The wind whipped Brittny Graves's hair into a blonde frenzy, stinging her eyes, but she didn't care. She threw her head back and screamed a laugh into the rushing air.

"Faster, Craig! Faster!"

The red convertible tore down the highway, a blood-colored streak against the grey asphalt. The city skyline was shrinking in the rearview mirror, and with it, the suffocating weight of the Blackwell name.

Craig Mooney gripped the steering wheel until his hands cramped. He wasn't laughing. Sweat beaded on his upper lip, despite the chill of the wind.

"Are you sure about this, Brittny?" he shouted over the roar of the engine. "If the Blackwells find us..."

"They won't!" Brittny reached over, her manicured fingers digging into his shoulder. Her eyes were wide, feverish. "I told you, Craig. I know."

She tapped her temple.

"I saw it. I lived it. I saw you on that podium, the confetti falling like snow, the crowds screaming your name. They called you High Chancellor, Craig. Not him. You."

Craig glanced at her, his fear warring with his ego. He was a man who lived on validation, and Brittny was feeding him a banquet.

"And Elliot?" he asked, his voice trembling on the name.

"Gone," Brittny spat, the word tasting like venom. "A footnote. Disgraced and dead within the year. I saw his motorcade burn on the interstate, Craig. Why would I chain myself to a ghost when I can build a kingdom with a king?"

Craig looked back at the road. The fear in his gut began to recede, replaced by the intoxicating heat of ambition. He pressed his foot down. The speedometer climbed.

"A king," he muttered. "I like the sound of that."

Back at the Graves estate, the air in the library was stale, recycled through vents that hadn't been cleaned in years.

Grand Dame Graves sat behind the mahogany desk, staring at the tablet screen. The graph line of the Graves Group stock was already twitching downward. Rumors traveled faster than light.

"We have to do it," Mistress Yun hissed. She was pacing, her heels sinking into the plush carpet. "It's the only way."

"She's a Frederick," the Grand Dame muttered, rubbing her temples. "The Blackwells hate the Fredericks. It's an insult."

"It's a body!" Mistress Yun slammed her hand on the desk. "They want a connection to the Graves political influence. Does it matter which daughter provides it?"

"Brooke is... difficult," Lord Graves said from the corner. He looked like a man waiting for a firing squad. "She's not pliable like Brittny."

"She's broke," Mistress Yun countered. She pulled a file from her bag and slapped it onto the desk. "Her mother's trust fund. The one we've been... managing."

The Grand Dame's eyes snapped to the file. Greed, sharp and sudden, cut through her anxiety.

"If she marries into the Blackwell family," Mistress Yun whispered, leaning in, "she triggers the Frederick abandonment clause. A ridiculous stipulation her mother insisted on, meant to keep her away from families like ours. The trust reverts to her guardians. To us. We keep the capital. We save the company."

The Grand Dame ran a finger over the leather cover of the file. The numbers inside were the only thing she loved more than her reputation.

"Get her," the old woman said.

In the rose garden, Brooke knelt in the dirt.

She held a pair of rusted shears. Snip.

A perfect red rose fell to the ground. Snip. Another one.

She wasn't arranging them. She was beheading them.

In her left ear, a small diamond stud pressed against her cartilage. It wasn't jewelry. It was a bone-conduction receiver, vibrating with the voices from the library. We keep the trust. We keep the capital...

Brooke didn't stop snipping. Her expression didn't change. But inside, a cold fire ignited.

They weren't just selling her. They were robbing her. Again.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. Her thumb hovered over a contact saved only as "Accountant."

She typed: The fish have bitten. Execute Protocol 4. Prepare the transfer documents.

She hit send.

Then, she felt it.

A vibration in the ground. Low at first, like a distant subway train, then growing, swelling, shaking the pebbles around her knees.

It wasn't thunder.

Brooke stood up, brushing the dirt from her black dress. She looked toward the main gate, a quarter-mile down the driveway.

The radio on the hip of a nearby gardener crackled.

"Main gate! They're not slowing down! Repeat, the lead vehicle is not slowing down!"

Brooke pocketed her phone. She picked up the shears.

