Loud, violent banging echoed through the suite.

"Ina! Open the door!" Faron's voice roared from the hallway.

Another voice, rough and professional, followed. "Hotel management, open this door immediately, or we will breach the lock." It was a private investigator. Faron had brought a team.

Ina shivered violently. Goosebumps erupted all over her naked arms. She scrambled across the carpet and picked up her black dress. It was ripped straight down the side seam. It was completely unwearable. She dropped it.

The noise woke the man in the bed.

Buren slowly opened his eyes. He pushed the heavy duvet aside and sat up. His broad chest and defined abdominal muscles were on full display.

Ina backed away in panic. Her heel caught the leg of the velvet sofa. She stumbled and let out a muffled gasp.

Buren turned his head. His dark eyes locked onto her. They were cold, calculating, and entirely awake. He did not look panicked. He reached over to the nightstand, picked up a heavy Patek Philippe watch, and strapped it onto his wrist.

The electronic lock on the front door beeped. A green light flashed. The manager had swiped a master keycard.

Ina's lungs seized. She spun around. She saw a men's white custom-tailored dress shirt draped over the back of the sofa. She grabbed it and shoved her arms through the sleeves. She hastily buttoned the middle three buttons.

The shirt was massive. The hem barely reached her mid-thigh, acting as a fragile shield for her dignity.

Buren stood up. He walked barefoot across the plush carpet toward the entryway.

The heavy mahogany door was pushed open a crack.

Buren stepped forward. He used his wide, muscular shoulder to slam against the doorframe, blocking the gap entirely.

Ina did not wait. She sprinted toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. She unlatched the heavy glass door and slid it open.

The freezing autumn wind of Manhattan whipped into the heated room. Ina's teeth chattered instantly.

She climbed over the stone balcony railing. She stepped onto the cold, rusted iron grates of the hotel's exterior fire escape.

Inside the suite, Faron tried to shove his head through the gap in the door. "Ina! I know you are in there!"

Buren stared down at Faron. His expression was absolute ice. "Watch your mouth."

The private investigator raised a camera with a long lens, trying to blindly snap a photo into the room.

Buren's hand shot out. He grabbed the camera lens and shoved it downward with brutal force. The strap dug into the investigator's neck.

The sheer, suffocating aura of a Wall Street apex predator rolled off Buren. Faron and the investigator physically stepped back. They did not know exactly who was in the shadows of the room, but the power radiating from the man blocking the door was terrifying.

"There is no one here by that name," Buren said. His voice was flat and deadly.

He slammed the door shut and engaged the deadbolt.

Outside, Ina heard the door slam. Her heart beat so fast it hurt her chest. She gripped the freezing iron railings and began to climb down the fire escape.

The rusted metal tore at the soft skin of her palms. She bit her lower lip so hard she tasted copper. She could not make a sound.

She reached the landing on the second floor. The ladder to the alley was broken. She looked down. There was a large green dumpster with a closed plastic lid right below her.

She took a breath and jumped.

She landed hard on the plastic lid. Her knees slammed into the solid surface. A sharp, blinding pain shot up her legs. Tears pricked her eyes.

She ignored the pain. She rolled off the dumpster and sprinted out of the alleyway.

She reached the edge of Fifth Avenue. A yellow taxi was passing by. Ina waved her arms frantically.

The taxi screeched to a halt. Ina threw herself into the backseat and slammed the door.

The driver looked in the rearview mirror. He stared at the disheveled woman wearing nothing but an oversized men's dress shirt.

"Tribeca," Ina gasped, wrapping her arms around her shivering body. "Just drive."

Thirty minutes later, the taxi pulled up to her apartment building in Tribeca. Ina threw a crumpled fifty-dollar bill at the driver and ran inside.

She locked her apartment door behind her. She walked straight into the bathroom, turned the shower to the hottest setting, and stood under the spray. She scrubbed her skin until it was red, trying to wash away the smell of cedarwood and the memory of her own loss of control.

After the shower, she wrapped a towel around her body. She stood in front of the fogged mirror.

Her eyes drifted down to the marble counter. The white dress shirt she had worn was lying there.

She reached out and picked it up. She looked at the French cuffs.

Stitched into the crisp white fabric with dark navy thread were two letters: B. W.

Ina's brain short-circuited. A loud ringing filled her ears.

B. W. Buren Warner.

Her stomach violently cramped. She had not just slept with a stranger. She had slept with the most ruthless, dangerous man in New York.

The sharp, aggressive buzz of the apartment doorbell echoed through the hallway.

