Atticus didn't answer right away. He looked at me the way you look at someone who just said something you can't unhear.

"Fourteen hours," he said finally. "Give or take. The card expires at midnight Eastern. After that, every transaction he's made becomes legally actionable debt assigned to the cardholder of record."

"Which is him," I said.

"Through his own fraud, yes."

I nodded slowly. My head still hurt. My mouth tasted like metal. But my hands were steady now, flat on the armrests of the chair, and I could feel my pulse in my fingertips—not fast, just present.

"What's the threshold?"

Atticus's eyes narrowed slightly. "For?"

"Criminal liability. Not civil. Criminal."

A pause. He tilted his head a fraction, reassessing. "Fifty million dollars. Unauthorized spending past that triggers federal wire fraud statutes. The contractual penalty clause assigns full financial responsibility to the unauthorized user, plus liquidated damages at a two-to-one ratio."

I did the math. Callen had already spent—I glanced at the laptop screen, at the running total in the corner—eighteen million. He had thirty-two million left to go.

And fourteen hours to get there.

"I need access to the livestream's donation platform," I said. "An anonymous account. And I need you to explain exactly how the expiration penalty clause works. Every detail."

Atticus went very still. Not tense. Just—focused. Like I'd said something in a language he understood but hadn't expected to hear.

"Ms. Morales," he said quietly. "What do you need?"

I looked at the screen. At Callen's face. At the number in the corner ticking upward as more people joined, more people watched, more people cheered while he ground my work into the floor.

"I need," I said, "to make sure he doesn't stop spending."

Atticus studied me for a long moment. Then he pulled a chair around and sat.

"Tell me," he said.

---

He set me up at the desk with a second laptop. His fingers moved across the keys fast and precise, no wasted motion. A login screen appeared. He entered credentials I didn't see, then turned the screen toward me.

"Anonymous donor account," he said. "Routed through three proxy servers. Untraceable to you. The platform takes a fifteen percent cut, so factor that in."

I nodded.

He opened a second window—a document, dense with legal text. "The Black Card experience is structured as a limited-duration spending authorization with a billion-dollar ceiling. The cardholder—you—has liability protection. Anyone else using the card without written authorization is considered an unauthorized user under federal banking law."

"And the penalty clause?"

"Upon expiration, all charges are reviewed. Authorized spending is cleared. Unauthorized spending becomes immediate debt assigned to the user, plus liquidated damages at a two-to-one ratio. If the total exceeds fifty million, it crosses into wire fraud territory. Federal. Non-negotiable."

I pulled the laptop closer. The livestream filled the screen. Callen was holding up a watch now—something platinum, something that cost more than my parents' mortgage. Alexia was clapping.

The viewer count was at one point four million.

"He's performing," I said softly.

"Yes," Atticus said.

"He needs an audience."

"Yes."

I opened the super-chat interface. The donation tiers ranged from five dollars to fifty thousand. I selected the top tier and typed into the message field:

*Finally, someone who knows how to live. Show us more.*

I hit send.

Fifty thousand dollars.

On the screen, Callen's phone chimed. He glanced down, and his whole face lit up like someone had plugged him into a wall. He held the phone up to the camera.

"Holy shit!" His voice cracked. "Fifty K! Fifty thousand from—" He squinted. "Queen V. Queen V, you are a legend. You are a goddamn legend."

The chat went wild. Emojis flooded the screen. Alexia leaned in, reading over his shoulder, her mouth open.

"This is what I'm talking about!" Callen was on his feet now, pacing, champagne sloshing. "This is what real recognizes real. You see this?" He gestured at the bags, the watch, the penthouse windows behind him. "This is the life. This is what it looks like when you stop settling."

I watched his face. The hunger in it. The need.

Beside me, Atticus said nothing. But I felt him watching—not the screen. Me.

"He'll keep going," I said.

"Yes," Atticus said.

"He'll spend everything he can before the clock runs out."

"If he believes the money is real," Atticus said carefully, "and if he believes the audience is watching—yes. He will."

I looked at the donation interface. At the number in my account—Pacific Crest had extended me a courtesy line of credit for operational expenses related to the fraud case. Enough to keep Queen V very, very interested.

"Then I'll make sure he believes," I said.

I sent another fifty thousand.

Callen's phone chimed again. He actually shouted.

I typed: *Buy something big. Prove you're not playing.*

He read it aloud. The chat exploded. Someone suggested a car. Someone else said a boat. Callen was grinning so hard I could see his molars.

"You want big?" he said to the camera. "I'll show you big."

Atticus leaned back in his chair. His voice was very quiet.

"You're going to destroy him," he said.

It wasn't a question.

I didn't look away from the screen.

"Yes," I said. "I am."

The city went dark outside the windows while we worked.

Atticus had ordered food at some point—Thai, containers stacked on the corner of his desk—but I couldn't remember eating. The laptop screen was bright enough to hurt. Callen's face filled it, flushed and loud, viewer count climbing past 1.6 million.

