The IV came out with a sting and a bloom of dark red blood. Ainsley pressed a cotton ball against it, securing it with a piece of tape she found on the tray.
"This is crazy," Annie whispered, but she was handing Ainsley her jeans. They were stiff with dried blood from the accident. Ainsley pulled them on, wincing as the fabric rubbed against her bruised hip.
"Crazy is staying here waiting to be deported," Ainsley said.
They took the fire stairs. Ainsley's head swam with every step, a nauseating tilt-a-whirl, but she focused on the metal railing, the cold steel under her palm.
Annie's car was a dented Toyota Corolla that smelled of vanilla air freshener and old fast food. It was the most comforting thing Ainsley had encountered in two days.
Ainsley slumped into the passenger seat as Annie navigated the chaotic Manhattan traffic.
"Why are we going to him?" Annie asked, merging onto the Long Island Expressway. "He hates you."
"I need to see his eyes," Ainsley said. "I need to see the man I'm up against."
Ainsley pulled out Annie's phone and typed Carson Eaton into the search bar.
The photos loaded. He was striking. High cheekbones, dark hair, a mouth that looked like it rarely smiled. But it was his eyes that held Ainsley. In the older photos, they were piercing blue. In the recent ones, they were covered by dark glasses.
Eaton Heir Blinded in Genetic Tragedy, the headline read. The Blind Prophet of Wall Street.
Blind.
Ainsley stared at the screen. A strange, heavy feeling settled in her chest. Not pity. Strategy. A blind king is still a king, but his senses are different. His defenses are different. This was a variable Ainsley could use.
"We're here," Annie said, her voice tight.
Ainsley looked up. Iron gates loomed ahead, taller than the car. Security cameras blinked red eyes at them.
"We can't drive in," Ainsley said. "They'll turn us away."
She scanned the perimeter. A delivery truck with a catering logo was idling near a service entrance about fifty yards down the road.
"Pull over there," Ainsley pointed. "Behind those hedges."
"You're going to break in?" Annie squeaked.
"It's my house, Annie. I'm just... taking the scenic route."
Ainsley got out. The wind was biting, cutting through her thin t-shirt and the torn denim jacket. She wrapped her arms around herself and ran toward the service entrance.
The truck began to move. Ainsley waited until it passed the gate, then slipped through the gap before the heavy iron bars could close.
She was inside.
The estate was massive. A sprawling lawn that looked manicured with nail scissors. Ainsley stuck to the shadows of the tall hedges, moving quickly, ignoring the screaming protest of her muscles.
She heard voices.
She followed the sound to a glass structure on the east side of the main house. A solarium.
She crouched behind a large rhododendron bush, the leaves scratching her face.
Through the glass, she saw him.
He was sitting in a wheelchair, facing away from her. His posture was rigid.
And standing in front of him, pouring tea from a silver pot, was Kirstie.
Ainsley held her breath.
