They took Thomas from my arms.

I don't remember when. I don't remember how. One moment I was walking out of that warehouse with my son against my chest, and the next I was on a concrete floor in a different room, and my arms were empty.

Victor's voice came from somewhere above me. "Boss said finish it."

Another voice. Lower. Uglier. "Boss said scare her. This ain't scaring."

"Money says otherwise."

I didn't move. I couldn't. My ribs were wrong. My mouth tasted like copper. Somewhere behind my left eye, a nail was being driven in slowly.

I pressed my thumb against the inside of my left wrist.

The skin was bare. But under it — deeper, hidden months ago in a small procedure Nora had helped me arrange — was a chip the size of a grain of rice. A distress signal. My original escape plan. The last careful thing I'd done before Estella had walked into my house with her soft voice and my ruin folded inside her purse.

I'd never activated it. I'd never wanted to need it.

I pressed harder.

Three slow pulses. That was all it took.

Somewhere in a server room across the city, a light turned red.

A clock started.

2:14 a.m.

I closed my eyes.

***

I learned later that Kylian Howard was awake when the alert came.

I learned later that he did not ask questions. That he did not call a meeting. That he pulled a coat off a chair and was moving toward the elevator before his security chief had finished the sentence.

Eleven minutes.

Eleven minutes from the pulse in my wrist to the sound of the compound door coming off its hinges.

I heard it before I understood it. A crack like a tree splitting. Then boots. Then a sound I did not recognize — Victor Hale saying a word he never got to finish.

Gunfire. Short. Contained. Professional.

Then silence.

Then a man's voice, close to my ear, saying my name like it was something breakable.

"Lilliana. Can you hear me?"

I tried to answer. My mouth wouldn't work.

A hand slid under my shoulders. Careful. So careful.

"I've got you," he said. "I've got you. Don't try to move."

I opened my eyes. Just a slit. Just enough.

Kylian Howard's face. I had seen it at galas. Across ballrooms. In photographs on the business pages my father used to leave folded on the breakfast table. I had never once seen it up close.

Up close, it was very still.

Up close, it was the stillness of a man holding his own hands steady by force of will.

"Thomas," I whispered.

Something crossed his face. Just once. Just for a second.

"I know," he said quietly. "I know. Later. Right now, we go."

***

He carried me himself.

I remember that. Past bodies I didn't look at. Past a doorway that was no longer a doorway. Past a black SUV with its engine already running.

He slid into the back seat with me still in his arms and did not put me down. He shifted me so my head rested against his shoulder. Then he took off his jacket — I felt him work one arm free at a time, unwilling to jostle me — and draped it around me. It was warm from his body. It smelled like clean wool and something faintly bitter, like coffee gone cold.

He found my hand under the fabric.

He took it.

He did not let go.

The car moved. Streetlights slid across the ceiling in slow yellow strips. The driver did not speak. Kylian did not speak. I did not speak.

I watched the lights.

I thought about Thomas's hair. The way it smelled like lavender.

I thought about the sound of the rod.

I turned my face into Kylian's shoulder so no one would see what my mouth was doing.

His hand tightened around mine. Just slightly. Just enough that I would know he'd noticed. Not enough that I would have to answer.

He held my hand up thirteen flights in a private elevator. He held it through a hallway lit like a hospital. He held it into a bedroom I had never seen, in a penthouse I had never been to, and he only let go when the doctors — two of them, a woman and a man, waiting already, gloves already on — reached for me.

Even then, he let go slowly. Like he was making sure I felt him do it.

"I'm right outside," he said.

And he was.

***

Across the river, in a house that used to be mine, a woman in a cream silk robe was pouring two glasses of something amber.

I didn't see it. I only learned about it later, the way you learn about weather in a country you've left.

But Estella Chapman lifted her glass, and her hand did not shake.

"She ran," she said softly. "Raiden. Sweetheart. Innocent women don't run."

Raiden sat on the edge of the couch. His shirt still had my son's blood on it. He had not changed. He had not moved for hours. His hands hung between his knees like they belonged to someone else.

"She said the boy was mine," he said.

"She would say anything." Estella knelt in front of him. Set the glass in his hand. Closed his fingers around it, one by one. "You have to let me help you now. You have to let me build something for you. Something clean."

He stared past her.

"The Plaza," she whispered. "In the spring. A new beginning."

He didn't answer.

She took that for a yes.

She began, that night, to plan a wedding.

The penthouse was white.

