Harrison woke up with a headache that felt like a drill boring into his temple.
The sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows was offensive. He squinted, sitting up on the Italian leather sofa.
"Helena?" he croaked. "Where's the aspirin?"
Silence.
Then, the memory of the night before hit him. The flash. The ring in the champagne.
Sienna walked out of the kitchen. She was wearing one of Helena's silk robes. It was too tight across her chest.
"This coffee machine is impossible," she complained. "It has too many buttons."
Harrison rubbed his face. He walked to the hallway, needing to clear his head. He stopped in front of the mirror.
KEYS ON THE TABLE. The red lipstick looked like a wound across the glass.
Sienna came up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist. "Good riddance. Now we have the place to ourselves."
Harrison pushed her away. He walked to the closet. It was half empty. But the expensive things-the things that signaled status-were all still there.
"She didn't take anything?" he muttered. He felt a surge of irritation. It was insulting. As if his money, the Vincent money, meant nothing to her.
He grabbed his phone and dialed his mother.
"She's lost her mind," he told Evelyn. "She threw the ring in a drink."
"Don't worry, darling," Evelyn's voice was crisp. "She's a nobody from nowhere. She needs the Vincent name. Give her seventy-two hours. Once she realizes she can't afford her rent, she'll come crawling back."
"Seventy-two hours," Harrison repeated. He liked the sound of that. It gave him a timeline. A deadline for her groveling.
Helena sat at an outdoor table at a bistro in Midtown. The wind was brisk, but the sun was warm.
She was eating spaghetti aglio e olio with double red pepper flakes. Harrison hated garlic. He hated spice. He said it was "peasant food."
It tasted like victory.
Her phone vibrated on the table. Harrison (5 missed calls).
She blocked the number.
"Hey," Whitney said, pointing her fork across the street. "That car has been there for ten minutes."
Helena looked up. Across the avenue, a black Maybach S680 was idling at the curb. The windows were tinted so dark they looked like ink.
A chill ran down Helena's spine. That wasn't a normal car. That was a tank disguised as luxury.
"Maybe it's Harrison," Whitney said nervously.
"Harrison drives a Porsche," Helena said. "He can't afford a Maybach. That car costs more than his annual allowance."
She wiped her mouth with a napkin. "I'm going to check."
"Helena, no!" Whitney hissed.
Helena stood up. She smoothed her trench coat and walked across the street. Her heels clicked rhythmically on the asphalt.
The car didn't move. The engine purred, a low, menacing rumble.
Helena stopped at the rear passenger window. She knocked on the glass.
For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, the window slid down just an inch.
She couldn't see a face. The interior was shadowed. But she saw eyes.
Dark grey. Cold. Intelligent.
She recognized them instantly. The man from the bathroom.
Her hand went to her pocket, but the cufflink wasn't there. It was in Whitney's junk drawer.
"Dr. Hensley," a voice came from the darkness. It was the same rasp, but stronger now. "We meet again."
Helena's heart hammered against her ribs. He knew her name.