Ina flinched. She snatched the white B. W. shirt off the counter. She ran to her laundry basket and shoved the shirt deep under a pile of dirty towels.

She ran to her closet. Her neck and collarbones were covered in dark purple bruises from Buren's mouth. She grabbed a thick, black cashmere turtleneck sweater and pulled it over her head. The high collar hid the evidence completely.

She took three deep breaths, forcing her racing heart to slow down. She walked to the entryway and pulled the door open.

Faron Levine stood in the hallway. His expensive tailored suit was wrinkled. His face was dark with anger. His eyes swept over Ina's body like a police scanner.

"Where were you last night?" Faron demanded. His voice dripped with fake concern. "Why didn't you answer your phone?"

Ina dug her nails deep into her palms. The pain kept her voice steady. "I drank too much at the charity gala. I crashed at Clementine's apartment."

Faron sneered. He took a step forward, invading her personal space. He leaned in, sniffing the air around her, trying to find the scent of another man.

Ina locked her knees. She refused to step back. She stared directly into his eyes.

Faron's gaze dropped to the edge of her turtleneck. He raised his hand, his fingers reaching out to pull the fabric down.

Ina jerked her head back. "Watch your hands, Faron," she warned, her tone freezing.

Before Faron could force the issue, a loud, specialized notification chime erupted from his suit pocket.

Faron frowned. He pulled out his phone and tapped the screen.

Ina watched his face. A flicker of confusion crossed his features. The dark anger shifted into something more calculating. He stared at the screen, his thumb hovering over the image.

Ina shifted her eyes. She caught a glimpse of his screen. It was a push notification from Page Six, the most notorious gossip column in New York.

The bold headline read: WALL STREET TITAN'S LATE NIGHT RENDEZVOUS.

Below the text was a grainy paparazzi photo. It showed Buren Warner walking out of the side entrance of The Plaza Hotel. He was using his large wool overcoat to shield a woman's face from the cameras. The caption identified the woman as socialite Alex Stone.

Faron studied the photo for a long moment. His jaw tightened. He knew Ina had been inside that hotel—his private investigator had confirmed the elevator log. But seeing Buren Warner’s name changed the calculation. A direct confrontation with Warner was suicide, even for the Levine family. If Warner had been the one in that suite, and if he had gone to such lengths to hide the woman’s identity, then pushing this further would only bring a predator’s attention onto Faron himself.

He took a slow breath, forcing his shoulders to relax. He needed to retreat—for now. He would find another way to destroy Ina.

Faron's face instantly transformed. The angry interrogator vanished. He put on the mask of a loving, devoted partner.

"I am so sorry, darling," Faron said, opening his arms. "I was just out of my mind with worry."

He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Ina.

Ina's face was pressed against his shoulder. Her nose was instantly hit with the heavy, spicy scent of his signature Tom Ford cologne. But as he pulled back slightly, her eyes caught something else. Resting on the lapel of his immaculate suit was a single, distinct strand of coarse, dyed blond hair. At that exact moment, a faint, lingering scent brushed past her senses—the acrid, cheap smell of a sweet vape pen, completely at odds with Faron's usual pristine circles. The realization hit her like a physical blow. Details that definitely did not belong to Faron.

Her stomach violently heaved. Acid burned the back of her throat.

Ina shoved both hands against Faron's chest and pushed him away with all her strength. She clamped a hand over her mouth and gagged loudly.

Faron stumbled back. His fake smile dropped. A flash of genuine panic crossed his eyes. "Ina? What is wrong?"

"Hangover," Ina gasped, pointing toward the door. "My stomach is killing me. Please leave. I need to sleep."

Faron did not want to push his luck. He needed this reconciliation to look perfect to the public. "Of course. Rest well. I will call you later." He turned and walked out.

Ina slammed the door and locked the deadbolt.

Her legs gave out. She slid down the wooden door until she hit the floor.

She pulled her own phone from her pocket. She opened the Page Six website and found the photo of Buren.

She zoomed in on the woman huddled under Buren's coat. The woman's face was hidden, but a small piece of her dress hem was visible. The fabric was black.

Ina's breathing stopped. She knew Alex Stone. She had seen Alex's Instagram post from last night. Alex had been wearing a bright red dress.

The woman in the photo was not Alex Stone.

Ina's brain connected the dots. Buren had deliberately called the paparazzi. He had used Alex Stone's name as a decoy. He had orchestrated a fake news scandal to draw all the attention away from the presidential suite, completely erasing Ina's presence from the scene.

Buren Warner had saved her.

Ina stared at Buren's sharp profile in the photo. A freezing chill crawled up her spine.

