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Rain lashed against the revolving glass doors of the Brennan Media Tower, blurring the neon chaos of Midtown Manhattan into streaks of gray and angry red. Dylan Maxwell stood under the overhang, her fingers trembling as she smoothed the damp hem of her trench coat. The cold wasn't just in the air. It was seeping through the soles of her shoes, climbing up her legs, settling deep in her bones where the adrenaline couldn't reach it.

She caught her reflection in the dark glass. Her blonde hair was frizzy from the humidity, but her lips were painted a defiant, blood-red crimson. It was the only armor she had left.

You can do this, she told herself, though her stomach twisted in a knot so tight it made her nauseous. You are a Maxwell. That name used to open doors. Now, it just slammed them shut.

She pushed through the doors. The lobby was a cathedral of marble and intimidation, smelling of expensive coffee and floor wax. Dylan walked straight to the reception desk, her heels clicking a rhythm that sounded far more confident than she felt.

"I have a legal summons for Mr. Brennan," she said, her voice steady, sliding a crisp manila envelope onto the counter. "It pertains to the board's morality clause and a potential challenge to his voting rights."

The security guard behind the desk didn't even blink. He typed something into his terminal, his eyes scanning the screen with bored efficiency. He looked up, his gaze dropping to her handbag. It was a Birkin, three years old, the leather scuffed at the corners. He knew. In this zip code, everyone knew exactly how much money you didn't have.

"Mr. Brennan doesn't accept unsolicited legal documents here," the guard said flatly.

Dylan leaned in, resting her hand on the cool marble counter. She glanced at his ID badge. Frank. She remembered him. Three years ago, her father had tipped him five hundred dollars for getting a taxi in a blizzard.

Frank, she said, lowering her voice. Your daughter started at NYU this fall, didn't she? Pre-med?

The guard's eyes widened slightly. He looked at her, really looked at her, and the recognition dawned. It wasn't respect anymore. It was pity.

Miss Maxwell, he whispered. You shouldn't be here.

"I need five minutes, Frank. If I don't get them, the information in this envelope goes to the Wall Street Journal. It concerns a competitor of Brennan Media and their attempts to leverage the morality clause against him. It will make the board very nervous. It will make your boss's life very difficult. And the leak will be traced back to this lobby."

He hesitated, his hand hovering over the phone. Then, he sighed and tapped a button under the desk. The turnstile light turned green.

Go. Before I lose my job.

Thank you.

Dylan didn't run, but she walked fast. The elevator ride was a vertical rocket launch. Her ears popped as the numbers climbed-40, 50, 60. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. This was it. The Hail Mary.

The doors slid open onto the penthouse floor. It was silent up here, the kind of silence that cost billions of dollars to maintain. She stepped out, expecting to see a receptionist, but instead, she found a wall of a man blocking her path.

Javion Briggs. Garland Brennan's personal attorney and the man who knew where all the bodies were buried.

Well, well, Javion said, his smile not reaching his eyes. If it isn't the Ponzi Princess.

Dylan straightened her spine. Get out of my way, Javion.

You are trespassing, Dylan. I can have you arrested before you take another breath.

"Then arrest me," she said loudly, her voice echoing off the minimalist walls. "And we can have my deposition on the morality clause, and the information I have about your competitor's zoning commission bribes, entered into public record. I know he needs a wife before he turns thirty, Javion. Or he loses the voting rights. The clock is ticking."

The heavy mahogany double doors at the end of the hall remained shut, but a voice cut through the air, low and cold as liquid nitrogen.

Let her in.

Javion's jaw tightened. He stepped aside, gesturing mockingly toward the door.

Dylan pushed the doors open. The office was freezing. The air conditioning was set to a temperature that felt less like a workspace and more like a morgue. Garland Brennan stood with his back to her, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows at Central Park. He was tall, his shoulders broad under a suit that cost more than her father's bail.

He turned around.

His eyes were dark, devoid of warmth. He didn't look at her like a woman. He looked at her like a balance sheet that didn't add up.

You have three minutes, Garland said.

Dylan didn't waste time with pleasantries. She didn't kneel. She didn't beg. She walked to his desk and placed the summons envelope down gently.