Christal dragged her feet through the freezing rain for two miles before a rusty yellow cab finally stopped for her. She collapsed into the backseat, her teeth chattering so hard her jaw ached, and gave the driver Clara's address in Lower Manhattan.

The cab pulled up to a crumbling red-brick apartment building. Christal paid the driver with her last twenty-dollar bill. She grabbed her wet canvas bag and pressed the rusted intercom button by the front door.

Static crackled. "Who is it?" Clara Bowen's sleepy voice asked.

"Clara," Christal sobbed, her voice breaking completely. "It's me."

A loud, harsh buzzer sounded. Christal pushed the heavy glass door open and dragged herself up four flights of dark, narrow stairs.

Clara was waiting in the hallway, wearing oversized pajamas. When she saw Christal's mud-stained coat and blue lips, Clara gasped and pulled her inside.

Clara slammed the door and locked the deadbolt. She grabbed a thick towel and started aggressively drying Christal's hair.

"What happened to you?" Clara demanded, her eyes wide with panic. "Why are you covered in mud?"

The last thread of Christal's sanity snapped. She threw her arms around Clara's neck and broke down. Between violent, gasping sobs, she told Clara everything. The fake audition, the dark hotel room, the photos, Kellie's confession, and Ethan's psychotic threat in the rain.

Clara kicked the coffee table, cursing the Finley family to hell. When she heard what Ethan said, she marched over to the windows and locked every single latch.

Clara dug out a dry pair of sweatpants and a hoodie. She forced Christal to change, then pushed her onto a chair right next to the clanking radiator. She shoved a mug of hot cocoa into Christal's shaking hands.

"I have to find a job," Christal whispered, staring into the brown liquid. "I need money to get out of New York. He won't let me go."

Suddenly, Christal's cell phone vibrated violently on the table. The screen lit up with the name of her acting agent.

Christal flinched, reaching out to decline the call.

Clara snatched the phone first. She hit the speaker button, ready to scream at whoever was calling.

"Christal," the agent's voice came through, cold and corporate. "I'm calling to inform you that your contract with our agency is terminated, effective immediately."

Christal stopped breathing.

"What?" Clara yelled. "You can't do that!"

"Ethan Stein's law firm just called," the agent continued, completely ignoring Clara. "They informed us of your moral scandal. Every brand deal and audition you had lined up is canceled. Furthermore, we are filing a lawsuit against you for breach of morals to recoup our losses."

The line went dead.

The mug slipped from Christal's numb fingers. It shattered on the floor, hot cocoa splashing over her bare feet.

Ethan wasn't just threatening her. He was systematically cutting off her oxygen. He was making sure she couldn't survive without him.

Clara cursed loudly, grabbing a towel to clean up the mess. "Screw them. I work backstage at the Broadway theater. I can get you a job moving props. It's under the table. Cash. Ethan won't know."

Christal slid off the chair and hugged Clara tightly. She swore to herself she would work until her hands bled if it meant escaping Ethan.

For the next three weeks, Christal lived in the shadows, her life a blur of physical exhaustion and constant fear. By day, she hauled heavy wooden set pieces in the dark theater backstage, her muscles screaming in pain. By night, she sat in Clara's apartment, sending out resumes for basic office jobs.

Every time she got an email offering an interview, a second email would arrive hours later, canceling it. An invisible hand was wrapped tightly around her throat.

On a freezing Friday evening at the end of the month, Christal walked out the back door of the theater into the alley.

She froze.

Parked at the end of the alley was a sleek, black Maybach.

Christal pressed her back against the dirty brick wall, hiding in the shadows. She watched as Ethan's assistant stepped out of the car. The theater manager walked out to meet him.

The assistant handed the manager a thick white envelope. The manager peeked inside, smiled greedily, and nodded his head.

The next morning, the manager called Christal into his office. He fired her, claiming they were "overstaffed." When she asked for her week's pay, he laughed and told her to get out before he called the cops.

Christal walked the streets of Manhattan in a daze. She looked at her reflection in a shop window. Dark circles bruised her eyes. She looked like a ghost.

She walked back to the apartment. Clara was sitting at the kitchen table, staring at her laptop, pulling her hair in frustration.

"My credit cards," Clara panicked, looking up. "The bank froze all of them. They said it's for suspicious activity, but they won't tell me what it is. I can't even buy groceries."

Christal's heart stopped.

Ethan's poison was spreading. He was attacking the only person who helped her. He was going to make Clara homeless just to force Christal to her knees.

The guilt was a physical weight crushing her chest. She couldn't let Clara suffer for her.

Christal took a deep, shaky breath. She pulled out her phone and unblocked Ethan's number. Her thumb hovered over the screen. She pressed call.

He answered on the first ring.

"I thought you would last at least two more days," Ethan's low, arrogant voice vibrated through the speaker.

Christal bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper.

"Stop hurting Clara," she whispered, her voice dead. "I'll go to the banquet with you tomorrow night."

A low, chilling laugh echoed down the line.

"Good girl," Ethan commanded. "Eight o'clock. Wear the dress I send. And Christal? Don't do anything to embarrass me."

