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.

Ina burst through the doors of Le Bernardin. The cold Manhattan wind hit her face, cooling her flushed cheeks. Her chest heaved as she gasped for air.

She hailed a cab immediately. "Guggenheim Museum," she ordered the driver. She needed to work. She needed to bury her panic under logistics and art.

When she arrived at the museum, Ina threw herself into the preparation for the upcoming charity art exhibition. It was her only remaining professional responsibility.

She stood on the curved, white balcony of the second floor. She was pointing and giving directions to two workers hanging a massive abstract oil painting.

Suddenly, the sharp, echoing click of designer heels rang out from the ground floor lobby. It was accompanied by a high-pitched, overly sweet female laugh.

Ina instinctively grabbed the white railing and looked down.

Her stomach plummeted.

Buren Warner was walking into the museum. He had changed into a dark navy suit. He looked immaculate, showing zero signs of the ice water she had thrown at him an hour ago.

Hanging off his right arm was Alex Stone. Hanging off his left arm was his younger sister, Gigi Warner.

Ina panicked. She scrambled backward, hiding her body behind a massive, solid marble sculpture near the railing.

She held her breath. Her heart pounded so loudly she was afraid it would echo in the cavernous museum.

Down below, Alex pointed at a painting. "Oh, Buren, buy that one for me! It matches my dining room."

Buren's voice floated up, cold and bored. "Buy it yourself, Alex."

Gigi suddenly stopped walking. She tilted her head, looking up toward the second-floor balcony. "Wait. Did I just see Ina Holman up there?"

Ina slapped both hands over her mouth. She squeezed her eyes shut.

Buren followed his sister's gaze. He looked up. His sharp eyes instantly locked onto the shadow cast by the marble sculpture.

Even from a floor away, Ina felt the physical weight of his stare.

Buren smoothly detached himself from the two women. "I need to use the restroom. Go look at the modern wing."

Ina heard the heavy, rhythmic thud of his leather shoes ascending the spiral ramp. He was coming up.

She looked around frantically. The workers had blocked the emergency exit with crates. She was trapped.

Buren's tall, imposing figure rounded the corner. He walked straight behind the marble sculpture, cutting off her only escape route.

He stepped closer, forcing Ina to back up until her spine hit the cold, white wall.

Buren raised his arm and planted his hand flat against the wall beside her head. His large body completely caged her in.

He leaned down. The familiar, intoxicating scent of cedarwood and mint invaded her lungs. His warm breath brushed against her ear.

Ina turned her face away, her jaw tight. "What do you want from me?" she hissed.

Buren let out a low, mocking scoff. "You really are ungrateful."

He leaned closer, his lips almost brushing her skin. "That Page Six article. The photo with Alex. I called the paparazzi myself."

Ina froze.

"I used Alex as a decoy," Buren whispered, his voice dark and smooth. "I walked her out the side door to draw the dogs away from the presidential suite. I cleared your name."

Ina slowly turned her head. Her nose almost brushed his cheek. She stared into his eyes, completely stunned.

"Is this how you treat the man who saved you from a public crucifixion?" Buren asked.

Ina's brain spun. The solid wall of hatred she had built against him cracked. She looked deep into his dark eyes and, for the first time, saw a strange, fierce protectiveness hiding beneath the cruelty.

"Buren? Where are you?" Alex's annoying voice echoed from the ramp below.

The spell broke. Buren straightened up. He looked down at Ina's confused, trembling lips.

He turned and walked away without another word, leaving Ina pinned against the wall, her heart racing for an entirely different reason.

The charity art gala was in full swing.

Ina stood in the luxurious, marble-lined women's restroom. She had just downed three glasses of champagne in quick succession. Her cheeks were hot, and her mind was buzzing. She needed the alcohol to drown out the confusing memory of Buren pinning her against the wall.

She turned on the gold faucet and splashed cold water on her wrists.

The heavy restroom door swung open. A group of three socialites walked in. They were Ina's "friends"—women who smiled to her face and gossiped behind her back.

