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.

The air inside the exclusive Upper East Side private club was suffocatingly thick with the smell of white lilies and expensive perfumes.

Ina stood near the entrance of the memorial hall. She wore a severe, tailored black Givenchy dress. Her face was a pale, emotionless mask.

She mechanically shook hands with the Wall Street executives and socialites who walked past. They offered her words of sympathy, but their eyes were greedy, searching for signs of the Holman family's weakness.

Her older brother, Jett, walked over. He held a crystal flute of champagne. His face was flushed with anger.

"Did you see the Wall Street Journal?" Jett hissed, keeping his voice low. "They are calling the explosion a 'family curse.' Our stock took a nosedive this morning. The board is panicking."

Ina turned her head slowly. She stared at him with dead eyes. "Our sister's body is in an urn behind you, Jett. And you are worried about a stock ticker?"

Jett's face tightened. He glared at her, his pride stung. "Someone has to keep this family afloat," he spat, turning on his heel and walking toward a group of wealthy investors.

Faron Levine approached her from the opposite direction. He wore a sharp black suit. He arranged his facial features into a mask of profound sorrow.

"Ina, my love," Faron murmured. He reached out, aiming to pull her into a comforting embrace for the benefit of the watching crowd.

As he stepped close, the heavy scent of Tom Ford cologne hit Ina's nose. Underneath it, that same faint, lingering scent of cheap vape smoke clung to his lapel, triggering a violent wave of revulsion.

Ina's stomach violently contracted. Bile rose in her throat. She forcefully stepped sideways, dodging his arms completely.

Faron's hands grasped empty air. A flash of pure irritation crossed his eyes. He quickly lowered his arms, forcing a tight, embarrassed smile for the onlookers.

Inside Ina's black velvet clutch, her phone vibrated. Two short, aggressive bursts.

She needed an excuse to get away from Faron. "I need the restroom," she muttered, turning away before he could respond.

Ina walked swiftly down a dimly lit, empty corridor lined with antique oil paintings. She stopped under a brass wall sconce. She opened her clutch and pulled out her phone.

The screen showed two text messages from an unknown number.

She opened the first one.

Did you take the morning-after pill?

Ina's pupils dilated. Her breath hitched in her throat. Her fingers began to tremble uncontrollably.

Only one person in the world knew what happened that night. The man with the B. W. initials.

Before she could process the panic, the second message appeared.

The security cameras in The Plaza hallway are 4K resolution. And the audio recording on my phone is crystal clear.

A block of solid ice dropped into Ina's stomach. The cold spread through her veins. He had recorded her. He had proof. She was completely at his mercy.

She gritted her teeth. She hit the call button on the unknown number. She needed to scream at him.

The phone rang exactly once. Then, a harsh click. The line went dead. He hung up on her.

The screen lit up with a third message.

Tomorrow. 12:00 PM. Le Bernardin. Do not be late.

Ina gripped the phone so hard her knuckles ached. A wave of intense, burning humiliation washed over her.

She looked up. At the end of the corridor hung a large, ornate mirror. She stared at her reflection. Her skin was ghastly pale, but her eyes were burning with a fierce, desperate fire.

She could not let this man destroy her. She could not let Faron deceive her. She was surrounded by predators. If she stayed weak, they would eat her alive.

Ina took a deep breath. She shoved the phone back into her clutch.

She opened her makeup bag. She pulled out a tube of vivid, blood-red lipstick. She applied it with precise, aggressive strokes. The color instantly transformed her pale face into a weapon.

She smoothed the invisible wrinkles on her black dress. She straightened her spine, throwing her shoulders back.

She walked out of the corridor and back into the crowded hall.

She bypassed the grieving guests and walked straight toward her father, Reginald. He was standing in a circle of bankers, laughing softly at a joke.

Ina stepped directly into the circle, shattering the polite atmosphere.

"Father," Ina said. Her voice was loud, cold, and demanding. "I need to see the insurance claim documents for the Long Island estate. Now."

The bankers fell silent. Reginald's face turned a dark, furious red. He grabbed Ina's arm and yanked her away from the group.

"Are you insane?" Reginald hissed through his teeth. "Do not cause a scene here!"

Ina ripped her arm out of his grip. She stared him down, her red lips curling into a cold sneer.

"If you do not send those documents to my email by tonight," Ina said, her voice dripping with venom, "I will bring a team of forensic accountants to the corporate office tomorrow morning and demand a full audit."

Reginald stared at her, shocked by the sudden, vicious defiance in his usually obedient daughter. Ina turned her back on him and walked away. The war had begun.