Katia walked out of the glass double doors of the luxury building.

Her bare feet were shoved hastily back into her black heels. She stepped onto the Manhattan pavement.

A sharp gust of October wind hit her face.

A violent shiver ripped through her body, rattling her bones and making her teeth click together.

She raised her hand, ignoring the dull sting in her palm where her nails had broken the skin, and waved at a passing yellow taxi.

The cab screeched to a halt against the curb.

She pulled the heavy door open and slid onto the cracked, cold leather seat.

"Where to?" the driver asked, his eyes meeting hers in the rearview mirror.

"Audrey Hale's lounge. SoHo," Katia said. Her voice was raspy, the words scratching against her dry throat.

She turned her head to look out the window.

A light drizzle began to fall, smearing the neon lights of the city into blurry, bleeding streaks across the glass.

She forced herself to take a deep breath, but her chest felt like it was wrapped in tight iron bands.

The taxi pulled up to an unmarked black door on a quiet street in SoHo.

Katia handed the driver a fifty-dollar bill and didn't wait for the change.

She pushed the door open and stepped out into the cold rain.

The drops hit her face, mixing with the cold sweat on her skin.

She walked up to the heavy steel door of the lounge and pushed it open.

A wall of deafening bass and electronic music slammed into her chest, vibrating against her ribs.

The air inside smelled of expensive perfume, sweat, and gin.

Katia pushed her way through the crowded, grinding bodies on the dance floor, keeping her eyes fixed straight ahead.

She reached the mahogany bar.

The bartender, a tall guy with full tattoo sleeves, recognized her instantly. He slid a crisp white napkin across the polished wood.

"Katia. You look like hell."

"Dry martini. The strongest gin you have," she ordered, her voice cutting through the noise.

He placed the chilled glass in front of her.

Katia didn't bother with the olive. She picked up the glass and tipped her head back.

She swallowed the ice-cold liquid in one continuous, desperate gulp.

The alcohol burned a harsh, fiery trail down her throat. It hit her empty stomach like a lit match.

She coughed, her eyes watering, the edges of her vision blurring from the sharp sting.

"What the hell are you doing?" A voice cut through the heavy bass.

Audrey, wearing a skin-tight red dress, marched out of the VIP section, her heels clicking aggressively against the floor.

She reached Katia and immediately snatched the empty martini glass from her hand.

Audrey's dark eyes scanned Katia's pale face and rain-soaked clothes.

"Who did this? Who do I need to kill?" Audrey yelled over the music.

Katia turned her head. Her throat felt raw.

"Caleb," she whispered, the name tasting like ash and bile on her tongue.

Audrey's expression hardened instantly. The concern vanished, replaced by a cold, lethal fury.

She grabbed Katia's wrist and pulled her away from the bar, dragging her toward the back of the club.

Audrey pushed open the door to her private VIP room.

The heavy soundproof door clicked shut, instantly cutting off the thumping bass and the chaos of the club.

The silence in the room was heavy and suffocating.

Katia's knees buckled.

She collapsed onto the tufted leather sofa. She pulled off her damp blazer, letting it drop to the floor.

Audrey filled a glass with warm water from a pitcher and shoved it into Katia's hands.

"Drink. Now."

Katia took a sip. The warmth did nothing to thaw the ice in her veins.

She let out a dry, hollow laugh.

She stared at the blank wall and recounted the last thirty minutes. The red shoes. The open door. The white sheets.

Audrey grabbed a heavy crystal ashtray and slammed it onto the glass table.

The loud crack made Katia jump.

"That piece of shit," Audrey spat, her hands on her hips. "That absolute garbage human."

Katia leaned her head back against the leather. Her hands began to shake uncontrollably.

"I spent two years getting his startup funded, Audrey. I begged my contacts. I vouched for him."

Her voice cracked, the first sign of the dam breaking.

"I don't even feel heartbroken. I just feel... dirty. I feel sick."

Audrey moved to the sofa. She sat down and wrapped her arms tightly around Katia's thin shoulders.

She pulled Katia against her chest.

The physical contact shattered the last of Katia's control.

A sob tore out of her throat. It was an ugly, guttural sound that scraped against her vocal cords.

Tears spilled over her eyelashes, hot and fast, soaking into the fabric of Audrey's red dress.

Audrey stroked her hair, her eyes narrowing at the wall with a dark, calculating look.

"I know guys," Audrey said softly, her voice deadly serious. "I can have his office trashed by morning. His computers smashed. Everything."

Katia shook her head against Audrey's shoulder.

She pulled back, her chest heaving as she gasped for air.

She reached into her purse, pulled out a tissue, and wiped the wetness from her cheeks.

She pressed her thumb hard into her knuckle. "No."

Katia crumpled the damp tissue in her fist and tossed it into the small brass trash can beside the sofa.

She reached for Audrey's half-full martini glass and downed the rest of it.

The gin burned her throat again, but this time, it numbed the sharp edges of her panic.

Audrey watched her, her perfectly arched eyebrows drawing together in a deep frown.

"You're going to make yourself sick," Audrey said, crossing her arms.

"Look, if you want to get back at him, let me call some guys. I have three male models on speed dial who would kill to spend an hour with you."

Audrey pulled out her phone, tapped the screen, and shoved it in front of Katia's face.

Images of chiseled jawlines and eight-pack abs glared brightly in the dim room.

Katia pushed the phone away, her stomach rolling at the thought.

"I don't want a cheap distraction, Audrey."

She rubbed her temples, feeling a massive headache building behind her eyes.

"I feel like I'm covered in mud. I just want to take a scalding hot shower and sleep for twenty-four hours."

"You can't go back to the penthouse," Audrey pointed out. "His stuff is there. You'll just smell his cologne and lose your mind."

