The Rolls-Royce crawled through midtown traffic, trapped between a delivery truck and a taxi whose driver was shouting into his phone in a language Faith didn't recognize. Neon from a Duane Reade pharmacy flickered across the tinted windows, painting her beige coat in sickly pink light.
She watched a Long Island Rail Road sign flash past-Penn Station, 2 blocks-and something in her chest twisted.
Fourteen years ago, she'd stood on a platform just like it. Seventeen years old, wearing black that didn't fit, holding a suitcase with everything she owned. The social worker's hand had been sweaty on her elbow. "The Jarvis family has offered to take you in, Faith. They're very important people. Very generous."
The funeral had been that morning. Closed casket because of the damage. Her parents' Honda had folded like paper around the telephone pole, and somewhere in the chaos of emergency rooms and police questions, Faith had learned that important people could make problems disappear. Including the problem of a teenage girl with no relatives and a small life insurance policy that wouldn't cover four years of college.
Eleanor Jarvis had waited at the top of the Long Island estate's main staircase, backlit by windows that cost more than Faith's childhood home. She'd descended slowly, each step deliberate, her heels clicking against marble that had been imported from the same quarry as the lobby downstairs.
"Margaret's daughter," Eleanor had said, not a greeting but an assessment. Her fingers-cold, manicured, smelling of gardenias-had lifted Faith's chin. "You'll need to learn our rules. The Jarvis name opens doors, but it also invites scrutiny. You will be grateful. You will be appropriate. You will never embarrass us."
Faith had nodded because nodding was safer than speaking. She'd been installed in a bedroom with a canopy bed and a bathroom larger than her parents' kitchen, and she'd learned to be still. To be quiet. To disappear into the background of rooms where decisions were made about her life without her participation.
The estate had a painting studio in the north wing, abandoned by some aunt who'd died before Faith arrived. She'd found it on her third day, pushing open a door that stuck in humid weather, and discovered windows that faced the stables instead of the formal gardens.
She'd been there a week later when the door banged open.
Branson Jarvis had been eighteen, home from Le Rosey for winter break, still wearing his riding boots. He'd stopped in the doorway, surveyed the drop cloths and turpentine-stained rags, and his lip had curled.
"Mother's new stray," he'd said. "Making a mess already."
Faith had frozen, brush in hand, red paint dripping onto the floorboards. She'd known who he was. Everyone knew who he was-the heir, the prince, the future of everything.
"Do you know what that wood costs?" He'd stepped closer, close enough that she could smell horse and expensive soap. "More than your entire existence, I'd wager. Pick it up."
She'd set down her brush. She'd knelt on the floor-her only pair of black tights, already too small-and wiped at the paint with her sleeve. It had spread, pink now, smearing across grain that probably did cost more than her mother's car.
Branson had watched her, arms crossed, that curl still on his lip. "Cheap pet," he'd said finally. "At least you're trainable."
He'd walked out. She'd stayed on her knees until the paint dried and she couldn't wipe anymore.
The Rolls-Royce jerked to a stop. Faith's hand shot out, catching herself against the seat back.
"My apologies, Mrs. Jarvis." Gus's voice was strained. "Taxi cut across without signaling."
Faith's heart hammered against her ribs. She could still smell the turpentine. Still feel the floorboards hard against her knees.
"Mrs. Jarvis?" Holly's hand hovered near her elbow, not quite touching. "You're pale. Should I ask Gus to pull over? Do you need-"
"I'm fine."
The word came out sharp. Faith reached for her bag, found her makeup case by touch, and pulled out the lipstick she hadn't worn in three years. It was red-aggressive, demanding, the color Eleanor had forbidden as "vulgar."
She clicked open the mirror on the back of the compact. Her face looked strange in the small rectangle, unfamiliar without its usual careful neutrality. She traced the bullet across her lower lip, then her upper, pressing them together to even the color.
The woman in the mirror looked like she could start fires.
"Mrs. Jarvis-" Holly started.
"We're close."
The financial district rose around them, buildings shearing upward until they blocked the sky. Faith watched them grow, glass and steel canyons where men like Branson made decisions that moved economies. His kingdom. His territory.
She'd never invaded it before. Had never needed to-Branson came home when he chose, or didn't, and she'd learned not to ask questions.
The Rolls-Royce turned onto Wall Street. The Jarvis Group tower loomed ahead, all black glass and aggressive angles, the company logo rendered in brushed steel above doors that required key cards and biometric scans.
Gus pulled to the curb. A security guard in a navy blazer spotted the license plate and started forward, already reaching for the door handle.
Faith didn't wait. She pushed open her own door and stepped onto the pavement, her cheap coat flaring in the wind that tunneled between buildings. The cold cut through the cotton lining, but she didn't shiver.
She looked up. Seventy-three stories of Branson's ambition, his empire, his carefully constructed invulnerability.
Her lips curved. It felt strange, that movement-muscles she'd trained into permanent pleasantness, finally allowed their true expression.
"Mrs. Jarvis?" Holly had scrambled out behind her, clutching the envelopes. "Your lawyer-he's supposed to meet us in the lobby-"
"I see him."
Julian Vance stood by the building's entrance, navy suit immaculate, silver tie precisely knotted. He held a briefcase in one hand and checked his watch with the other, the picture of Wall Street punctuality.
He saw her coming. His eyebrows rose-just a millimeter, the only crack in his professional composure-and then he was moving forward, hand extended.
"Mrs. Jarvis." His grip was dry and brief. "Shall we?"
Faith took his arm. Together they walked toward the glass doors, toward the empire, toward the man who'd spent fourteen years convincing himself she was too grateful to ever leave.
