Married to the Coldest Media King

The rain had stopped by the time Dylan stepped out of the Brennan Media Tower, but the city was left slick and hostile. Puddles of oily water reflected the gray sky. A taxi splashed past, sending a spray of dirty water onto her shins. She flinched but didn't stop walking.

She pulled out her phone and checked her bank balance. Twelve dollars and forty cents. Not enough for an Uber to Brooklyn. Not even enough for a salad in this neighborhood.

She headed for the subway station, her heels clicking an uneven rhythm on the concrete.

Across the street, a black Maybach idled at the curb. The windows were tinted so dark they looked like ink. Inside, Javion Briggs watched Dylan descend the subway stairs. He tapped an earpiece.

Target is mobile. Heading to the L train, he said.

Understood, came Garland's voice, distorted by the transmission. Keep eyes on her.

The subway car smelled of wet wool and stale urine. Dylan found a seat in the corner, clutching her bag to her chest. A man across the aisle, swaying with intoxication, leered at her.

Smile, sweetheart, he slurred. It ain't that bad.

Dylan stared at him, her face a mask of ice. Va te faire foutre, she said in perfect, crisp French.

The man blinked, confused, and slumped back into his seat. It was a small victory, but it felt hollow.

An hour later, she unlocked the door to the apartment in Bushwick. It was a fourth-floor walk-up with peeling paint and a radiator that clanked like a dying engine. It was a far cry from the penthouse on Park Avenue where she had grown up, but it was the only place that would take cash without a credit check.

She stepped inside. The living room was a mess of takeout boxes and cheap fashion magazines. Tara Kowalski, her roommate, was sprawled on the sofa, painting her toenails a neon pink.

Tara had been a scholarship student at Dylan's prep school, a girl Dylan had once defended from bullies. Now, the dynamic had flipped. Tara relished seeing the princess in the mud.

You're back early, Tara said, not looking up. I guess the prince didn't want the frog.

Dylan ignored her, trying to walk past the sofa to her bedroom. Tara shot her leg out, blocking the path.

Don't ignore me, Dylan. I saw the news. Your dad got beat up in the yard today. They say he's crying like a baby.

Dylan froze. She felt a cold spike of fear in her chest. Move your leg, Tara.

Tara laughed and reached for her glass of wine. It was cheap red, acidic and staining. With a flick of her wrist, she tossed the contents of the glass at Dylan.

The wine splashed across the front of Dylan's beige trench coat. It looked like a gunshot wound.

Oops, Tara said, her eyes gleaming with malice. Clumsy me.

That coat was vintage Burberry. It was one of the few things Dylan had managed to save from the asset seizure.

Something inside Dylan snapped. The exhaustion, the humiliation, the fear-it all boiled over into a white-hot rage. She dropped her bag and lunged.

She grabbed Tara by the collar of her bathrobe and shoved her back against the cushions. Tara shrieked, the nail polish bottle flying from her hand.

You think this is funny? Dylan hissed, her face inches from Tara's. You think my life is a reality show for your entertainment?

Get off me! Tara screamed, clawing at Dylan's hands. I'll call the cops! I'll tell them the fraudster's daughter is attacking me!

The word cops hit Dylan like a bucket of ice water. She couldn't have a record. One arrest, and she would never pass the background check for the bar exam. She would never get her father out.

She let go of Tara as if she were burned. Dylan backed away, her chest heaving.

Tara scrambled up, grabbing her phone. I'm recording this! You're crazy! My cousin Jax is coming tomorrow to collect the rent. I'm going to tell him you tried to kill me. You better be ready to pay up, Dylan. Or maybe you can pay him in other ways.

Dylan felt the blood drain from her face. She knew about Jax. Everyone in the neighborhood knew about Jax. He was a low-level enforcer with a reputation for breaking fingers.

She turned and ran into her bedroom, slamming the door and engaging the flimsy lock. She dragged a chair under the doorknob.

Outside, Tara was still screaming insults, banging pots and pans.

Dylan stripped off the ruined coat. She went to the tiny sink in the corner of her room and tried to scrub the stain with club soda, her fingers rubbing the fabric until they were raw. The red wouldn't come out. It just spread, turning into a dull, ugly bruise on the fabric.

She sank to the floor, pulling her knees to her chest. The tears finally came, hot and silent. But after a moment, she wiped them away with the back of her hand. Crying was a luxury. It solved nothing. She crawled over to her backpack and pulled out an old, heavily encrypted laptop. It was her real lifeline. She booted it up, the screen glowing in the dark room. She wasn't just a victim hiding from a bully. She was a hunter. She typed in a password and began to scan the dark web for chatter about Brennan Group's latest acquisitions, looking for the digital breadcrumbs that always led back to insider trading. This was her true mission: not just to save her father, but to expose the corruption of the world that had destroyed him, starting with its king, Garland Brennan.

Her phone buzzed on the floor. A text message from an unknown number.

Stay quiet. We are evaluating.

Dylan stared at the screen. She thought it was a wrong number, or maybe a creditor trying to scare her. She deleted it.

She crawled into her narrow bed, reaching under the pillow to wrap her hand around the handle of a heavy-duty box cutter she kept there. It was her only security system.

Outside on the street, the black Maybach was still parked. Javion looked at the live feed on his tablet. He could hear Tara's screaming through a directional microphone.

He tapped the screen, drawing a red X over Tara's name.

Environment hostile, he typed. Threat level escalating.

A second later, a reply came from Garland.

Wait.