At exactly eight o'clock, a massive black Rolls-Royce pulled up to the curb outside Clara's crumbling apartment building. Pedestrians stopped and stared at the vehicle that clearly didn't belong in this neighborhood.

Christal stood on the sidewalk, shivering violently in the crisp autumn air.

She was wearing the dress Ethan had sent. It was a dark, blood-red gown that plunged dangerously low in the front and left her entire back exposed. It wasn't elegant; it was designed to make her look cheap and available.

She swallowed her humiliation and pulled the heavy car door open.

Ethan sat in the back, wearing a perfectly tailored custom tuxedo. He swirled a glass of amber whiskey in his hand. His eyes dragged over her exposed skin, heavy with aggressive, toxic possession.

Christal refused to look at him. She slid into the seat, pressing herself as far into the opposite corner as possible, her knuckles turning white as she gripped her cheap clutch.

Ethan scoffed. He leaned across the leather seat, his hand shooting out to grab her jaw.

He pulled her face toward him, then grabbed her left hand. With brutal force, he shoved a ring onto her ring finger.

Christal winced as the metal scraped her knuckle. She looked down. It wasn't a diamond. It was a cheap, ugly plastic ring that looked like it came from a vending machine.

"What is this?" she asked, her voice shaking.

Ethan leaned in, his breath hot against her ear. "It's your punishment. Tonight, every billionaire in New York will see exactly what you are. A cheap whore wearing garbage."

The car glided smoothly onto a massive private estate in Long Island. It was Gwendolyn Vasquez's birthday banquet, the social event of the season.

The car stopped at the red carpet.

The second the door opened, Ethan's face transformed. The psychotic monster vanished, replaced by the charming, elite lawyer. He reached in, grabbed Christal by the waist, and practically dragged her out of the car.

Camera flashes exploded like lightning. The paparazzi recognized the disgraced actress immediately. They surged forward, screaming her name.

Ethan smiled perfectly for the cameras. At the same time, his fingers dug brutally into the soft flesh of Christal's waist.

Pain shot through her side. She gasped, her face turning pale, and forced her lips into a stiff, dead smile to keep him from bruising her ribs.

They walked into the grand ballroom. It was dripping with gold and crystal.

The moment they stepped inside, the music seemed to quiet. Hundreds of eyes turned to look at them. The gazes were filled with mockery and disgust.

Across the room, Kellie was holding a glass of champagne, surrounded by socialites. She pointed at Christal and let out her signature, high-pitched laugh.

Ethan let go of Christal's waist instantly, as if touching her disgusted him. Without a word, he walked away, heading straight for Delphine March, a wealthy heiress.

Christal was left standing completely alone on the edge of the dance floor.

The guests physically stepped back from her, creating a ten-foot circle of empty space around her. She was a virus.

She watched Ethan lean in close to Delphine, whispering in her ear. Delphine giggled and shot a triumphant, mocking look directly at Christal. Christal felt nothing but deep, exhausting nausea.

The crowd suddenly parted.

Gwendolyn Vasquez walked through, looking like royalty in a custom haute couture gown. She stopped right in front of Christal, looking her up and down.

Gwendolyn's eyes locked onto the plastic ring and the revealing red dress.

"Christal," Gwendolyn said loudly, ensuring the entire room could hear. "That dress is so... fitting. It perfectly highlights your professional morals."

The crowd erupted into cruel laughter.

Kellie shouted from the back, "Well, she has to show off! Auditioning in hotel rooms takes a lot of physical labor!"

Christal bit the inside of her cheek. The metallic taste of blood flooded her mouth. She wanted to scream, to throw a glass at them, but she thought of Clara's frozen bank accounts. She forced her hands to stay at her sides.

She looked Gwendolyn dead in the eye.

"At least I don't have to rely on cheap schemes and dirty tricks to force a man to look at me," Christal said quietly, her voice trembling but laced with absolute defiance.

Gwendolyn's face went completely slack. The color drained from her cheeks, followed instantly by a flush of murderous rage. She touched her perfect nails, her chest heaving.

Gwendolyn tilted her crystal glass.

With a flick of her wrist, she threw the entire glass of dark red wine directly at Christal's chest.

Christal gasped, stumbling backward. The cold, sticky liquid soaked into the red fabric, dripping down her exposed cleavage and staining her skin. She looked pathetic and ruined.

"Oh, my hand slipped," Gwendolyn sneered, her eyes burning with hate. She turned around and walked away, her followers laughing behind her.

Christal looked across the room. Ethan was watching her. He didn't move to help. Instead, he raised his whiskey glass in a silent toast to Gwendolyn.

He brought her here to be slaughtered.

A suffocating weight crushed Christal's lungs. Tears burned her eyes. She covered her stained chest with her arms, lowered her head, and ran toward the hallway leading to the restrooms.

The air conditioning in the hallway hit her wet skin, making her shiver violently. She pushed into a bathroom stall, locked the door, and leaned against it, gasping for air. Despair swallowed her whole.

She hid in that stall for thirty minutes, staring at the floor.

Suddenly, the muffled sound of the orchestra outside stopped. It was replaced by a wave of panicked screams.

The lights in the bathroom flickered twice.