"Showtime," she whispered.

CRASH.

The sound was apocalyptic.

The wrought-iron gates of the Graves estate, which had stood for a century, shrieked as they were torn from their hinges. Twisted metal flew through the air.

A black, armored SUV, massive and ugly as a tank, plowed through the debris without even tapping its brakes. Behind it, three more vehicles followed in a V-formation.

Brooke walked up the steps to the main porch.

The front doors burst open behind her. The Grand Dame and Mistress Yun stumbled out, clutching each other.

"What is that?" Mistress Yun shrieked. "Call the police!"

"That is the police," Brooke said calmly, not looking back. "Or at least, the people who pay them."

The convoy screeched to a halt at the foot of the stairs. Dust billowed up, coating the pristine white roses in grey grit.

The engines cut. Silence slammed back into the courtyard, heavier than the noise.

Brooke stood at the top of the stairs, looking down at the black tinted windows of the lead car. She didn't flinch. She tightened her grip on the shears hidden in the folds of her dress.

She wasn't waiting for a groom. She was waiting for a war.

The doors of the trailing SUVs flew open in unison.

Twelve men poured out. They didn't move like bodyguards; they moved like a strike team. Black tactical suits, earpieces, hands hovering over holstered weapons that were definitely not legal for private security.

They fanned out, forming a perimeter that cut the Graves family off from the outside world.

Grand Dame Graves let out a whimper, clutching her chest. Lord Graves looked like he might vomit on his Italian loafers.

Brooke didn't move. Her eyes were locked on the lead vehicle. The armored beast hissed as its hydraulic suspension lowered.

The rear door clicked.

A boot hit the gravel. Black leather, handmade, dusted with ash.

Elliot Blackwell emerged.

He wasn't wearing a tuxedo. He was wearing a black dress shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle. He looked like he had just rolled out of bed, or a bar fight, or both.

He stood there, blinking against the sunlight, and ran a hand through his messy dark hair. He looked bored.

Then he looked up.

His eyes were dark, bottomless pits that seemed to absorb the light around him. There was no hangover in those eyes. Only a sharp, terrifying clarity.

He took a drag from a cigarette that shouldn't have been lit, exhaling a plume of grey smoke toward the terrified family.

"Where is she?"

His voice was low, a rumble of gravel and velvet.

The Grand Dame stepped forward, trembling. "Lord Blackwell... we... there has been a... a slight complication."

Elliot dropped the cigarette. He crushed it under his boot, grinding it into the stone.

"I'm not kidding," he said. "I asked where the bride is."

"She's indisposed," Mistress Yun squeaked from behind her husband.

Elliot laughed. It was a dry, humorless sound. He snapped his fingers.

Click-clack.

Twelve safety catches disengaged on twelve weapons. The sound echoed like a gunshot.

"I don't have patience today," Elliot said, walking toward the stairs. "I have a hangover, and I have a schedule. Produce the bride, or I start dismantling this gingerbread house brick by brick."

He stopped three steps below Brooke.

He looked up at her.

For the first time, his bored expression flickered. He tilted his head, studying her like a biological specimen that had suddenly grown teeth.

"You're not Brittny," he said.

"Observant," Brooke replied. Her voice didn't shake.

Elliot climbed the last three steps. He invaded her personal space, looming over her. He smelled of expensive scotch, gunpowder, and danger.

The family gasped. Lord Graves took a step forward, then stopped when a laser sight appeared on his chest.

Elliot leaned in close, his face inches from Brooke's.

"You're the sister," he murmured. "The one they hide in the attic. Frederick, right?"

He used her mother's name like a weapon. A test.

"Brooke," she corrected. "And I'm not hiding."

Elliot smirked. It transformed his face from handsome to devilish.

"Aren't you scared, Brooke Frederick?"

"Fear is inefficient," she said.

He stared at her for a long second. Then, lightning fast, his hand shot out.

He grabbed her chin.

It wasn't a caress. It was a grip. He turned her face left, then right, inspecting her.

Brooke didn't pull away. Instead, her eyes dropped to his hand.

