The Perfect Victim: Playing The Billionaire's Game

The ballroom of the Plaza Hotel was a sea of silk, diamonds, and fake laughter. It was Sloan's twenty-first birthday, but for the Upper East Side, it was just another arena.

Ashton wore a vintage black dress. It was three seasons old, but it fit her like a second skin. She stood near a pillar, holding a glass of water she pretended was vodka.

Charity entered with Isadore. She was clinging to his arm, flashing a diamond the size of a skating rink at every camera. Isadore looked bored. His body was stiff, leaning slightly away from her.

Charity spotted Ashton. Her smile turned into a baring of teeth. She whispered something to Brittany Pierce, her loyal lapdog.

Brittany marched over, holding a glass of red wine. "Ashton. Brave of you to show up. Is that the same dress you wore to the spring formal? I guess the dry cleaners are too expensive now."

A few people nearby tittered.

Ashton didn't blink. "Fashion is cyclical, Brittany. Unlike your personality, which has been trash since kindergarten."

Brittany's face flushed. She raised her glass, clearly intending to 'trip.'

Sloan stepped in, catching Brittany's wrist. "Don't even think about it."

Charity glided over. "Ladies, please. Ashton, if you need money for clothes, just ask. I know you're desperate. I heard you were begging for a place to sleep last night."

The circle of listeners gasped. The implication was clear: Ashton was selling herself.

Isadore was standing ten feet away, talking to a senator. He stopped. He turned his head, listening.

Ashton stepped closer to Charity. She dropped her voice to a whisper that cut through the noise. "You're so worried about last night. Is it because you realized money can buy a ring, but it can't buy his interest?"

Charity's mask cracked. Her eyes widened in genuine rage.

Ashton stepped back and raised her voice. "You think Isadore Grimes is a god? I bet I can make him lose control tonight."

"You're delusional," Brittany spat. "He hates you."

"Watch me," Ashton said.

She turned and walked toward the terrace doors. She passed Isadore. She didn't look at him. She didn't stop. But she trailed a hand along the back of a velvet chair near him, leaving a scent of rain and cedar-the same scent that was on his shirt this morning.

Isadore's nostrils flared. His eyes tracked her exit.

Charity saw the look. Panic flared in her chest.

Ashton stepped onto the terrace. The air was freezing. She walked to the railing, looking down at the dark garden below.

"Thought you could run?"

Ashton turned. Carter was there. He was drunk, swaying slightly, blocking the door. Charity must have let him in.

"Get out of my way, Carter," Ashton said, backing up.

"You ruined my reputation," Carter slurred, stepping closer. "You owe me."

Ashton glanced at the glass doors. She saw Isadore's silhouette approaching.

She moved. She didn't run past Carter. She climbed onto the stone railing.

It was reckless. A thirty-foot drop.

"What are you doing?" Carter yelled, sobering up instantly. "Get down, you psycho!"

Ashton stood on the ledge, the wind whipping her dress. She looked at the glass door. She saw Isadore's hand hit the handle.

She wasn't going to jump. But she needed Isadore to think she might. She needed to know if the machine had a heart, or at least, a liability clause.