I opened the super-chat interface again.

*Any man can buy bags. Buy something that MATTERS.*

Fifty thousand.

Send.

Callen's phone chimed. He grabbed it so fast he almost dropped his champagne. His eyes went wide.

"Queen V is BACK!" He was shouting now. "She says—she says buy something that matters. You hear that? She gets it. She GETS it."

Alexia leaned into frame. She was still wearing my dress. "What are you going to buy?"

"Something big." Callen was pacing, energy pouring off him in waves. "Something that shows I'm not playing. A watch. No—THE watch. That Patek Philippe we saw at Feldmar. The platinum one."

"That's two hundred thousand dollars," Alexia said.

"Exactly." Callen grinned at the camera. "Queen V wants big? I'll show her big."

He was out the door ten minutes later, livestream still running from his phone, Alexia trailing behind him with the camera angled up at his face. The chat was moving too fast to read. Emojis. Fire. Crowns.

I sat back. My neck ached.

"He's going to buy it," I said.

Atticus was quiet for a moment. Then: "Yes."

I pulled up the transaction monitor on the second screen. Eighteen million. Nineteen. The number climbed in real-time as charges processed—the penthouse suite, the bags, the champagne, the car service.

Twenty million.

Thirty-two million left to go.

I checked the time. 9:47 PM. Fourteen hours had become nine.

"He's not going to make it," I said. "Not at this pace."

Atticus reached across the desk and turned the second screen toward himself. He studied the transaction log, eyes moving fast, that same focused stillness I'd seen earlier.

"He will if you keep pushing," he said finally. "He's performing for Queen V now. Not the general audience. You."

I looked at the livestream. Callen was inside Feldmar Watch Company, phone camera aimed at a display case. The sales associate was pulling out a watch—platinum, diamond markers, the kind of thing that came in its own locked box.

"Two hundred and forty thousand," the associate said.

Callen didn't hesitate. He pulled out the card.

The transaction processed. The chat exploded. Callen held the watch up to the camera, grinning so hard his face looked like it might split.

"THIS is what I'm talking about!" He was breathless. "This is REAL money. This is what it looks like when you stop being scared."

I felt something cold settle behind my ribs.

I opened the super-chat interface.

*I've seen a hundred men play dress-up with other people's money. Prove you're different.*

One hundred thousand dollars.

Send.

Callen's phone chimed. He froze. Read the message. His whole body went still for a fraction of a second—and then he laughed, loud and sharp.

"You want proof?" He looked directly into the camera. "I'll give you proof. We're going to Manhattan Motors. I'm buying a car. Not leasing. BUYING."

The viewer count hit 1.8 million.

I reached for the notepad on Atticus's desk and started writing numbers. Transaction amounts. Time stamps. The math of how much Callen needed to spend per hour to hit fifty million before midnight.

Five million per hour. Give or take.

He'd just spent two hundred and forty thousand in ten minutes.

I looked up. Atticus was watching me.

"What?" I said.

He didn't answer right away. His eyes dropped to my hands.

I followed his gaze.

There was a paper crane in my fingers. Half-formed. I didn't remember starting it—must have torn a corner off the notepad without thinking.

I stared at it.

"You do that when you're working through something," Atticus said quietly.

I set the crane down. My face felt hot.

"Childhood habit," I said.

"I noticed."

Something in his voice made me look up. He wasn't smiling. Wasn't doing anything, really. Just looking at me with that same steady focus, like he was reading something I hadn't meant to show.

I turned back to the screen.

Callen was at Manhattan Motors now. The camera panned across a showroom floor—Ferraris, Lamborghinis, something low and silver that cost more than my parents' house. A salesman in a suit was walking toward him, hand extended.

"He's going to buy a car," I said.

Atticus leaned forward. "Half a million. Minimum."

I pulled the laptop closer and started typing the next message.

Then my phone buzzed.

A text. Unknown number. I opened it.

*Yo, Callen's stream is INSANE. Already sent it to Barstool and TMZ. This man is a LEGEND.*

A link. I clicked it.

Troy Langford's Instagram story. A clip of Callen stomping the wind chime, captioned: *When you finally stop letting dead weight hold you back. KING SHIT.* Two hundred thousand views. Reposted by six different accounts I recognized—influencers, gossip pages, sports commentary bros.

Another story. The mockery speech. *Pathetic charity case.* Three hundred thousand views.

Another. Alexia laughing. Four hundred thousand.

I set the phone down.

"Mariana," Atticus said.

I didn't look at him.

"His best friend," I said. "Troy Langford. He's amplifying it. Sharing clips. He's the reason it's trending."

Atticus picked up his own phone. Typed something. Set it down.

"Documented," he said. "Legal will flag him."

I nodded.

On the screen, Callen was sitting in the driver's seat of a silver Lamborghini Huracán, hands on the wheel, grinning like a child. The salesman was holding a tablet.

