Chapter 3 3

The floorboards of the Schmidt manor creaked under Elza's feet. It was a sound from her childhood, a sound that meant hide.

She wasn't hiding today. She was in the small, damp room that had been hers before she was sold off to the Drakes. She knelt by the bed, prying up a loose floorboard. Beneath the dust lay a rusted tin box.

She opened it. Inside, wrapped in a silk handkerchief, was a sapphire necklace. It wasn't particularly expensive, but it was the only thing her mother had left her before she died.

The door banged open.

Elza didn't jump. She closed the box and stood up, clutching it to her chest.

Clotilde stood in the doorway, flanked by two maids. She looked immaculate in white linen, a stark contrast to the dusty room.

"Put it down," Clotilde said, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "That belongs to the estate."

Elza didn't move. Her grip on the box tightened until her knuckles turned white.

"Don't be difficult, Elza. A bastard doesn't get heirlooms. Grab it," Clotilde ordered the maids.

One of the maids, a new girl who didn't know better, reached out to snatch the box.

Elza's eyes shifted. The submissive haze vanished. As the maid's hand closed over her wrist, Elza rotated her arm. It was a subtle, practiced movement-not of a trained fighter, but of someone who had learned leverage from a book out of sheer necessity. She locked the maid's wrist joint and applied a fraction of pressure downward.

The maid yelped, dropping to her knees in pain.

Clotilde took a step back, her mouth falling open. "You..."

Elza released the maid, who scrambled back, cradling her hand. Elza pulled out her phone. She typed rapidly and held the screen up to Clotilde's face.

Prenuptial Agreement, Section 14, Paragraph B: All personal effects of Mrs. Elza Drake are considered collateral assets of Drake Holdings. Interference with these assets constitutes a federal offense under the Bankruptcy Code.

Clotilde read the text. Her face went from shock to fury. She hadn't expected the mute to have teeth. Or a lawyer.

"You think because you married that criminal you have power?" Clotilde hissed, stepping close. "He's going to prison, Elza. And when he does, you'll be back here, scrubbing floors."

Elza looked at Clotilde. She didn't glare. She looked at her half-sister the way a scientist looks at a bacteria sample. Cold. Analytical.

She pocketed the box and shouldered past Clotilde, knocking the older woman slightly off balance.

In the hallway, Victoria Schmidt was on the phone, her voice carrying down the stairs. "Oh, yes, it's tragic. Elza is... unstable. We're worried she might hurt herself."

Elza paused. She reached into her pocket, tapped the record button on her phone, and captured ten seconds of the lies. Then she walked out the front door.

When she returned to the Drake penthouse, Barron was in the foyer, arguing with his lawyer. He stopped when he saw her. His eyes dropped to the rusted tin box in her hand.

"Dumpster diving?" he sneered. "I thought I gave you a credit card."

Elza didn't respond. She offered a small, stiff bow-the perfect, obedient wife-and moved to bypass him.

Barron stepped in her path. He was agitated, needing a target. "I'm speaking to you."

Elza looked up. For a second, she forgot to mask her eyes. The fatigue was there, but beneath it was a steeliness, a quiet rage that mirrored the woman whose dark eyes had stared back at him in the bathtub at the Pierre.

Barron paused. He frowned, a flicker of recognition sparking in his brain.

Then Elza blinked, and the look was gone. She was just the dull, silent girl again.

"Go to your room," Barron muttered, rubbing his temples. "You're exhausting to look at."

Elza went to her room. She locked the door. She placed the tin box on her nightstand.

She opened her laptop. The screen glowed blue in the dim room. She logged into a secure terminal. The header read: THE ZERO - QUANTITATIVE TRADING.

She pulled up the ticker for Schmidt Industries. Specifically, the subsidiary that managed Clotilde's lifestyle brand.

Sell.

She typed in the volume. It was massive.

Execute.

She hit enter.

On the screen, a red line began to plummet. Clotilde wanted to talk about assets? Fine. Let's talk about assets.