Jenna's mouth dropped open.

Elida got out of the car, suppressing a smile. "Thanks for the ride, Preston."

"Anytime, darling."

"Hold this."

Jenna shoved a bouquet of silk flowers into Elida's chest.

They were at the Vera Wang flagship store on Madison Avenue. Elida's father had called her that morning, threatening to cut off her mother's life support funding if she didn't "support your cousin" during her fittings.

So here Elida was. The shadow bride who was treated like the maid.

"The train is too long," Jenna complained to the terrified shop assistant. "It's dragging."

"It's a cathedral train, Miss Adkins," the assistant whispered.

"Well, make the cathedral cleaner."

Jenna's phone rang. She answered it, putting it on speaker as she turned to look at her backside in the mirror.

"Miss Adkins," a lawyer's voice crackled. "Regarding the Crane prenuptial, Appendix B. The Spousal Fiduciary Responsibility clause."

"In English, please," Jenna snapped. "I'm busy."

"It outlines the transfer of certain non-liquid assets into a trust, managed by the spouse, to shield them from federal seizure in the event of an indictment. Standard procedure for a man of his stature."

Elida's ears perked up.

"However," the lawyer continued, "it also stipulates that the managing trustee-you-would assume full liability for any pre-existing financial irregularities discovered within that trust. It's a poison pill provision, buried in boilerplate."

Elida froze.

Abraham wasn't looking for a wife. He was looking for a fall guy.

If the DOJ came for him, he needed a legally appointed scapegoat to take the financial hit and the prison time.

Jenna waved her hand. "Whatever. He's rich. How much trouble can he get into? Just sign it."

She didn't understand. She didn't know about the shell corporations, the offshore accounts, the razor-thin line he walked every day.

The door to the shop opened. Gemma Crane, Abraham's cousin, breezed in.

"Jenna!" she shrieked, kissing the air near her cousin's cheek. "Did you hear? The Feds froze the Cayman accounts this morning."

The shop went silent.

Jenna turned pale. "What? Does that mean... the wedding budget?"

"Oh, honey," Gemma laughed. "It means if you marry him, you might want to hide your jewelry."

Jenna looked at her reflection. For the first time, Elida saw fear.

Jenna wasn't scared for Abraham. She was scared for her lifestyle.

Elida slipped away to the restroom.

She leaned against the sink, looking at herself in the mirror.

She should tell her. She should warn her that she was walking into a trap. That Abraham was dangerous.

But then she remembered the way Jenna looked at her when she played the piano. The way she called Elida "the help."

She washed her hands.

"Let her sign," she whispered to her reflection.

When she came back out, Jenna was yelling at an intern who had stepped on her veil.

"You clumsy idiot! Do you know how much this costs?"

Elida stood by the wall, watching.

Abraham had chosen a shield made of glass. She was going to shatter the moment the first stone was thrown.