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.

The rain was torrential. It hammered against the windows of the Crane library like bullets.

Abraham sat in his leather armchair, gripping the armrests.

Pain level: 9.

It felt like someone was pouring molten lead down his spine.

"Sir," the new assistant, a Harvard graduate named Timothy, stammered. He held the syringe with shaking hands.

"Just do it," Abraham gritted out.

Timothy stepped forward. He aimed for the vein. He missed. He grazed the skin, causing a bloom of blood.

"Ah!" Abraham roared, sweeping his arm out.

He knocked the tray of medical supplies to the floor. Glass vials shattered.

"Get out!" he screamed. "Get out!"

Timothy ran.

Mercer stepped out of the shadows. "I'll call Dr. Evans."

"No!" Abraham gasped, sweat dripping from his nose. "Evans talks. The board will know."

"Sir, you need-"

"I need her."

"She won't answer my calls."

Abraham closed his eyes. The pain was blinding white light behind his eyelids.

"Send it," he whispered.

"Sir?"

"The notification. The nursing home."

Mercer hesitated, then nodded.

Elida was eating pizza with Preston in his office, laughing about a faculty dispute.

Her phone buzzed.

An email. From the Crane Foundation.

Subject: Grant Revocation Notice.

Dear Miss Adkins, effective immediately, the charitable grant covering the care of Mrs. Elena Adkins at Pineview Facility has been terminated.

Attached was a bill for $45,000. Due in 24 hours. Or she would be evicted.

The slice of pizza dropped from her hand.

"Elida?" Preston asked.

"I have to go."

She ran out into the rain. She didn't wait for a cab. She ran to the subway.

Forty minutes later, she was standing in the foyer of Crane Manor. She was soaked to the bone, water pooling around her cheap sneakers.

Mercer was there. He looked ashamed. "I'm sorry."

"Where is he?"

"Library."

She marched in.

Abraham was curled on the sofa. He looked small. Broken.

Her anger was a roaring fire, but seeing him like that... the doctor in her took over.

She walked to the medical cabinet. She unlocked it with the code only she knew.

She prepped a new syringe.

She walked over to him. She didn't speak. She grabbed his arm roughly.

He opened his eyes. They were hazy with pain, but he saw her.

"You came," he whispered.

She swabbed his arm. "You threatened my mother."

She inserted the needle. Perfect angle. Smooth delivery.

She pushed the plunger.

"You're a monster," she said calmly.

He let out a long breath as the drug hit his system. His muscles relaxed.

"I know," he said.

He reached out, his fingers brushing her wet sleeve.

"Stay," he said. "I'll pay double. Triple. Just until the wedding."

She pulled her arm away. "Get your fiancée-decoy to do it."

"She can't."

"Teach her."

"She's not you."

He looked at her, his eyes clearing.

"Nobody is you, Elida."

"That's your problem, Abraham. Not mine."

She turned to leave.

"If you walk out," he said, his voice gaining strength, "the grant stays cancelled."

She stopped. She hated him. She hated him so much it burned.

"Fine," she spat. "I stay. Until the wedding. Then I take the money and I disappear."

"Agreed."