Katia fell silent. The muscles in her neck tightened.

Audrey was right. The thought of stepping back into that foyer made her physically nauseous.

"Book me a room," Katia said, her voice steadying. "The most expensive suite in the city."

She unzipped her purse and pulled out a sleek, black credit card.

"And use this. It's the authorized user card Caleb gave me for emergencies, tied to his main account."

Audrey's eyes lit up with malicious glee. A wicked smile spread across her red lips.

"Oh, I love a good revenge charge."

Audrey dialed a number on her phone.

"Corbett Grand Hotel, VIP line," she whispered to Katia, covering the receiver.

Within two minutes, Audrey had leveraged her status as a high-profile club owner to secure the Presidential Suite on the top floor.

She hung up the phone.

"Done. Top floor. Are you absolutely sure you don't want me to send a little room service? A guy who knows how to use his tongue?"

Katia pressed her fingers against her throbbing forehead. "No, Audrey. Just... no."

Katia stood up.

The alcohol hit her bloodstream hard. The floor tilted slightly beneath her feet, and she swayed.

Audrey jumped up and grabbed her elbow. "Whoa. Let me come with you."

Katia shook her head, pulling her arm away. "I need to be alone. I need quiet."

She picked up the black credit card from the table and shoved it into her pocket.

She grabbed her blazer and draped it over her shoulders. The cold, calculating look returned to her eyes.

Audrey sighed and handed her a sleek black keycard a server had just left on the table.

"Room 6002. The car is waiting out front."

Katia took the card, didn't look at the number, and shoved it into the pocket of her blazer.

She pushed the heavy door of the VIP room open.

The deafening bass of the club crashed over her again.

She walked through the corridor. Her steps were slightly heavy, her balance slightly off, but she kept her spine perfectly straight.

The bartender nodded at her as a massive bouncer pushed the heavy front door open for her.

A black Lincoln Town Car idled at the curb.

The driver, wearing a sharp suit, stepped out and opened a large black umbrella, shielding her from the rain.

Katia ducked her head and slid into the plush leather backseat.

The driver slammed the door shut, sealing her in the quiet darkness.

The black Lincoln glided smoothly to a stop in front of the towering glass facade of the Corbett Grand Hotel.

The doorman, dressed in a crisp uniform, pulled the car door open.

Katia swung her legs out. Her heels clicked against the wet pavement as she stepped onto the red carpet.

A blast of cold night air hit her face, mixing with the heavy alcohol in her blood.

Her stomach lurched violently. She swallowed hard, forcing the bile back down her throat.

She straightened her blazer and walked through the revolving doors into the massive, gold-leafed lobby.

The crystal chandeliers cast a blinding light that made her wince and squint her eyes.

The night manager, a man in a tailored suit, spotted her immediately. He saw a high-profile guest entering his lobby and rushed forward, a practiced, accommodating smile on his face.

"Welcome to the Corbett Grand. How may I assist you tonight, ma'am?"

Katia held up a hand, cutting him off. Her eyes were cold. "Don't."

She bypassed the main elevators and walked straight to the end of the hall, swiping her card at the VIP express elevator.

The brass doors parted. She stepped inside.

The doors closed, and the elevator shot upward, the numbers on the digital display blurring as it climbed to the top floor.

On the sixtieth floor, in the sprawling 601 suite, Jackson Kerr ripped his silk tie from his neck.

He had just spent fourteen hours locked in a boardroom, tearing a rival company apart in a hostile takeover.

His muscles were tight, his jaw aching from clenching it all day.

He walked over to the crystal decanter by the floor-to-ceiling window and poured himself three fingers of neat whiskey.

His phone buzzed on the marble counter.

A text from his assistant, Leo: Sent some company to your room. Relax, boss.

Jackson stared at the screen. A muscle feathered in his jaw.

He grabbed the phone and tossed it onto the plush velvet sofa.

He wanted to text back and tell Leo to cancel it, but the exhaustion in his bones made lifting his hands feel like a chore.

He took a sip of the whiskey, letting it burn his throat.

Down the hall, the elevator chimed.

The doors opened. Katia stumbled out.

Her heel caught on the edge of the thick, sound-absorbing carpet, and she pitched forward slightly before catching her balance.

The hallway was dimly lit, the sconces casting long, ambiguous shadows against the walls.

She pulled out the black keycard, trying to focus on the door number Audrey had told her. The hallway lights blurred, making the gold numbers on the heavy wooden doors for 601 and 602 swim together in her alcohol-soaked brain.

She dragged her feet to the heavy oak door on her left. 601. She assumed it was hers.

She pressed the card against the black sensor pad.

A red light flashed. A low beep signaled an error.

Katia groaned. Her patience was entirely gone.

She slapped her palm flat against the heavy wood, ready to turn around and scream at the front desk.

But as her hand hit the wood, the door gave way.

It creaked inward, revealing a two-inch gap.

Room service had dropped off a bucket of ice ten minutes ago and failed to pull the heavy door until it clicked shut.

Katia didn't question it. Her brain was too foggy.

She pushed the door wide open and stepped inside.

She turned around and shoved the door closed with her shoulder. The heavy lock clicked into place with a solid, metallic thud.

The suite was dark. The main lights were off.

The only illumination came from the neon glow of the Manhattan skyline bleeding through the massive windows.

Katia kicked off her heels. They hit the marble floor of the foyer with a clatter.

She didn't care. She walked barefoot onto the thick rug, heading toward the center of the living room.

Jackson heard the noise.

He turned away from the window, the whiskey glass still in his hand. He stepped out of the shadows.

Katia stopped dead in her tracks.

In the dim, blue-tinted light of the city, their eyes locked.