Then, they went out completely. The entire estate was plunged into absolute, suffocating darkness.

The sudden, pitch-black darkness hit Christal like a physical blow.

Her mild claustrophobia flared instantly. Her chest tightened, and her lungs refused to draw in air. She fumbled blindly for the lock, shoved the stall door open, and stumbled out of the bathroom into the pitch-black hallway.

At the end of the corridor, the ballroom was in total chaos. The sound of shattering glass echoed over the panicked screams of the guests as people shoved each other in the dark.

Christal pressed her hands flat against the cold wall, trying to feel her way toward the side exit door.

A group of terrified socialites rushed past her, their elbows hitting her ribs. Christal was thrown off balance.

Her ankle rolled sharply in her cheap high heels. A jolt of pain shot up her leg. She pitched forward, falling face-first into the dark void.

She didn't hit the floor.

She crashed hard into a wall of solid muscle. Her nose brushed against the rough, expensive fabric of a tailored suit jacket.

Christal gasped, her hands flying up to push herself away to apologize.

Before she could move, a massive, heavy arm wrapped around her waist like an iron chain. The grip was brutal and absolute, locking her flush against a rock-hard chest.

Then, the scent hit her.

Cedar wood. Faint tobacco. And the dark, metallic undertone of danger.

Christal's entire body went rigid. Her heart stopped beating for a full second before it exploded against her ribs.

It was him. The monster from the Zephyr Hotel.

In the pitch black, Abraham Bush had simply reacted to a body falling into him. He was about to shove the clumsy guest away when the scent invaded his senses.

Cheap floral perfume mixed with the salt of desperate tears.

Abraham's body reacted faster than his brain. His muscles coiled tight. His dark eyes, blind in the darkness, flashed with the ruthless instinct of a predator who had just caught its prey.

His large hand slid up her spine, feeling the violent trembling of her skin through the wet, wine-soaked fabric of her dress.

Christal shoved her hands against his chest, her fingers curling into fists.

"Let me go," she begged, her voice a broken, terrified whisper. "Please."

That broken plea was the exact sound she made in the hotel bed.

Abraham's Adam's apple bobbed. A low, dark chuckle vibrated deep in his chest.

His hand moved up, his long fingers finding her jaw in the dark. He pinched it, forcing her face tilt upward.

"Found you, little runaway," his rough, gravelly voice exploded against her ear, heavy with dark, predatory amusement.

Before Christal could scream, his mouth crashed down on hers.

It wasn't a kiss. It was a punishment. It was a claim. His hot lips devoured hers with terrifying dominance, stealing the air straight from her lungs.

The memory of the hotel room crashed over her. Her brain short-circuited. The heat radiating from his body was burning her alive. Her hands, pushing against his chest, slowly lost all their strength.

Just feet away, people were screaming in panic. But in this dark corner, they were trapped in a violent, secret collision.

"Christal!"

Ethan's furious, impatient voice echoed down the hallway. He was looking for her.

Hearing Ethan's voice snapped Christal back to reality. A wave of sickening humiliation washed over her. She was being assaulted while her psychotic fiancé was hunting her down.

She opened her jaw and bit down as hard as she could on the man's lower lip.

The sharp taste of copper flooded her mouth.

Abraham grunted in pain. His body jerked slightly, but his iron grip on her waist didn't loosen a fraction of an inch.

He pulled his head back just enough to speak. His thumb brushed over her swollen lips, smearing his own blood across her mouth.

"Biting?" he whispered, his voice dropping to a dangerous, lethal register. "You've grown claws."

A loud mechanical roar shook the floorboards. The estate's backup generators kicked in.

The emergency lights bolted on, bathing the hallway in a dim, blood-red glow.

Christal opened her eyes.

In the red light, she saw his silhouette. A razor-sharp jawline. A straight, aristocratic nose. And a pair of eyes that looked like a hawk staring at a dying rabbit.

He was standing with his back to the emergency light, his face still cast in heavy shadow. She couldn't see his exact features, but the suffocating, god-like aura radiating from him made her soul tremble.

At the far end of the hall, security guards burst through the doors, sweeping bright flashlights across the walls.

A beam of light swung toward them.

Adrenaline flooded Christal's veins. With a burst of hysterical strength, she shoved both hands hard against Abraham's chest.

She kicked off her high heels, leaving them on the carpet. Barefoot, she spun around and sprinted into the chaotic crowd, running like her life depended on it.

Abraham stumbled back half a step.

He didn't chase her. He stood perfectly still in the red light. He raised his thumb and wiped the fresh blood from his bottom lip. His dark eyes tracked her fleeing figure until she disappeared into the mob.

The main power grid finally rebooted. The crystal chandeliers blazed to life, flooding the hallway with blinding white light.

Avery Shaw pushed through the crowd, flanked by four massive bodyguards. He stopped next to Abraham, his eyes dropping to the blood on his boss's mouth.

"Sir," Avery said quietly. "Should I lock down the estate?"

Abraham looked down at the abandoned high heels on the floor. He slowly rolled his thumb over his index knuckle.

"No," Abraham said, his voice cold and absolute. "Just investigate."