Adela's ankle twisted sharply.

The floor rushed up to meet her. A short gasp tore from her throat as she lost all balance. She braced herself for the brutal impact of the marble floor, squeezing her eyes shut.

The impact never came.

Instead, a strong, unyielding arm wrapped tightly around her waist. She was yanked sideways, crashing into a solid wall of muscle and expensive fabric.

A sharp, clean scent of cedar and bergamot flooded her senses. It instantly overpowered the stale cigar smoke and cheap cologne clinging to her clothes from the hallway.

Adela gasped, her hands instinctively grabbing onto a broad shoulder to steady herself.

She opened her eyes.

She was staring directly into a pair of eyes as cold and deep as a frozen lake.

The man holding her was striking. His jawline looked like it had been cut from glass. He wore a charcoal suit that fit him with lethal precision.

He helped her stand upright, but his hand didn't leave her waist. His fingers pressed firmly against her spine, a silent, heavy weight making sure she didn't fall again.

"My apologies," his voice was a low, magnetic rumble that vibrated in his chest. "I didn't see you coming."

Adela blinked, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs. She looked down. It was his leg she had tripped over.

She took a quick step back, forcing his hand to drop from her waist. The loss of his body heat made the cold hallway air bite at her skin.

"No," Adela said, her voice trembling slightly. She wiped roughly at her wet eyes, hating that he was seeing her like this. "I wasn't watching where I was going."

She needed to leave. The humiliation of Juston's words was still burning a hole in her stomach. She couldn't deal with a stranger right now.

She gave a stiff nod and turned toward the glass exit doors.

"Adela Richmond, isn't it?"

The man's voice stopped her dead in her tracks.

Adela's entire body went rigid. She spun back around, her nails digging into her palms again. How did he know her name?

The man stood up. He was incredibly tall, his broad shoulders blocking out the light from the lobby lamps. He cast a long shadow that completely swallowed her.

He extended a large, steady hand toward her.

"Harmon Holland."

The name hit Adela like a physical blow to the chest.

Harmon Holland. The ruthless heir to the Holland Group. The ghost of Wall Street.

And the man her grandfather had signed a trust agreement with. The man she was legally bound to marry if the families demanded it.

Juston's mocking voice echoed in her skull. Keeping her pisses off Harmon Holland.

Adela stared at his outstretched hand. Her stomach churned violently. He was here. He had probably heard everything. He was probably laughing at her just like Juston was. He was looking at the pathetic, boring pawn who couldn't even keep a fake boyfriend.

She didn't take his hand.

She pulled her shoulders back, wrapping her arms around her own waist defensively.

Harmon didn't look offended. He slowly lowered his hand, his expression unreadable. He let his gaze drop to her red, tear-stained eyes, then back up to her face.

"You look like you're having a terrible night," Harmon stated. It wasn't a question. It was a cold, clinical observation.

Adela's jaw clenched so hard her teeth ached.

"That is none of your business, Mr. Holland," she snapped, the words tasting like ash in her mouth.

Harmon didn't flinch at her tone. He glanced toward the glass doors. "It's raining. Do you have somewhere to go?"

Adela finally heard the heavy drumming of rain against the glass. A storm had rolled in. Perfect. Just perfect.

She looked back at Harmon. His face was a mask of polite indifference, but she felt trapped under his gaze. She refused to be pitied by the man she was supposed to be sold to.

"I don't need anything from you," Adela said harshly.

She turned her back on him and marched toward the exit.

The doorman pulled the heavy glass door open. A blast of freezing wind and rain hit Adela in the face, soaking her hair instantly. She shivered violently but stepped out into the storm anyway.

Just as her heel hit the wet pavement, her phone vibrated in her purse.

The rain was freezing. It plastered Adela's dress to her skin and sent violent shivers down her spine. She stood under the small awning of the Elysium club, the wind whipping her wet hair across her face.

She didn't care about the cold. The cold was better than the suffocating air inside.

Her phone buzzed again. A harsh, continuous vibration against her hip.

Her fingers were numb as she dug into her leather purse and pulled the device out. The bright screen illuminated her pale, wet face in the darkness.

A text from Juston.

She wanted to throw the phone into the street. She wanted to block him. But her thumb hovered over the screen, and before she could stop herself, she opened the message.

Don't think you can play the victim and blame this all on me. Your precious family is a hundred times sicker than I am.

Adela frowned. Her brow furrowed as rain dripped from her eyelashes onto the screen. What was he talking about?

A second text popped up immediately.

Remember the charity gala two years ago? The 'accident'? The one where you almost died?

Adela's breath caught in her throat. The memory hit her with physical force.

The swelling in her throat. The desperate gasping for air. The terrifying darkness closing in as the anaphylactic shock took over. She had eaten a seafood risotto. She was deathly allergic to shellfish.

A third text arrived. It felt like a physical strike to her face.

You think your family is any better? I was there when Kayden planned the menu for that gala. I heard him tell the chef to 'add a little something' to your risotto. He wanted to hurt you, Addie.

The phone slipped in Adela's wet hands. She gripped it tighter, her knuckles turning bone-white.

He wanted to kill you, Addie. And your parents covered it up as a kitchen mistake. You have no one. You have nothing. You'll be back.