"Ina!" one of them chirped. "How are the reconciliation plans with Faron?"

Ina's stomach churned at Faron's name. "Fine," she lied smoothly. "Still planning."

Another socialite leaned against the counter, her eyes gleaming with gossip. "Did you see Buren Warner out there? God, he is gorgeous. I wonder what a man that cold is like in bed. Probably an absolute beast."

Hearing his name triggered a sudden, rebellious spike of adrenaline in Ina's blood. The alcohol stripped away her usual caution. She wanted to tear down his arrogant image—just once, to feel like she wasn't completely at his mercy.

Ina let out a loud, dismissive laugh. She leaned against the cold marble sink, crossing her arms defensively, and tilted her chin up with feigned boredom.

"Buren?" she said, her voice dropping into a cool, dismissive drawl. "Please. He is all show. I heard from a very reliable source that beneath that terrifying exterior, he is shockingly... underwhelming. The kind of man who lacks any real staying power when it actually matters. Quite disappointing, really."

The socialites gasped in unison. Their eyes widened to the size of saucers. Then, they erupted into high-pitched, hysterical laughter.

Ina smiled, feeling a petty, vindictive thrill.

She had no idea that the restroom door had not fully closed. Through the inch-wide gap, a tall figure in a black tuxedo had been passing by and stopped dead at the sound of her voice.

Buren Warner stood just outside, his jaw clenched, his dark eyes burning. He had not been hiding—he had simply been walking to the private lounge down the hall when Ina’s mocking words drifted through the crack. Every syllable landed like a slap.

He pushed the door open without hesitation.

Click.

The laughter died instantly.

Buren stepped into the women's restroom. His face was a mask of terrifying, lethal fury.

The temperature in the restroom plummeted. The socialites looked like they had just seen a ghost. They clutched their designer bags, let out squeaks of terror, and bolted out the door, leaving Ina alone.

Buren walked slowly toward the exit. He reached out and pushed the heavy double doors shut. He turned the deadbolt. Lock.

Ina's legs turned to water. She tried to dart sideways toward the stalls.

Buren's hand shot out. His dark eyes locked onto hers, burning with a lethal intensity. His arm moved in a blur of motion, the expensive wool of his tuxedo sleeve brushing the air. His long, iron-hard fingers clamped down on her upper arm. The grip was bruising, his thumb pressing deeply into the soft skin, sending a jolt of sharp, electric pain radiating up to her shoulder. The heat of his palm seared through the thin fabric of her dress. He yanked her forward with brutal, effortless force. The sudden momentum stole the breath from her lungs. Before she could even gasp, he spun her around and slammed her back against the hard, unforgiving edge of the marble sink. The impact vibrated through her spine. He planted both hands on the counter on either side of her hips, trapping her completely.

He leaned down until his nose was touching hers. His eyes were black with rage.

"Underwhelming?" Buren growled, his voice vibrating with anger.

Ina squeezed her eyes shut. Her eyelashes fluttered in pure terror. "I... I was joking. It was a joke."

Buren's hand moved up. He gripped her jaw, his long fingers pressing into her cheeks, forcing her to look at him.

"You talk too much," he whispered.

He crashed his mouth down onto hers.

It was not a kiss of passion. It was a brutal, punishing assault. He forced her lips apart, dominating her mouth completely.

Ina gasped. She raised her hands and beat her fists against his solid chest, but it was like hitting a brick wall. He did not move an inch.

Her lungs burned. She couldn't breathe. The cedarwood scent was suffocating her.

Just as her knees buckled, Buren abruptly pulled back.

He wiped his thumb across his mouth, smearing her red lipstick. He looked down at her swollen lips and terrified eyes.

"You will pay for that mouth," he sneered.

He turned, unlocked the door, and walked out.

Ina collapsed onto the cold tile floor. She knew the socialites were already spreading the rumor. By tomorrow, she would be the laughingstock of the Upper East Side. She was socially dead.