Chapter 3

The Vesper Club smelled of money.

Not just cash, but old money. It smelled of mahogany, Cuban cigars, and secrets.

Harper stood in the manager's office. The man behind the desk was round, sweating, and looked like a toad in a silk suit.

"Phoenix, right?" He looked Harper up and down, his eyes lingering on the tight fabric of her suit. "You're the replacement. Our usual aerialist broke her ankle."

"What's the job?" Harper asked. Her voice was low, disguised.

He slid a piece of paper across the desk. "High wire. No net. Ten minutes. You fall, you die, we mop you up. You finish, you get the cash."

Harper looked at the waiver. It was basically a suicide note.

She signed it without a tremor in her hand.

"You're on in five."

The main hall of the club was cavernous. The ceiling was lost in shadow, three stories up. A single, thin steel cable stretched across the void, illuminated by a harsh spotlight.

The crowd below was a sea of faceless masks and tuxedos. They were baying for blood or entertainment; to them, it was the same thing.

Harper stepped onto the platform.

The wire looked impossibly thin.

She took a breath, centering herself. She focused on the rhythm of her own heart, a steady drum against the roaring silence. Balance.

She stepped out.

The wire bit into the soles of her specialized shoes. The air up here was hot, rising from the bodies below.

She began to walk.

One step. Two steps.

The crowd went silent.

Harper moved with a fluid grace that defied gravity. She wasn't just walking; she was dancing. She lifted her leg in a high extension, her spine arching. Her body was a machine, every muscle fiber firing in perfect synchronization.

High above the floor, in a private box fronted by one-way glass, a man sat in a wheelchair.

Finn Burke swirled the amber liquid in his glass. He wasn't watching the crowd. He was watching the girl on the wire.

He leaned forward, the leather of his chair creaking.

"Silas," he murmured.

His bodyguard stepped out of the shadows. "Sir?"

"Look at her right leg," Finn said, his voice a low rumble. "Look at the way the sartorius muscle engages when she pivots."

"I... I don't see it, sir."

"I do." Finn's eyes narrowed. "That's not a circus performer. That's someone with a deep, practical knowledge of anatomy."

On the wire, Harper prepared for the finale. A backward somersault.

She crouched, the wire trembling beneath her. She sprang.

For a second, she was weightless. The world spun-lights, darkness, the blur of faces.

Snap.

A sound like a gunshot echoed through the hall.

One of the tension bolts on the far platform sheared off. The wire went slack, dropping six inches instantly.

The crowd gasped.

Harper landed on the wire, but the sudden drop threw her center of gravity off. Her foot slipped.

She plummeted.

Her hand shot out, instinct faster than thought. She grabbed the wire. The steel cable sliced into her palm, but she held on. She swung wildly over the abyss, her legs dangling fifty feet above the marble floor.

In the VIP box, the glass in Finn's hand shattered. Whiskey and blood dripped onto the carpet. He didn't even blink. He was gripping the arms of his wheelchair so hard the wood groaned.

Harper gritted her teeth. Pain seared through her hand, warm blood making the cable slick. She used her core, swinging her legs up, hooking a knee over the wire. With a grunt of effort, she pulled herself back up to a standing position.

The crowd erupted. They thought it was part of the act.

Harper finished the walk, blood dripping from her hand, leaving small red dots on the pristine floor below.

She reached the platform and collapsed into the shadows of the curtains. Her chest was heaving. Her hand was throbbing in time with her heartbeat.

The manager was there, grinning, holding a thick envelope.

"Incredible! They loved it! The slip was a genius touch!"

Harper snatched the envelope with her good hand. "It wasn't a touch. Your equipment is garbage."

She turned to leave, pressing a cloth to her bleeding palm. She needed to get to the hospital. She needed to pay the deposit.

Two men in black suits stepped in front of the exit. They were built like vending machines.

"Not so fast, Miss Phoenix," one of them rumbled.

"I finished the job," Harper said, her muscles tensing for a fight.

"The owner wants to see you."

"I don't do private shows."

"It's not a request."