The velvet was slippery. Araminta's hands burned as she slid down, the thick fabric tearing at her palms. The makeshift rope ended five feet above the ground. She let go.
She landed hard in the rose bushes. Thorns tore through the thin fabric of the tracksuit, scratching her legs and arms. Pain shot up her ankle as she rolled onto the wet grass.
She bit her lip to keep from crying out.
Flashlight beams cut through the darkness near the house. "Check the perimeter!" a guard shouted.
Araminta scrambled to her feet, limping heavily. She kept to the shadows, moving toward the rear wall of the estate. She knew a spot where the ivy had loosened the bricks.
She clawed her way up the wall, her fingernails breaking against the stone. She tumbled over the top and hit the asphalt of the public road.
She was out. But she was bleeding, limping, and penniless.
She saw a figure walking a dog a hundred yards down the road. She limped toward them. "Please," she gasped. "Please, can I use your phone? My car broke down."
The stranger eyed her suspicious appearance but handed over the phone.
Araminta's fingers shook as she dialed the number.
One ring. Two rings. Three.
"Who is this?" A voice like gravel and ice.
"It's me. Araminta," she wheezed. "I want to make a deal."
Silence stretched on the line. "Where are you?"
"Route 9. Near the Doyle estate back gate."
"Wait."
The line went dead.
Ten minutes later, a black SUV with tinted windows screeched to a halt in front of her. The back window rolled down.
Elena Vance, Alfonse's executive assistant, looked at her with zero emotion. She held out a black velvet blindfold.
"Get in. Put this on."
Araminta climbed in. The leather seats were warm. She tied the blindfold over her eyes. Her world became darkness and the smell of the car's interior.
The drive took thirty minutes. When the car stopped, she could smell the ocean. Salty, sharp air.
Elena's hand was firm on her elbow, guiding her a few steps forward onto what felt like a smooth, stone floor. "You can stand here," Elena said, her voice echoing slightly. "Take it off."
Araminta pulled the blindfold down. She was standing in a massive living room with floor-to-ceiling glass walls overlooking a churning black ocean. It was a fortress of glass and steel perched on a cliff. Obsidian Manor.
Alfonse stood by the window. He was cleaning an antique pistol with a white cloth. He didn't turn around.
"You escaped," he said. "Faster than I expected."
Araminta stood tall, despite her limp and the mud on her face. "Doyle Industries is cooking their books for the tender bid tomorrow."
Alfonse turned slowly. He placed the gun on the table. The metal clicked against the glass. "Sit." He pointed the barrel of the gun vaguely at a sofa. "That information is worth a glass of water. Nothing more."
Araminta didn't sit. "I know how they do it. I know the offshore accounts they use to hide the losses. I can prove they are insolvent."
Alfonse raised an eyebrow. "What do you want? Money? Or do you want me to make Javen disappear?"
Araminta clenched her fists. "I want the Doyles to lose the bid tomorrow. And... I want you to marry me."
Elena, standing by the door, let out a sharp intake of breath.
Alfonse stared at her. Then he laughed. It wasn't a happy sound. He walked toward her, towering over her. He used the barrel of the gun to tilt her chin up. The cold metal pressed against her skin.
"Marry you? A cast-off played out by Javen Doyle?"
"I am the only one who knows where the Donaldson legacy funds are hidden," Araminta lied. Her voice didn't shake. "That money can help Wolfe Corp swallow half of Wall Street."
It was a gamble. A massive one.
Alfonse's eyes narrowed. They were dark, intelligent, and dangerous. "If you are lying to me, Araminta, I will throw you off this cliff myself. The sharks are hungry."
"Test the merchandise," she said. "I mean... the intel."
Alfonse tossed the gun onto the sofa. He reached out and grabbed her waist, pulling her flush against his hard body. The sudden contact knocked the breath out of her.
"I want the intel," he growled. "And I want you. But marriage? You haven't earned that."
He spun her around and shoved her toward a hallway.
"Go to the bathroom. Wash off the stench of Javen Doyle. If you can please me tonight... maybe I'll make the Doyles cry tomorrow."
Araminta stumbled, catching herself on the doorframe. She looked back at him. He was already pouring a drink, dismissing her.
She walked into the bathroom. It was larger than her old bedroom. She looked in the mirror. Her lip was split. Her hair was a rat's nest. Her eyes were wild.
She turned on the shower. As the steam rose, she peeled off the tracksuit. She was making a deal with the devil. But right now, the devil was the only one offering her a sword.
