Chapter 2

Claire's heels clicked across the marble lobby of Mosley Tower at 7:45 AM. The morning shift security guard nodded at her. She arranged her face into the smile she used for strangers-warm at the edges, empty at the center.

"Morning, Ms. Page."

"Morning, Marcus."

She swiped her badge at the executive elevator and stepped inside. The doors slid shut with a soft pneumatic hiss. The moment she was alone, her shoulders dropped. Her spine curved. She pressed her forehead against the cool metal wall and sucked in air like she'd been drowning.

The elevator rose. Sixty floors. Sixty-one. The pressure change pressed against her eardrums, her sinuses, the tender space behind her eyes. Her stomach rolled.

Ding. Sixty-eighth floor.

Claire straightened. She smoothed her skirt. She walked down the corridor with her chin up and her gaze fixed on the horizon line of windows at the far end. The women's restroom was on the left. She pushed through the door, checked the stalls-empty-and turned the deadbolt.

She made it to the last stall before her knees hit the tile.

The retching started immediately, violent and dry. There was nothing in her stomach. She hadn't eaten since lunch yesterday, before the gala, before the hotel, before everything. Acid burned her throat. Her abdominal muscles seized, and each contraction sent fresh agony through her pelvis, through the torn places the hot shower hadn't healed.

Tears streamed down her face. She didn't bother wiping them.

When the spasms finally stopped, Claire slumped against the partition. Her forehead rested against the cool metal. She closed her eyes, and the darkness behind her lids opened like a door.

She was seventeen again. The Stark Academy spring formal. She'd saved for three months to buy the thrift-store dress, to get her hair done at the mall salon. Jerrad Tyler had asked her to meet him by the fountain. She'd thought-

The memory cut in with perfect clarity. Jerrad with his arm around Ashton Stark's waist. Ashton's lip gloss shining under the string lights. The way they'd looked at her, at the dress that was already unraveling at the seam she'd tried to hide.

"Did you actually think he'd take you?" Ashton had asked. Her voice was honey and arsenic. "A charity case? A parasite living off the Tyler family's generosity?"

The wine had been red. Cabernet, probably. Expensive. It had hit Claire's chest and splashed up onto her chin, her throat, soaking through the thin fabric to her skin underneath. It had been cold. So cold.

"Stay away from our world," Ashton had whispered. "You don't belong here."

Claire's eyes snapped open. The bathroom stall smelled of industrial cleaner and her own sweat. She fumbled for her phone, her fingers clumsy. The screen lit up. One million dollars. Seven zeroes. Enough to buy Ashton Stark's entire wardrobe and burn it.

She laughed. The sound cracked in her throat.

She'd done it. She'd actually done it. She'd walked into that hotel room last night with her chin up and her heart hammering so hard she thought she'd pass out. She'd reached for his tie with hands that shook, trying to mimic the way she'd seen women do it in movies-slow, confident, dangerous.

Ellsworth Mosley had looked at her like she was transparent. Like he could see the terror underneath the mascara, the inexperience beneath the red lipstick. His eyes-God, his eyes-like birds of prey, like something that hunted from above and struck before you knew you were dying.

She'd thought she was hunting him. She'd thought she was the spider.

Claire pressed her hand against her mouth and tasted salt. She was going to be sick again.

Footsteps in the corridor. High heels. Someone tried the bathroom door, found it locked, moved on.

Claire wiped her face with toilet paper. She flushed. She stood at the sink and ran the water until it was ice cold, then splashed it against her cheeks, her neck, the hollow of her throat. The woman in the mirror looked like a corpse with good bone structure.

She found her compact. Her lipstick. The red she'd chosen specifically because it made her look like she ate men for breakfast. She applied it with surgical precision.

The mask was back in place when she unlocked the door.

Leo Chen stood in the hallway, a stack of folders under his arm, his phone pressed to his ear. When he saw her, his face went through three expressions in rapid succession-relief, anxiety, something else she couldn't read.

"Claire. Thank God." He ended his call without saying goodbye. "He's already here. He's been here since seven. He's tearing through the morning staff like a-" Leo stopped. His eyes narrowed. "Are you okay?"

"Fine." She took the folders from him. Her fingers didn't tremble. "Which meeting first?"

"Morgan Holdings at nine, but-Claire, he's asking for you specifically. He threw his coffee at the wall when I said you weren't in yet."

Her heart contracted. One hard squeeze, then nothing. "I'll handle it."

She walked toward the oak doors at the end of the corridor. The doors to Ellsworth Mosley's office. They looked like the gates of something biblical. Something you didn't come back from.

Her hand was steady when she knocked.