The guest room was cold. It was decorated in muted beiges and creams, impersonal and stiff.
The moment the maid closed the door, Heda locked it.
She ripped the burner phone from her bag. A red alert flashed on the screen.
WARNING: Counter-attack on short position. Source IP masked.
Roxy's text followed: They are squeezing us, Heda. I can't hold the line from here. I need the server access.
Heda cursed. She needed an untraceable connection. The Wi-Fi here was monitored; Gustavus would see every keystroke.
She stripped off the pink suit, kicking it into the corner. She pulled on her faded jeans and a grey hoodie. She opened the french doors to the balcony.
She knew the layout. She had studied the blueprints of this house for three years before she ever met Gustavus.
She swung her legs over the railing, finding the sturdy trellis hidden by the ivy. She climbed down, silent as a shadow.
She avoided the main drive, slipping through the blind spot of the perimeter cameras near the rose garden. She headed for the old, dilapidated boathouse at the edge of the property, a place no one had visited in years.
Inside, hidden beneath a loose floorboard, was a Pelican case. She opened it, revealing a satellite modem and a ruggedized laptop. This was her real office.
Her fingers were a blur. She routed her connection through three different countries. She saw the buy orders-clumsy, aggressive. Someone was trying to artificially inflate the stock.
Not today.
She executed a complex algorithm, a "ladder attack" that made it look like the market was losing faith. The stock dipped. Then it dived.
She locked in the profit.
Heda exhaled, leaning back against the damp wood. She checked the trace. The counter-attack IP... it ended in .eng.grp. It was coming from inside the house.
She packed up, her heart rate finally slowing. She was hungry. A sandwich. She needed a sandwich.
She slipped out of the estate through a break in the fence she'd created months ago and walked into the small, exclusive village of East Hampton.
She walked out of a small deli, blinking in the afternoon sun, a sandwich wrapper crinkling in her hand.
A black Bentley rolled up to the curb, silent and menacing. It cut off her path.
The back window rolled down.
Gustavus sat in the shadows. His face was a mask of fury.
Heda froze.
Gustavus got out. He didn't care about the tourists watching. He marched up to her, backing her against the quaint, shingled wall of the deli.
"Who gave you permission to leave the estate?" he hissed.
"I... I have an online class," Heda stammered, hugging her tote bag which now held her laptop. "It's required. If I miss the submission deadline, I get expelled."
Gustavus snatched the bag from her. He ripped the zipper open.
He pulled out a textbook. Principles of Macroeconomics. It was dog-eared and used.
He laughed, tossing it back at her. "Macroeconomics? You? What's the point? You think you're going to work on Wall Street?"
"I just want to get a good job," Heda whispered, looking at her shoes. "To pay you back."
The anger in Gustavus's eyes faltered. It was replaced by a smug satisfaction. She was trying to pay him back. She was pathetic.
"You are my wife. My asset. You go where I say you go."
He grabbed her arm, dragging her toward the car. "Get in. We have a charity gala tonight."
"But I don't have a dress..."
"I'll have one sent. Now."
He shoved her into the backseat.
As the car pulled away, Heda looked out the rear window.
Standing across the street, exiting a boutique with a shopping bag in hand, was a man in a casual suit.
Caspian.
He was smiling. A knowing, shark-like smile. He lifted his hand in a small, mocking wave.
Heda felt the blood drain from her face. He had seen her. He had seen her being manhandled into Gustavus's car.
Gustavus saw her shiver. "Save the tears," he said coldly. "You have a performance tonight."
