Chapter 1 1

Flavia Lancaster sat in the back of a black car speeding through the rain-slicked streets of Tribeca. The reflection staring back from the tinted window was flawless, a mask of porcelain skin and perfectly arched brows she had meticulously constructed. She examined her face not with vanity, but with the cold scrutiny of an auditor searching for a discrepancy in a ledger.

Her phone buzzed against the grained leather of her briefcase. A calendar notification lit up the screen: 26th Birthday. There were no messages from family. The screen remained dark otherwise.

She picked up a tube of lipstick. It was a shade of red so deep it looked like fresh arterial blood. She didn't apply it to look beautiful. She applied it like war paint, a layer of armor against the mission that awaited her.

The car slowed to a stop outside a gleaming residential tower. Before Flavia could gather her things, the door flew open. Harper Vance leaned in, a whirlwind of Gucci silk and manic energy.

"You're finally here, bitch!" Harper screamed.

Harper's eyes darted around the plush interior of the car, dismissing it before landing on Flavia. She wasn't looking for birthday decorations. She was looking for any sign that Flavia didn't belong.

Flavia offered a polite, practiced smile. It didn't reach her eyes.

"I'm not really in a party mood," Flavia said. "Just a quiet night."

Harper laughed, a high-pitched sound that grated on Flavia's nerves.

"Don't be boring. Everyone is already there. It's a surprise party for you! Eliseo is waiting at The Vault."

Flavia paused. Her eyes narrowed slightly, catching the microscopic twitch at the corner of Harper's mouth. It was a tell. A flicker of malice masked as excitement.

Flavia's internal radar pinged. Something was wrong. The math didn't add up. According to her dossier, Eliseo hated surprises, and he hated The Vault even more. This wasn't a party. It was an ambush, likely orchestrated by his fiancée, Azura.

"Then I suppose I shouldn't keep him waiting," Flavia said.

She decided to audit the situation. If Eliseo Fitzpatrick was a compromised asset, she needed to know the extent of the liability.

They took Harper's waiting town car. The car smelled of leather and cloying Dior perfume. Harper spent the entire ride texting, the blue light of her phone reflecting in the window. She was typing furiously, her thumbs moving like pistons.

When they arrived at the club in the Meatpacking District, the bouncer unhooked the velvet rope for Harper immediately. He stopped Flavia, looking her up and down with a sneer.

"She's with me," Harper said, her voice dripping with false benevolence. "It's her birthday. Try to be nice."

It was a subtle humiliation, a reminder of who belonged in this world and who was merely a guest. Flavia walked past the bouncer, her spine stiff.

The bass inside the club was a physical force, vibrating in Flavia's chest cavity. The air was thick with sweat and expensive cologne. Harper grabbed her wrist, her grip tight and clammy, and pulled her toward the stairs.

The VIP section on the second floor was a different world. The noise was dampened, replaced by the clinking of crystal and the murmur of exclusive conversations. The hallway smelled of heavy floral perfume, cloying and suffocating.

Harper stopped in front of a heavy oak door marked King's Suite.

"Go on," Harper said, stepping back. "He's waiting for you."

Flavia reached for the handle. The metal was ice cold against her palm. A chill ran down her spine, a primal warning system flaring to life.

She pushed the door open.

The room was dimly lit, bathed in a sleazy red glow. There was no cake. There were no balloons.

The first thing Flavia saw were the champagne bottles scattered on the floor like spent shell casings.

Then she saw the sofa.

Eliseo sat in the center. His tie was loose, his top two buttons undone. His head was lolled back against the velvet cushions, his eyes half-closed and glassy.

Two women were draped over him. They were models, their limbs long and bare, their dresses little more than scraps of fabric. One of them had her hand resting casually, possessively, on Eliseo's thigh.

Eliseo looked dazed. His movements were sluggish, his reaction time delayed. But to Flavia, the visual was absolute. It was a data point.

The laughter in the room died instantly. The silence that followed was heavy, sucking the oxygen out of the air.

Harper stepped up behind Flavia and let out a gasp that was theatrical in its perfection.

"Oh my god, Eliseo. How could you? On her birthday!"

Eliseo's head snapped up. His eyes tried to focus, shifting from confusion to shock as he registered Flavia standing in the doorway. He tried to shove the woman off his lap.

The model, startled by his sudden movement, jerked her hand. Red wine sloshed out of her glass, splashing across the front of Eliseo's white dress shirt. It looked like a gunshot wound.

Flavia didn't scream. She didn't cry. She stood completely still, her breathing shallow and controlled. She felt like she was watching a low-budget film, observing the scene from a great distance.

Eliseo opened his mouth. His jaw worked, but no sound came out. He looked like a fish gasping for air.

Flavia's gaze swept the room. She cataloged the empty bottles of high-proof tequila. The lace bra draped over the armrest. The smear of lipstick on Eliseo's collar. Evidence. Itemized and filed.

She turned around. Her heels clicked a sharp, rhythmic staccato on the hardwood floor as she walked away.

Harper reached out, her fingers brushing Flavia's arm. "Flavia, wait, I'm so sorry-"

Flavia sidestepped the touch. She looked at Harper, her eyes devoid of warmth.

"The show is over, Harper. Go collect your payment from Azura."

Flavia walked out of the club and into the biting cold of the New York autumn night. She didn't hail a cab immediately. She took a deep breath, letting the freezing air burn her lungs.

She pulled out her phone. She didn't call a friend. She dialed a number saved as 'Asset Management.'

It was her data analyst.

"Initiate Plan B," Flavia said into the receiver. "Focus on Harper Vance and her circle. I want every transaction, every message. Burn their digital footprint to the ground."