Men like Buren did not do favors for free. They did not protect people out of kindness. They only protected their investments.

Why did he go to such extreme lengths to cover her tracks? What did he want from her?

Before she could process the terror, her phone erupted with a blaring, emergency ringtone.

Ina jumped. She looked at the screen. It was her father, Reginald Holman.

Ina stared at the screen. Her father never called her unless it was to demand she attend a PR event with Faron.

She swiped the green button. "Father?"

"Ina!" Reginald's voice was a hysterical, unrecognizable roar. In the background, the deafening wail of fire truck sirens pierced the audio.

"The Long Island estate!" Reginald screamed, his words stumbling over each other. "The gas lines! It exploded!"

Ina's brain flatlined. A high-pitched ringing filled her ears. "Where is Euna?" she asked. Her twin sister, Euna, lived in the guest house of that estate. But her father’s next words shattered her.

“She went to the main house after dinner!” Reginald sobbed. “She said she wanted to borrow a book from the west wing library. I told her not to bother, but she wouldn’t listen. Oh God, the whole west wing is gone.”

A guttural, ugly sob tore from her father's throat. "They can't find her. The whole west wing is gone."

The phone slipped from Ina's numb fingers. It hit the hardwood floor, the glass screen shattering into a spiderweb pattern.

The air was sucked out of the room. Ina lunged forward. She grabbed her Range Rover keys from the console table. She did not grab a coat. She sprinted out the door in her black turtleneck and jeans.

She reached the underground parking garage. She threw herself into the driver's seat and slammed her foot on the gas pedal. The heavy SUV tires shrieked against the concrete as she sped out.

She hit the Long Island Expressway. Ina gripped the leather steering wheel. Her knuckles were bone-white. She pressed the accelerator to the floor.

She swerved aggressively between cars, ignoring the blaring horns and speed limit signs. Hot tears blinded her vision. She angrily wiped them away with the back of her hand, leaving red streaks on her cheeks.

Miles away, she saw it. A massive pillar of thick, toxic black smoke billowing into the gray autumn sky.

She reached the perimeter of the Holman estate. The area was a war zone. Bright yellow police tape cordoned off the entire block. Dozens of police cruisers and fire engines flashed blinding red and blue lights.

Ina threw the car into park, shoved the door open, and ran toward the yellow tape.

Two massive police officers stepped in her path, blocking her.

"Let me through!" Ina screamed, fighting against their heavy arms. "I am family! My sister is in there!"

The officers looked at her with pity, but their grip remained firm. "Ma'am, it is an active hazard zone. You cannot pass."

Ina stopped struggling. She looked past the officers' shoulders.

The grand, historic west wing of her childhood home was gone. It was reduced to a smoking, blackened crater of shattered bricks and twisted metal beams.

From the center of the ruins, four firefighters wearing heavy gear slowly walked out. They were carrying a black, heavy-duty body bag.

The zipper on the bag was not pulled all the way to the top. A small piece of fabric hung out of the gap.

It was Euna's favorite vintage sundress.

Ina's lungs collapsed. All the strength vanished from Ina's legs. She collapsed onto the hard, freezing asphalt. Her knees hit the ground with a sickening thud.

She opened her mouth to scream, but her vocal cords paralyzed. No sound came out. Only a silent, agonizing gasp as tears poured down her face in a violent flood.

Directly across the street, parked perfectly in the shadows of a large oak tree, sat a black Rolls-Royce Phantom.

The rear passenger window silently rolled down halfway.

Buren Warner sat in the luxurious darkness. His face was entirely devoid of emotion. His cold, dark eyes were locked onto the fragile woman kneeling on the asphalt.

In the front seat, his executive assistant, Robin, turned around. He handed a thick, manila envelope through the partition.

"Sir," Robin said respectfully. "This is the complete background file on Ina Holman. It details the Holman family's imminent bankruptcy, and the hidden financial anomalies of her ex-boyfriend, Faron Levine."

Buren took the envelope. He pulled out the crisp white papers. His eyes rapidly scanned the financial data and the private investigator's notes.

He tossed the papers onto the leather seat beside him.

He looked back out the window. He watched Ina's shoulders shake with violent sobs. She was completely broken. Completely vulnerable.

Buren's jaw tightened. A dark, possessive hunger flared in his eyes. He tapped his index finger slowly against the leather armrest.

"Robin," Buren's voice was a low, absolute command. "Contact the creditors. Buy up the Holman family's debt. All of it."

"Yes, sir," Robin replied.

The tinted window of the Rolls-Royce glided up, sealing the billionaire inside his silent fortress. Buren had made his decision. He was going to own her.