Gustaf left the estate at noon for "physical therapy."
Alys knew he was going to a board meeting in a safe house.
She opened her laptop in the greenhouse. The keylogger had done its job. She had his password.
Access Granted.
Alys didn't look at Greer Industries files. She looked for Elena.
She traced her offshore accounts. And she found it.
The Debutante Ball.
Tonight. The Plaza Hotel. Brisa was being presented to society. The guest list was full of potential investors Elena was trying to seduce to cover the holes in the Flores accounts.
"Perfect," Alys whispered.
She hacked into the hotel's network, not the guest list. She didn't add names; she added vulnerabilities. She added three names to the media alert system: The most vicious tabloid journalists in the city.
Then she accessed the official invitation sent to the Greer estate. She simply RSVP'd 'Yes' for two, adding a note requesting special wheelchair access at the main entrance, ensuring their arrival would be a spectacle.
The door to the greenhouse beeped.
Alys slammed the laptop shut.
Gustaf rolled in. He looked at Alys, then at the computer. The screen was black, but the fan was whirring.
He wheeled over and touched the casing. It was warm.
He looked at Alys. He didn't ask.
He tossed a velvet box onto her lap.
"Put it on. We're going out."
Alys opened the box. A diamond necklace. Heavy, gaudy, old-fashioned. It was a collar.
She put it on.
The Plaza ballroom was a sea of pastel silk and fake smiles.
When Alys wheeled Gustaf onto the red carpet, the air changed. The cameras turned away from Brisa.
"Is that the sister?"
"Is that Gustaf Greer?"
They were the freaks. The spectacle.
Brisa saw them. Her face twisted. She marched over, holding a glass of red wine.
"You shouldn't be here," she hissed, leaning in to hug Alys. "You look like a dog wearing a crown."
Brisa pulled back. She stumbled, "accidentally" tipping her glass toward Alys's white dress.
Alys saw it coming a mile away.
She didn't step back. She pivoted. She rotated her hip, bumping Brisa's arm.
The wine didn't hit Alys. It splashed all over Gustaf's lap.
The ballroom went silent.
Brisa gasped. She had just soaked the most powerful man in New York.
Gustaf looked down at his ruined trousers. Then he looked at Brisa. His eyes were dead sharks.
Alys pulled a handkerchief from her clutch. She knelt, frantically dabbing at his legs.
Under the fabric, she pinched his thigh. Hard. Play along.
Gustaf looked at Alys. A flicker of amusement crossed his face.
"Miss Flores," he said, his voice carrying across the silent room. "Your hospitality is as cheap as your wine."
Hector Flores ran over, sweating. "Mr. Greer, please, she didn't mean-"
"We're leaving," Gustaf said.
Alys wheeled him out.
In the private lounge, Gustaf stood up. He grabbed a towel and wiped his pants.
"You did that on purpose," he said.
Alys walked to the mirror. The steam from the adjacent bathroom clouded the glass.
She wrote with her finger: Oops.
Gustaf stared at the word. Then he looked at Alys.
"You're dangerous," he said.
Alys smiled. He had no idea.
