The Fake Heiress: Captured By Her Warden

The door of the stretch limousine clicked shut, sealing out the noise of the sirens. The interior was silent, smelling of leather and conditioned air.

The car began to move.

Eleanor had passed out from the emotional overload. She slumped against the window, her hand still gripping Vesper's wrist.

Arthur Sterling stared at Vesper. The loving father mask dropped instantly.

He reached into the side compartment and pulled out a small, gold-plated pistol. He pointed it at Vesper's knee.

"Who are you?" Arthur asked. His voice was calm, business-like. "Not what you were. What have you become?"

Vesper didn't flinch. Her training screamed at her to disarm him-a simple wrist lock, a twist, and the gun would be hers. But Cassandra Sterling wouldn't know how to do that.

She shrank back into the leather seat. "Please," she whimpered. "I... I owed money. Bad people. They were going to kill me. I just needed to get away, to come home."

"You broke into Sotheby's," Arthur said flatly. "I saw the security feed before they sealed it. The person in the vents had the build of a gymnast. That's not a junkie."

"I know where the real leverage against our competitors is," Vesper lied, switching tactics. She had to give him something he wanted, something that explained her new, dangerous skills.

The gun barrel wavered. Just a fraction of an inch.

"What?" Arthur whispered.

"I saw things, heard things," Vesper said rapidly, pulling details from the general corporate espionage database she had memorized years ago. "About the Van Horn acquisitions. There's a second ledger... a ghost account in D.C."

It was a generic guess. Most corrupt corporations had ghost accounts.

The car slammed on its brakes.

"Sir," the driver's voice came over the intercom. "Police roadblock. Commander... no, it's Bishop. He ordered a secondary sweep."

Vesper looked out the tinted window. Blue lights flashed ahead. Harding hadn't given up. He knew. His gut was screaming at him that he had let the fox go.

Arthur looked at the roadblock. He looked at his sleeping wife. He looked at the gun in his hand.

"If I give you to them," Arthur said, "Eleanor wakes up in a psych ward. Again."

"And you never find out about that ghost account," Vesper added softly.

It was blackmail. It was cruel. It was effective.

Arthur put the gun away. "If you lie to me, I will bury you myself."

He rolled down the window as Harding approached.

"Mr. Sterling," Harding said, leaning in. His eyes scanned the interior. They landed on Vesper. "I need prints. Now."

"Do you have a warrant?" Arthur asked.

"I have probable cause."

"You have a hunch," Arthur sneered. "And you're harassing a grieving family. Remember who signs your checks, Bishop."

Harding reached through the window. He grabbed Vesper's arm.

Vesper screamed. It was a sharp, piercing sound.

Eleanor woke up thrashing. "Get off her! Get off her!"

She clawed at Harding's arm. Her nails raked across his skin, drawing blood.

"Christ!" Harding yanked his arm back.

"Drive!" Arthur yelled at the driver. "Run it!"

The engine roared. The limousine swerved around the wooden barricade, tires screeching.

Harding stood in the middle of the road, watching the taillights fade. He looked down at the scratch on his hand. He licked the blood off his knuckle.

Inside the car, the silence returned. Heavier this time.

"You are Cassandra Sterling," Arthur said, staring straight ahead. "Until I get a DNA test. You don't speak unless spoken to. You don't leave the house."

"Understood," Vesper said.

"Bathroom is in the back," Arthur said. "Clean yourself up. You smell like a sewer."

Vesper went into the tiny bathroom. She locked the door. She leaned against the sink, shaking.

She reached into her smock. She pulled out the yellow rubber glove she had retrieved from the bucket before leaving the closet. Inside was the Crimson Agate.

She couldn't keep it in her pocket. They would search her. The bullet wound on her shoulder was still weeping. It was the perfect, gruesome hiding place.

She opened the first-aid kit in the medicine cabinet. She found a sterile packet. She carefully unwrapped her makeshift bandage, exposing the angry red graze. Taking a deep breath, she retrieved the Agate, now sealed in a small, biocompatible pouch she'd prepared, and tucked it deep into the fleshy part of the wound. She then covered it with a fresh, thick gauze pad.

The pain was blinding, but it was secure. A strip search would reveal a wound, not a ten-million-dollar ledger.

It was a hard, cold lump under her skin.

Ten million dollars, sitting in her flesh.

The car turned onto the tarmac of a private airfield. The Sterling jet was waiting.

Vesper stepped out of the car. The wind whipped her hair. She looked back at the city lights.

Her phone vibrated. A text from Cipher.

Harding Bishop just filed for cross-state jurisdiction, citing corporate asset recovery. He knows you're on the plane. Good luck, Vesper.

Vesper boarded the plane. She was trading a prison cell for a gilded cage.