Pain was the first reality, a brutal, pounding truth that hammered the world back into existence.
Jason's head felt like a shattered vase, crudely glued back together. A deep, throbbing ache pulsed behind his eyes with every beat of his heart. He tried to take a deep breath and a sharp, stabbing pain in his side stole the air from his lungs. Broken ribs.
He forced his eyes open.
He was not in a gutter. He was not in a hospital ward. He was in his own bed in the Fifth Avenue mansion, the silk sheets smelling faintly of antiseptic.
A man he didn't recognize, a doctor with a stern face and a neat black bag, was packing away his instruments. "He's awake," the doctor said, not to Jason, but to someone else in the room.
Alta was standing by the window, a rigid silhouette against the morning light. She was not wringing her hands. She was not hovering with concern. She was simply… watching.
She approached the bed, her movements as controlled as ever. "The doctor says you have a severe concussion and two broken ribs. He says you will recover."
Her tone was that of a CEO assessing a damaged but valuable piece of machinery.
She held out a small, silver hand mirror. He took it, his hand trembling slightly. In the reflection, he saw the stranger's face—Ezra's face—pale and bruised. A stark, clinical white bandage was wrapped around his head, covering a line of fresh stitches near his temple.
He looked like a victim. The thought filled him with a cold, black rage.
Alta placed a newspaper on the nightstand beside him. "This was in the morning edition."
He scanned the page. It was a small column, buried on page three, beneath a story about a society wedding. The headline read: Lawyer Foils Robbery on Side Street.
"They found your wallet, but not your watch," Alta said, her eyes meeting his over the folded paper. "It was a common robbery, the police believe. A random act of violence."
The unspoken message was a deafening scream: We both know that's a lie.
He tried to sit up, a sharp gasp of pain escaping his lips. His body was broken, but his mind was crystal clear. The panic and helplessness of his past life, the fear that had defined his final days as Jason Underwood, were gone.
They had been burned away and replaced by a single, simmering thought.
Revenge.
As soon as the doctor had been quietly shown out, Jason swung his legs out of bed. Every movement was a fresh wave of agony. A wave of dizziness washed over him, and he had to brace himself against the bedpost.
Alta watched him, her expression unreadable. "You should rest," she said. It was a flat statement of fact.
"Weakness is a luxury I can't afford," he bit out, fighting to keep his voice steady. He pushed himself away from the bed and staggered toward Ezra's study, a room that was now his own.
He sat heavily in the desk chair, the pain in his ribs making him clench his jaw. He had seen a small, black address book in the desk drawer a few days ago, a book given to him by Rockefeller's personal secretary. It was supposed to be for family contacts.
He found it and flipped through the pages. It contained only a handful of telephone numbers, most with initials instead of names. One stood out. Just a single letter. "G."
He picked up the telephone, his hand pale against the black of the receiver. He gripped it so tightly he thought the bakelite might crack under the strain. He gave the number to the operator.
The line connected on the first ring. A man with a gravelly, nondescript voice answered with a single word.
"Yes."
Jason didn't waste time on pleasantries. "This is Prentice."
He took a ragged breath, the pain in his side a sharp reminder of his purpose. "Find Augustus Heinze. He cannot have gone far. He is a ruined man with limited resources."
His voice was a low, dangerous rasp. "I want eyes on him at all times. Do not let him leave the city. Do not engage. Just watch him."
He wasn't lashing out blindly. He wasn't a thug looking for a street fight. He was a predator, calmly and methodically setting a trap.
There was a brief pause on the other end of the line, a moment of silent evaluation. Then the calm, professional reply that sent a chill down Jason's spine.
"Consider it done, Mr. Prentice."
Jason hung up the phone. The click echoed in the silent room. He now knew, with absolute certainty, that he had been given access to a power far darker and more direct than money.
The pain suddenly became too much. A wave of nausea and dizziness hit him, and the room began to spin. He stumbled, catching himself on the edge of the desk, a low groan escaping his lips.
Alta was there. She moved with a surprising swiftness, her touch firm and steady as she took his arm and guided him back toward the bedroom. The physical proximity was new, awkward, and charged with unspoken questions.
She helped him back into bed, her movements efficient and impersonal, like a nurse tending to a patient, not a wife to a husband. She retrieved a glass of water and a small white pill—the pain medication the doctor had left—from the nightstand.
She held them out to him. As he reached for the glass, his eyes locked with hers.
"Why are you helping me?" he asked, his voice a low rasp.
She didn't look away. Her reply was as cold and brutal as a winter morning.
"You are a valuable asset to my father," she said. "You are making this family stronger in a way my brother never could. An injured asset is a liability to the portfolio."
It wasn't a confession of affection. It was a statement of investment. It was the language of their world.
For some reason, her brutal honesty was more comforting than a lie about love would have been. It was real. It was dependable. It was a currency he understood.
His gaze flickered to her mother's journal, which she had placed on his nightstand within his reach. The weapon they had used together to ruin Charles Barney. He realized the attack wasn't just a personal vendetta. It was a counter-move in the great game.
"He didn't just attack me," Jason said, the realization hardening his voice. "He attacked one of my father's investments. He attacked this family."
Alta met his gaze. And for the first time, he saw a flicker of something in her cold blue eyes that looked like agreement. Like kinship.
"Yes," she said, her voice as sharp and final as a slamming vault door. "He did. And this family always collects its debts."