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.

At exactly 11:55 AM the next day, Ina stood on the sidewalk outside Le Bernardin.

She wore a sharply tailored, stark white pantsuit. The severe cut acted as her armor. She took a deep breath, pushing the heavy glass door open, and stepped into the hushed, luxurious atmosphere of the three-Michelin-star restaurant.

The maître d' approached her with a practiced smile. "Welcome, madam. Do you have a reservation?"

"Under Warner," Ina said. Her voice was steady, but her heart hammered against her ribs.

The maître d's posture instantly became deferential. "Right this way, please."

He led her past the crowded main dining room, toward the back of the restaurant. They stopped at a secluded booth, completely shielded from the rest of the room by a tall, carved wooden screen.

Buren sat in the shadows of the booth. He wore a dark charcoal bespoke suit. He was looking down, reading a thick stack of financial acquisition documents.

Hearing her approach, Buren slowly raised his head. His dark, piercing eyes locked onto Ina. The air in the booth instantly grew heavy.

Ina's stomach tightened. She pulled out the chair opposite him and sat down, keeping her spine rigid.

Buren closed his file folder. He tossed it onto the pristine white tablecloth. He leaned back against the leather booth, studying her with the lazy, arrogant gaze of a predator watching its prey.

A waiter silently appeared, placing two glasses of expensive red wine on the table, then vanished.

Buren gestured toward the glass. "Drink."

Ina pushed the wine glass away. "I am not here to socialize. Name your price. What do you want to delete the recording?"

Buren let out a low, dark chuckle. The sound held no humor. "You are in no position to negotiate, Ms. Holman. You have no leverage."

Ina dug her nails into her palms under the table. "If you release that recording, the scandal will hit your company's stock too. It does not benefit you."

Buren did not argue. He simply reached into his suit jacket. He pulled out his sleek black smartphone. He unlocked it with his thumb and tapped the screen.

He placed the phone on the table.

From the speaker, a one-second audio clip played. It was a soft, desperate, unmistakable female moan.

Ina's face drained of all color. A wave of intense, burning shame crashed over her. The sound of her own loss of control echoing in the quiet restaurant was unbearable.

She lunged forward across the table, her hand shooting out to grab the phone.

Buren was faster. He flipped his wrist, easily dodging her hand. In the same fluid motion, his large hand clamped down on her wrist.

His grip was like a steel vise. The heat of his palm burned her cold skin. He forced her arm down, pinning her wrist flat against the table.

Buren leaned forward. His broad chest hovered over the table. His face was inches from hers.

"Do not test my patience," Buren warned. His voice was a dangerous whisper.

His thumb slowly, deliberately stroked the soft skin on the inside of her wrist, right over her racing pulse. He could feel her heart hammering in terror.

"Here are my terms," Buren said. "For the next thirty days, you will be my companion. You will attend events with me when I call. You will be available."

Ina's eyes widened in horror. "You are disgusting. I will never be your mistress."

Buren's eyes darkened. "It is a contract, not an affair. And you do not have the right to refuse."

The pressure on her wrist increased. The humiliation and anger boiled over in Ina's chest.

With a sudden, violent jerk, she ripped her hand out of his grip. A red mark instantly bloomed on her pale skin.

Ina grabbed her water goblet. It was filled with ice water and a slice of lemon.

Without a second thought, she threw the water directly into Buren's face.

The ice cubes hit his cheekbones. The freezing water splashed across his sharp features, dripping down his strong jawline and soaking the collar of his expensive charcoal suit.

The secluded corner fell dead silent.

Buren did not flinch. He did not wipe the water away. His dark eyes locked onto hers, burning with a terrifying, predatory heat.

He slowly pulled a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket. He wiped his jaw.

"You will pay for that," Buren whispered. The promise was absolute.

Ina grabbed her clutch. She turned and practically ran out of the restaurant, her heels clicking frantically against the hardwood floor.

Buren watched her flee. He pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek. A slow, dark smirk curved his lips. The hunt had officially begun.