The door to the tenement room flew open. It hit the wall with a crack that shook dust from the ceiling.
Jason stood in the doorway, chest heaving.
"Sarah!"
Silence answered him.
The room was empty.
It was a tiny, windowless box on the fourth floor. An iron bed frame, a washbasin, a wooden chair. That was it.
Jason stepped inside. The floorboards creaked under his expensive shoes.
"Sarah, we have to go. The train leaves in an hour. I have the tickets."
He looked around wildly. The bed was stripped. The closet door stood open, revealing nothing but darkness.
She was gone.
Panic, cold and sharp, spiked in his chest.
He rushed to the small table by the bed.
The envelope was there.
The thick brown envelope he had given her in the alley. It was sitting right in the center of the pillow.
Jason grabbed it. It was still sealed. The money was untouched.
His hands shook as he tore it open. Maybe there was a note inside. Maybe she had left a message in their code.
Nothing. Just stacks of twenty-dollar bills.
She hadn't run away. A desperate woman doesn't leave five thousand dollars behind.
Someone had taken her. Or someone had forced her to leave without packing.
Jason spun around. He scanned the room for signs of a struggle. A overturned chair. A broken glass. Blood.
There was nothing. It was clean. Too clean.
He sniffed the air.
Beneath the smell of stale cabbage and mildew, there was something else. Faint, but distinct.
The acrid, sweet smell of cheap Turkish tobacco.
Gates.
Jason crumpled the envelope in his fist. He wanted to scream. He wanted to tear the building down brick by brick.
Gates hadn't just threatened her. He had moved her. He had taken the only thing Jason cared about and hidden it on the chessboard.
Jason checked his pocket watch.
7:45 PM.
He had to be uptown in forty-five minutes. The Rockefeller Gala. The biggest social event of the season. If he didn't show up, Alta would ask questions. If he showed up looking like a maniac, Alta would ask questions.
He was trapped.
He shoved the money into his coat pocket. He turned and ran out of the room, down the dark, twisting stairs of the tenement, into the night that felt like it was closing in on his throat.
The ballroom of the Rockefeller Mansion on 54th Street was a galaxy of electric light.
Three enormous crystal chandeliers hung from the gold-leaf ceiling. They cast a brilliant, unforgiving glare on the hundreds of guests below.
Diamonds glittered on every neck. Champagne flowed like water. A string quartet played Mozart in the corner, but the music was drowned out by the polite roar of gossip and deal-making.
Jason stood near the entrance. He was wearing a tuxedo that cost more than the tenement building he had just left.
He smiled. He shook hands. He nodded at the right moments.
Inside, he was screaming.
Where is she? Is she hurt? Is she alive?
His eyes darted around the room, scanning the faces of the waiters, the musicians, the guests. He was looking for Gates. He was looking for a sign.
"Ezra."
A hand slipped through his arm.
Jason flinched, then forced his muscles to relax. He turned.
Alta stood beside him. She was magnificent. She wore a gown of deep emerald silk that matched her eyes. A necklace of pearls—real ones, heavy and lustrous—rested against her throat.
She wasn't looking at him. She was scanning the room, assessing the social hierarchy like a general surveying a battlefield.
"You're sweating," Alta said quietly. She kept a pleasant smile plastered on her face for the benefit of the onlookers.
"It's warm in here," Jason lied.
"It's perfectly temperate," Alta corrected. She turned to him. Her eyes were sharp, analytical. "You look like you've seen a ghost. Is there a problem with the Ford deal?"
"No," Jason said. "The deal is signed. It's done."
"Then stop looking like a fugitive," she whispered. Her grip on his arm tightened. "This is our victory lap, Ezra. Father is watching. Junior is watching. Do not embarrass me."
"I won't," Jason said. "I just need a drink."
"Good. Senator Aldrich is waving at us. He wants to talk about the tariff bill. Smile."
Jason smiled. It felt like his face was cracking.
They walked into the crowd. Jason spent the next twenty minutes nodding as a fat Senator droned on about wool imports. Jason didn't hear a word. His heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
Waiters circulated through the crowd, carrying silver trays laden with crystal flutes of champagne and red wine.
Jason reached out to grab a glass from a passing tray. He needed the alcohol to steady his hands.
The tray stopped in front of him.
The hand holding the silver platter was trembling.
It was a small hand. Red. Chapped. The skin around the knuckles was cracked from cold.
Jason froze.
He looked up.
The server was dressed in a crisp black maid's uniform. Her hair was pinned up under a starched white cap.
She was staring at the floor, terrified to make eye contact.