She saw the ridge of calluses along his palm. The rough skin on his trigger finger. These weren't the hands of a trust fund playboy who spent his days signing checks. These were hands that broke things.

"Rough hands for a Prince," she whispered.

Elliot froze. His pupils dilated. He released her chin instantly, stepping back as if she had burned him.

He turned to the Grand Dame, his voice booming.

"You have ten minutes."

He sat down on the top step, his back to them, and checked his watch.

"Ten minutes to get her in a dress and in my car. Or I burn the inheritance."

He didn't specify which girl. He didn't care.

Brooke looked at the back of his head. She was playing a game. And for the first time in years, she felt a spark of interest.

The heavy oak doors of the parlor slammed shut, muffling the sound of the idling engines outside.

The silence lasted exactly one second.

Grand Dame Graves spun around, her hand raising.

Brooke didn't flinch. She simply tilted her head. The slap missed her cheek by an inch, the wind of it stirring her hair. The old woman stumbled, her momentum carrying her into the arm of the sofa.

"You ungrateful wretch!" Mistress Yun shrieked. "This is your fault! You drove Brittny away with your... your bad luck!"

"My bad luck?" Brooke walked to the window, peering through the curtains at Elliot Blackwell's back. "I wasn't the one who bet the family fortune on a political campaign for a man with a gambling debt."

Lord Graves paled. "How do you know about that?"

"I know everything," Brooke said calmly. "I know the company is leveraged to the hilt. I know you borrowed against the estate to pay for this wedding. And I know that if that man outside leaves without a bride, the creditors will be here by noon."

"Then you know what you have to do," the Grand Dame hissed, straightening her gown. "Put on the dress. Save your family."

Brooke turned. She leaned against the windowsill, crossing her arms.

"No."

The word hung in the air.

"Excuse me?" Mistress Yun blinked.

"I said no. I won't marry him." Brooke checked her nails. "Unless..."

"Unless what?" Lord Graves asked, desperate.

"Unless you sign over my mother's trust. The full amount. The trust you've been illegally siphoning for a decade. With interest."

"That's extortion!" Mistress Yun screamed. "That so-called 'abandonment clause' is a legal fiction you created to trap that money! It won't hold up in court!"

"It doesn't have to," Brooke said. "By the time your lawyers untangle the fraudulent documents you forged, the Blackwells will have already picked your bones clean. You have eight minutes."

Outside, an engine revved. A deep, guttural roar that vibrated the windowpane against Brooke's back.

The Grand Dame looked at the window, terror warring with greed in her eyes. She looked at Brooke, really looked at her, and saw something she hadn't seen before.

She wasn't looking at a victim. She was looking at a mirror.

"Give it to her," the Grand Dame croaked.

"Mother!" Lord Graves protested.

"Do it! Or we lose everything!"

Lord Graves scrambled to the wall safe. He pulled out a tablet and a thick folder.

"The lawyer is on speed dial," Brooke said helpfully. "I already had him draft the transfer protocol. You just need to authorize it."

She pulled a folded document from her pocket. She had been carrying it for three days.

Mistress Yun stared at the paper. "You... you planned this."

"I prepared for it," Brooke corrected. She tossed the paper onto the coffee table. "Sign."

Lord Graves's hands shook as he pressed his thumb to the biometric scanner on the tablet. The lawyer on the speakerphone droned through the legalese.

Transfer initiating...

Transfer complete.

Brooke's phone buzzed in her pocket. A single, short vibration.

Freedom.

"And one more thing," Brooke said, picking up the signed document.

"What now?" Mistress Yun wept. "We gave you the money!"

"Brittny's apartment in the city. The penthouse. I want the deed."

"That's my daughter's home!"

"She won't need it," Brooke said coldly. "She's going to be living on the run. Consider it a storage fee for my silence."

The Grand Dame waved a dismissive hand. "Give it to her. Just get her out of my sight."

Brooke smiled. It didn't reach her eyes.

"Pleasure doing business with you."

She walked toward the door.

"Where are you going?" Lord Graves asked.

"To get changed," Brooke said. "I can't marry a monster wearing black."