"Five hundred and twenty thousand," the salesman said.

Callen pulled out the card.

I watched the transaction process.

Twenty-one million total.

Twenty-nine million left to go.

Eight hours until midnight.

I opened the super-chat interface and started typing.

The sound came through the laptop speakers like gravel in a blender.

"—my boy Callen, FINALLY showing the world what the Stevens family is made of—"

I looked up from the super-chat interface. On the screen, Callen was laughing, phone tilted toward his face. The camera wobbled. Background noise—voices, clinking glass, sports commentary.

"Dad's calling in," Callen said to the chat. "You guys gotta hear this."

He put the phone on speaker.

Rudy Stevens's voice filled the penthouse suite. Loud. Loose. The kind of drunk that thought it was charming.

"That's my son right there. That's a STEVENS. Not like that—" He paused. Laughed. "Not like that pathetic little charity case he was dragging around for three years."

The chat exploded. Laughing emojis. Fire.

I went still.

"You know her mother's a cleaning lady, right?" Rudy's voice got louder, performing now. "Probably stole half the towels from the hotel she works at. And the father—nobody from nowhere. Couldn't even give his daughter a real last name. MORALES." He said it like it tasted bad. "What kind of—"

Callen was grinning. Alexia had her hand over her mouth, shoulders shaking.

The viewer count hit four million.

I couldn't feel my hands.

Somewhere far away, Atticus said my name. Quietly. Once.

I didn't answer.

Rudy kept talking. Something about bloodlines. Something about knowing your place. The chat was moving too fast to read. I watched the emojis blur together into a single bright smear.

Then my phone buzzed.

I looked down.

Mom.

I stood. The chair scraped. Atticus didn't move, didn't speak, just watched me cross the office and pull the door shut behind me.

The hallway was quiet. Cream walls. Recessed lighting. My thumb hovered over the screen.

I answered.

"Mija."

Her voice was soft. Steady. The way it always was.

"Mom," I said. My throat felt tight.

"I saw it," she said. "Mrs. Herrera called me. She saw the video. She wanted to make sure I knew."

I closed my eyes.

"Mom, I'm so sorry. I didn't—I didn't know he was going to—"

"Mariana." Firm now. Not angry. Just—clear. "Escúchame."

I stopped.

"You don't owe anyone an explanation for who we are," she said. "Not him. Not his father. Not anyone watching that man make a fool of himself on the internet."

I pressed my forehead against the cool wall.

"Your father cleaned every site he ever worked," she continued. "I cleaned every room I was ever assigned. We did it well. We did it with our hands and our backs and we are not ashamed. You understand me?"

"Yes," I whispered.

"That man—" She paused. I heard her take a breath. "That man is small. And you are not. You have never been."

My eyes burned.

"I love you," I said.

"Te quiero, mija. Now go finish what you started."

The line went quiet.

I stood there for a moment. The hallway was still empty. Still silent.

Then I turned and walked back into Atticus's office.

He was exactly where I'd left him. Hands folded on the desk. Eyes on me.

I didn't sit down.

I pulled the laptop toward me and opened the super-chat interface.

My fingers didn't shake.

*You want to see what real money looks like? Buy something that will make every headline in the country. Buy something so big they'll remember your name forever.*

One million dollars.

I hit send.

On the screen, Callen's phone chimed.

He looked down.

His face went slack.

"Holy—" He couldn't finish the sentence. He held the phone up to the camera with both hands. "One MILLION. One million dollars from Queen V. She says—she says buy something big enough they'll remember my name forever."

The chat went completely insane.

Alexia grabbed his arm. "Callen. Callen, what are you going to do?"

He was breathing hard. Eyes wild. The performance had shifted into something else—something that looked almost like panic, like he'd grabbed a live wire and couldn't let go.

"I know exactly what I'm going to do," he said.

He turned to the camera.

"We're buying a building," he said. "We're buying Whitmore Tower."

The viewer count hit 4.2 million.

I sat down.

Atticus leaned forward slightly.

"Whitmore Tower," he said quietly, "is a five-billion-dollar property. The down payment alone—"

"I know," I said.

On the screen, Callen was already moving, Alexia running to keep up, the camera bouncing as they headed for the elevator.

"He can't afford it," Atticus said.

"No," I said. "He can't."

I pulled up the transaction monitor.

Twenty-three million spent.

Six hours until midnight.

I looked at Atticus.

"How much is the down payment on Whitmore Tower?" I asked.

He didn't hesitate. "Thirty million. Minimum."

I did the math.

Fifty-three million total.

Three million over the criminal threshold.

"He's going to try," I said.

Atticus looked at me for a long moment.

"Yes," he said. "He is."

I turned back to the screen.

Callen was in a car now, phone camera aimed at his face, talking so fast the words blurred together. The chat was a wall of fire emojis and crown emojis and disbelief.

I folded my hands on the desk.

And I waited.