Adela stopped breathing.

The streetlights blurred. The sound of the rain faded into a high-pitched ringing in her ears.

She remembered the fight she had with Kayden that afternoon. He had mocked her design portfolio, calling her a useless leech. She remembered how he smiled at the gala, handing her the plate of risotto himself. Try this, it's the chef's special.

It wasn't an accident.

Her own brother had tried to murder her. And her parents had swept it under the rug to protect the family name. Kayden hadn't even visited her in the hospital.

The betrayal from Juston was a cut. This was a bullet to the chest.

A violent wave of nausea hit her. Adela stumbled backward, her shoulders hitting the cold stone pillar of the club's exterior. She slid down the wall, her legs giving out completely.

She sat on the wet concrete, gasping for air as if her throat was swelling shut all over again.

Her family. Her own blood. They didn't just hate her. They wanted her gone.

Juston was right. She had absolutely no one.

A pair of bright headlights swept across the wet pavement, blinding her for a second.

A massive, black Maybach pulled up silently to the curb, stopping exactly in front of where she sat shivering on the ground.

The rear window rolled down with a soft hum.

Harmon Holland sat in the back seat. The interior light cast sharp shadows across his face. He looked down at her, his expression entirely unreadable. He didn't look surprised to see her on the ground. He looked like he had been waiting for it.

The driver's side door opened. Donovan Tate stepped out into the rain, holding a large black umbrella.

He walked over to Adela and looked down at her with professional pity.

"Miss Richmond," Donovan said, his voice cutting through the rain. "Mr. Holland insists you get in the car."

Adela looked from Donovan to the open door of the Maybach. It looked like the entrance to a vault. A dark, terrifying unknown.

But as she looked down at the text message still glowing on her phone, she realized the unknown was better than the hell she came from.

Ten minutes earlier.

Donovan Tate stood perfectly still behind his boss in the dim corridor of the Elysium club. He watched Adela Richmond's retreating back as she marched toward the exit.

He had seen exactly what happened. Harmon hadn't been stretching his legs. He had deliberately shifted his foot directly into Adela's path the second she rounded the corner.

Harmon had sat on that leather sofa for two hours, nursing a single glass of scotch, waiting for this exact moment.

Harmon stood up. He shot his cuffs, adjusting the silver links with slow, precise movements. The dangerous smirk was gone, replaced by a cold, calculating focus.

"Donovan," Harmon's voice was low, devoid of any warmth.

"Yes, sir," Donovan replied instantly.

"Pull the credit card receipts for Juston Bond's tab in the Peacock Room. Run a full background check on every man sitting at that table. I want leverage on all of them by morning."

"Understood."

"And call the media contacts," Harmon continued, walking slowly down the hall. "Full blackout. If a single word about Adela Richmond and Juston Bond leaks to the press, I will personally bankrupt the publication that prints it."

Donovan nodded, typing furiously on his phone. "I'll handle it. But sir... she just walked out into a storm. Should I bring the car around?"

"Bring the car to the front," Harmon said. "But keep your distance. Wait."

Donovan frowned slightly. "Wait for what, sir?"

Harmon stopped walking. He looked at the glass doors at the end of the hall.

"Juston Bond is a narcissist with a bruised ego," Harmon said, his voice chillingly analytical. "He was just humiliated in front of his sycophants. He won't let her walk away feeling victorious. He's going to text her. He's going to try to destroy her psychologically so she feels she has no choice but to return to him."

Donovan stared at his boss's back. Harmon was dissecting human behavior like a surgeon.

"He's been close to the Richmonds, close to Kayden. If he knows anything about her family's secrets-like the truth about that risotto incident-he'll use it now," Harmon said softly.

Donovan's blood ran cold. He knew about the risotto incident. Harmon had ordered a private investigation into the Richmond family years ago. Harmon knew everything.

"Let her read it," Harmon commanded. "She needs a reason to burn her bridges completely. When she has nothing left to hold onto, pull the car up."

Now, sitting in the driver's seat of the Maybach, Donovan looked in the rearview mirror.

Everything happened exactly as Harmon predicted. Down to the second.

Adela Richmond climbed into the back seat. She was completely soaked. Her expensive dress was clinging to her skin, and she was shivering so violently her teeth were chattering. She looked completely broken.

The heavy door shut, sealing them inside the warm, quiet cabin of the car.

Adela didn't speak. She just stared blankly at the leather seat in front of her, her arms wrapped tightly around herself.

Harmon didn't say a word. He calmly took off his bespoke charcoal suit jacket. He leaned over the center console and draped the heavy, warm fabric over Adela's shaking shoulders.

The jacket swallowed her. It smelled of cedar and bergamot.

Adela flinched slightly at the contact, but she didn't push it away. She pulled the lapels tighter around her neck, burying her face in the fabric like a wounded animal seeking shelter.

Harmon met Donovan's eyes in the rearview mirror and gave a single, sharp nod.

Donovan put the car in drive and pulled smoothly away from the curb, merging into the rainy New York traffic.

Harmon looked at the woman beside him.

"Where to?" Harmon asked, his voice smooth and calm. He let a beat of silence pass before adding, "Or should I have my driver take you back to the Richmond villa on the Upper East Side?"