It was Sarah.
Jason felt the blood drain from his face. The room spun. The noise of the party faded into a dull buzz.
She was here. In the lion's den. In his house.
Gates hadn't kidnapped her to a warehouse. He had put her to work. He had placed her right under Alta's nose.
It was a power move of terrifying brilliance.
"Sir?" Sarah whispered. Her voice was barely audible. She still didn't look up. "Wine?"
Jason's hand hovered over the glass. He couldn't move.
If he spoke to her, he risked everything. If he showed recognition, Alta would notice. Alta noticed everything.
He looked past Sarah's shoulder.
Across the room, near the grand staircase, a man was leaning against a marble pillar.
He wore a security uniform that fit him badly. He was holding a glass of champagne that he shouldn't have been drinking.
Mr. Gates.
He caught Jason's eye. He raised the glass in a mock toast. He winked.
The message was clear: I can touch you anywhere. I can put her anywhere. You are never safe.
Jason looked back at Sarah. She was shaking so badly the glasses on the tray were beginning to rattle. Clink-clink-clink.
"Ezra?" Alta's voice cut through the fog.
Jason snapped his head toward his wife.
Alta was looking at the maid. Her eyes narrowed.
"What is wrong with this girl?" Alta said, her voice loud enough to carry. "She's shaking like a leaf."
Sarah flinched. The tray tipped dangerously.
"I... I'm sorry, ma'am," Sarah stammered. She looked up, panic wide in her eyes. She looked straight at Alta.
"Don't spill that," Alta snapped. She stepped forward, her face hardening into the mask of the mistress of the house. "You're incompetent. Who hired you? Look at me when I speak to you."
The attention of the nearby guests shifted. People stopped talking. They turned to watch the scene.
Jason's heart stopped.
This was it.
If Alta fired her, she would demand her name. She might recognize her from the description Gates surely had threatened to leak. Or worse, under pressure, Sarah might crack. She might say Jason's name. She might beg Jason for help.
He saw Sarah's eyes dart to him. A silent plea. Help me.
Alta reached out to grab Sarah's arm.
"Put the tray down before you ruin the carpet," Alta commanded.
Jason had a split second.
He couldn't defend the maid. That was suspicious. He couldn't attack Alta. That was suicide.
He had to be the clumsier one.
Jason lurched forward.
He pretended to stumble. He threw his right arm out as if catching his balance.
His hand struck the edge of the silver tray.
"Whoops!" Jason shouted.
The tray flipped.
Five glasses of expensive French red wine launched into the air.
They crashed into Jason's chest.
Glass shattered. Red liquid exploded across his pristine white shirtfront, soaking the tuxedo, splashing onto his face, dripping onto the floor.
It looked like a gunshot wound. A massive, spreading stain of blood-red wine.
The ballroom went silent.
Gasps echoed from the ladies. The music stopped.
Sarah jumped back, terrified. She dropped the empty tray with a clang.
"Ezra!" Alta shrieked. She jumped back to avoid the splash. "What are you doing?!"
Jason stood there, wine dripping from his nose. He looked ridiculous. He looked drunk.
He laughed. A loud, braying, nervous laugh.
"My apologies!" Jason announced to the room. He wiped wine from his eyes. "My feet... new shoes. Very slippery."
He looked at Sarah.
"Go!" he mouthed silently.
Sarah understood. She scrambled backward, bowing frantically. "So sorry! So sorry!"
She turned and fled toward the kitchen doors, disappearing before Alta could focus on her again.
Alta turned on Jason. Her face was pale with fury.
"You are drunk," she hissed. "You are drunk at my father's gala."
"I slipped, Alta," Jason said. He grabbed a napkin from a passing waiter and dabbed at his ruined shirt. "It was an accident."
"You look like a butcher," Alta whispered venomously. "Go upstairs. Change. Or leave. Just get out of my sight."
"Yes, dear."
Jason bowed to the stunned guests. "Carry on! Just a little spilled grape juice!"
He turned and walked toward the grand staircase. He walked with his head high, but his legs felt like jelly.
He had saved her. For tonight.
As he reached the stairs, he looked toward the pillar.
Gates was still there.
He wasn't smiling anymore. He was watching Jason with a look of cold calculation. He tapped his wrist, as if checking a watch.
Tick tock.
Jason climbed the stairs. The wine soaked through his shirt, cold and sticky against his skin.
He reached the landing and looked down at the party. The music had started again. The laughter returned. The world of the rich moved on instantly.
Jason touched the red stain on his chest.
It wasn't blood. But next time, it would be.