My Sister Stole the Wrong Billionaire

The Moran Group headquarters occupied forty-two floors of glass and steel in downtown Manhattan. Alexander had arranged everything before I even set foot inside — a corner office on the thirty-first floor, a salary that would make most college graduates weep, and a brass nameplate that read *Carmen Moran, Strategic Acquisitions Intern*.

I wasn't a Moran yet. He didn't seem to care about the distinction.

"Your access badge opens floors twenty-eight through thirty-five," his assistant had explained that morning, sliding a black keycard across the reception desk. "Mr. Moran asks that you review the Pruitt files before your three o'clock."

I tucked the badge into my coat pocket, right next to the folding knife I'd bought from a hardware store two days ago.

Old habits die hard. New habits die harder.

The interview was on the twenty-ninth floor. I took the elevator down, rehearsing nothing. I didn't need to impress anyone. Alexander had already signed off on the position. This was theater — a formality to make the HR department feel useful.

The hallway between the elevator bank and the conference room stretched long and windowless. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. My heels echoed against the linoleum.

I smelled the chloroform before I felt it.

Sweet. Chemical. Wrong.

A damp cloth clamped over my nose and mouth from behind. An arm locked around my ribs, crushing the air from my lungs. I thrashed — kicked backward, connected with a shin — but the drug was already seeping through my sinuses, thick and warm, pulling the world sideways.

My fingers scraped against the arm holding me. My vision tunneled.

The last thing I registered was the sound of a fire exit door swinging open, and then nothing.

---

Cold tile against my cheek. The stench of mildew and old urine. A dripping faucet somewhere to my left, each drop hitting standing water with a flat, dead sound.

I opened my eyes.

The ceiling was stained brown. Cracked tiles. A single bulb hanging from a frayed wire, swinging just enough to make the shadows crawl.

An abandoned restroom. Public, from the look of it — the kind attached to a park or a bus depot, the kind that cities forgot about and vagrants claimed. Two of the three stall doors hung off their hinges. The mirror above the sink was shattered, leaving jagged teeth of glass in the frame.

I pushed myself up on one elbow. My head pounded. My coat was still on, buttoned, untouched.

The knife was still in my pocket.

"Awake already?"

The voice came from the doorway. Low, amused, thick with an accent I couldn't place.

He stepped into the light.

Heavy face. Thick neck. A scar running from his left ear to the corner of his mouth, exactly like the photo on my phone. He was bigger in person — six-two, maybe six-three, with hands like catcher's mitts and a gut that strained against his stained undershirt.

He smiled at me. The scar pulled his lip into something grotesque.

"Pretty little thing," he said, unbuckling his belt. "Prettier than she described."

My stomach turned to ice. Not from fear. From recognition.

Those hands. That smell — cigarettes and cheap cologne and sweat. The same combination that had soaked into my orphanage mattress years ago in a life I'd already died from.

He wasn't the same man. But he was the same species.

"After I'm done with you, you can forget about being the Morans' daughter-in-law." He yanked the belt free and let it dangle from one fist. "The girl paid good money for pictures. Said I should take my time. Make it look real."

Hazel. Of course.

I sat up fully. My back pressed against the wet tile wall. My right hand slid into my coat pocket and closed around the knife's handle.

"She wanted photos," I said. My voice came out steady. Flat. "Of what, exactly?"

He laughed. A wet, rattling sound. "Of you underneath me, sweetheart. Clothes torn, mascara running, the whole show. One look at those and your little prince won't touch you with a ten-foot pole."

He took a step closer. His shadow swallowed the light above me.

"Hold still and it'll go faster."

Another step.

I didn't scream. Screaming was what the old Carmen would have done — the Carmen who believed someone would come, who trusted that the world had a bottom to its cruelty.

That Carmen died with hands around her throat.

This one carried a knife.

I flicked the blade open. The click echoed off the tile.

He paused. His eyes dropped to the steel in my hand, and his grin widened.

"What are you gonna do with that, little girl? Cut me?"

"No," I said.

I pressed the blade against my own forearm and dragged it down.

The pain hit like a white flash — sharp, electric, immediate. Blood welled up in a dark red line, then spilled over, running down my wrist, dripping onto my skirt, spattering the filthy floor.

The man's grin vanished.

I cut again. Deeper. A second line crossing the first. Blood soaked through my sleeve, smeared across my collar, ran down my fingers and onto the knife handle.

I smeared it across my cheek. My neck. The front of my blouse.

*Pain flared, sharp and metallic. Good. Blood was the only language this world understood. If they wanted a victim, I would give them a massacre.*

"What the fuck are you doing?!" He stumbled back a step, his belt hanging forgotten from his fist. "You crazy bitch — stop — that wasn't the deal —"

"The deal changed." I stood up. Blood ran freely down my arm and pattered against the tile. I raised the knife — not toward my skin this time. Toward him. The blade trembled, slick and red, catching the swinging light.

His face went white. Not from the knife. From the blood. From the amount of it. From the realization that the scene Hazel had paid for — a helpless girl, a compromising photo, a ruined reputation — had just turned into something that looked like attempted murder.

His attempted murder.

His DNA was on the chloroform rag. His fingerprints were on the door. And now his victim was standing in front of him drenched in her own blood, holding a weapon, looking like she'd fought for her life.

"You —" He pointed at me, his hand shaking. "You're insane."

"Run," I said.

From outside, muffled by the concrete walls, I heard it — footsteps. Multiple pairs. And a voice, high and frantic, performing panic like a Broadway understudy on opening night.

"In here! Oh God, hurry — she's in here! I saw a man drag her inside!"

Hazel.

She was early. She'd timed it to catch the aftermath — me pinned, clothes torn, the camera-phone evidence that would end my engagement in a single news cycle.

The man heard the voices too. He bolted for the back window, knocking a stall door off its remaining hinge as he scrambled through.

I didn't watch him go. I stood in the center of the restroom, blood dripping from my arm, the knife loose in my grip, and I waited.

The door slammed open.

Hazel burst through first, her face arranged in an expression of theatrical horror, mouth open, eyes wide, one hand clutching the arm of a Moran security guard behind her.

She saw the blood.

She saw the knife.

She saw my face — calm, cold, and smiling.

Her performance died in her throat. She froze in the doorway, one foot still raised mid-step, her rehearsed scream stuck somewhere between her lungs and her teeth.

I tilted my head.

"You're late, Hazel."