White walls. White furniture. White light coming through floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over Manhattan like the city was something you could own just by looking at it long enough.

I sat on the edge of a bed I didn't remember getting into. My ribs were wrapped. My left arm was in a sling I didn't need but the doctor — a woman with gray hair and steady hands — had insisted on anyway.

"Precautionary," she'd said. "You're going to want to use it before it's ready."

She was right. I wanted to use everything before it was ready. I wanted to stand. I wanted to walk. I wanted to go back to that warehouse and pull Thomas out of that bag before the rod came down.

I pressed my thumb against my left wrist. The skin was smooth. No scar. The chip was buried deep enough that you'd never know it was there unless you were looking.

I'd activated it eleven minutes before Kylian Howard came through the door.

Eleven minutes.

If I'd pressed it an hour earlier. If I'd pressed it the night before. If I'd pressed it the day Estella walked into my house with her soft voice and her lies folded inside her purse.

If.

The door opened. No knock. Kylian stepped inside with a tray. Coffee. Toast. Something that looked like eggs but probably wasn't.

"You don't have to eat it," he said. "But the doctors want you to try."

I looked at him. Really looked. He was wearing a different shirt than the one from last night. This one was gray. Pressed. His hair was damp like he'd just showered. But his eyes were the same. Steady. Careful. Like he was watching me the way you watch something that might break if you move too fast.

"Why did you come for me?" I asked.

He set the tray on the table beside the bed. Sat down in the chair across from me. Not close. Not far. Just there.

"Because you sent the signal," he said. "And I was already watching."

"Why?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes."

He was quiet for a moment. Then he leaned forward. Elbows on his knees. Hands folded.

"Three years ago," he said. "Charity gala at the Waldorf. A waitress was being harassed by a guest. Everyone saw it. No one moved. You did."

I didn't remember.

"You walked over," he continued. "Quiet. No scene. You said something to the man. He left. You asked the waitress if she was alright. Then you went back to your table like nothing happened."

I stared at him.

"I started watching after that," he said simply. "Not because I wanted something from you. Because I thought someone should. Your world was closing in. I could see it. So I built a network. Just in case."

"Just in case I needed rescuing."

"Just in case you asked."

I looked down at my hands. They were clean now. Someone had washed them. But I could still feel it. The blood. The warmth of it. The way it had soaked through my shirt and into my skin.

Thomas's blood.

"He's gone," I whispered.

Kylian didn't answer. He didn't tell me it would be okay. He didn't tell me time would heal it. He just sat there. Present. Still.

After a long time, I looked up.

"Estella," I said. "And Raiden. They're getting married."

"Ten days," Kylian said. "The Plaza. My team has the details."

I pressed my thumb harder against my wrist. Felt the chip under the skin. The thing that had saved me. The thing that hadn't saved Thomas.

"I want to destroy her," I said.

Kylian's face didn't change. "Alright."

"Not just ruin her. Not just expose her. I want to take everything she's built and burn it in front of her."

"Alright," he said again.

I met his eyes. "You don't want to know why?"

"I know why," he said quietly. "And I have what you need."

He stood. Walked to the door. Came back with a tablet. Set it on the bed beside me.

I picked it up. The screen lit.

Footage. Dark. Grainy. A concrete room. A woman on the floor. Men standing over her.

Me.

I watched for ten seconds. Then I stopped it.

"Estella recorded this," Kylian said. "She kept it on a private server. A trophy. My team found it two days ago."

I stared at the frozen image. My own face. Unrecognizable.

"We also have her communications with Victor Hale," he continued. "Payment records. Metadata. Everything."

"Can you broadcast it?"

"Yes."

"At the wedding?"

"During the reception. During the toast. Every screen in the ballroom. Simultaneously."

I looked up at him. "Do it."

He nodded once. "Consider it done."

He turned to leave. I stopped him.

"Kylian."

He looked back.

"Thank you," I said. "For coming."

Something crossed his face. Just for a second. Then it was gone.

"Eleven minutes," he said quietly. "I wish it had been faster."

He left. The door closed.

I looked back at the tablet. At the frozen image of myself. At the woman I used to be.

Then I pressed play.

I watched all of it.

Every second.

When it was over, I set the tablet down. Stood. Walked to the window.

Manhattan stretched out below me. Endless. Indifferent. Beautiful.

I pressed my thumb against my wrist one more time.

Then I let go.

Ten days.

Estella Chapman had ten days left.