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.

The next morning, Ina sat by her bed in the penthouse.She had come home late from the gala, still shaking from Buren’s assault in the restroom, and had barely slept.

She stared at her phone. Her hands shook violently. The group chats were exploding. The socialites had spread the story of her bathroom gossip. But that wasn’t all. Sometime after midnight, an anonymous account had posted a grainy video clip on a gossip forum—footage taken from a fire escape across the street from The Plaza. It showed a disheveled woman in an oversized white shirt climbing down the rusted iron ladder. The face was blurry, but the timestamp and location were unmistakable. Within hours, the video had gone viral, and someone had identified the woman as Ina Holman. The rumors were vicious. They called her a slut, a liar, a disgrace.

She had thought Buren’s decoy had worked. But Faron’s private investigator—the one who had been with him at the hotel door—must have kept filming from a different angle, or perhaps someone else had sold the footage. Either way, the carefully constructed lie had crumbled. The Plaza scandal was now public.

Her phone buzzed with a text from her father: Get to the Fifth Avenue penthouse. Now.

She knew better than to argue. She threw on a coat and took a cab to the family apartment.

The heavy mahogany doors of the penthouse bedroom were suddenly kicked open. The wood slammed against the wall with a gunshot crack.

Her father, Reginald, stormed into the room. His face was purple with rage. He held a rolled-up copy of the New York Post.

He swung his arm and smashed the newspaper directly into Ina's face.

The paper unrolled, revealing the bold front-page headline: HOLMAN HEIRESS CAUGHT IN PLAZA SCANDAL.

"You stupid, worthless girl!" Reginald roared, spit flying from his lips. "You have made us a laughingstock! The investors are pulling out!"

Her brother, Jett, leaned against the doorframe. He crossed his arms and smiled cruelly. "Faron's father called ten minutes ago. The Levine family is officially canceling the proposed alliance. They refuse to merge with a whore."

Ina stood up. "Father, please. It is not what it looks like. I was set up!"

Reginald stepped forward and slapped her hard across the face.

The impact snapped Ina's head to the side. A burning red handprint instantly raised on her pale cheek. A high-pitched ringing filled her left ear.

"Shut up!" Reginald screamed. "You have violated the morality clause of the family trust. I have frozen all your accounts. You have one hour to pack your bags and get out of my building. You are no longer a Holman."

Ina held her burning cheek. She looked at her father's cold eyes and her brother's smug smile. The tears spilled over her lashes, but she did not beg.

She walked out of the penthouse without a word. She took a cab back to her Tribeca apartment, but when she tried the key, it wouldn’t turn. A notice was taped to the door: Property seized pending bankruptcy proceedings. All tenants vacate immediately. Her father hadn’t just frozen her accounts—he had used his remaining influence to have her apartment repossessed under the family trust’s fine print.

She had no money, no home she could safely return to, and nowhere to go. Faron would be looking for her. Buren would be watching. The only place she could think of—the one place no one would expect her to run—was her late grandfather’s abandoned estate in the Hamptons.

She dragged her single suitcase to the subway, then to a long-distance bus. It was a humiliating, grueling journey.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. It was Clementine.

Ina answered it. "Why did you do it, Clementine?" Ina croaked, her voice broken. "Why did you set me up to be drugged?"

Clementine burst into loud, hysterical sobs. "Ina, I swear to God I didn't! I am a victim too!"

Ina frowned. "What are you talking about?"

“I couldn’t sleep after what happened,” Clementine wailed. “I went to find the suitor my family had set me up with—the one you were supposed to meet. At first, he pretended he had no idea what I was talking about. He said he never agreed to any date. That was strange enough, but then a friend of mine saw him getting into a car with Davonta Snider—Faron’s driver. I got suspicious, Ina. So I hired a private investigator the very next morning to track Faron's movements.”

Ina’s breath hitched. The cold wind whipping down the street seemed to freeze the blood in her veins. Faron? Why would Clementine track Faron?

“Faron is gay, Ina!” Clementine’s voice dropped into a horrified whisper. “He and Davonta Snider have been together for years. Faron only strung you along to hide his sexuality from his conservative father. Davonta was the one who drugged you at the bar. He orchestrated the whole thing so Faron could catch you in a compromising position. And that suitor my family chose? He was a decoy—paid to claim ignorance and disappear. It was all Faron’s plan from the start.”

The phone slipped slightly in Ina's grip. Her mind raced, violently piecing together the fragmented memories. Faron's fake concern. The way he always avoided intimacy.

"They wanted to destroy your reputation and blame you entirely," Clementine sobbed, "so Faron could justify cutting off your family and keep his inheritance without ever having to marry you!"

The crushing despair vanished. It was replaced by a cold, black, consuming rage.

She dropped to a crouch next to a filthy street trash can. She buried her face in her hands and let out one loud, agonizing scream of betrayal.

Then, she stood up. She wiped her face aggressively. All the softness in her eyes was gone. She grabbed her suitcase handle. She was going to destroy Faron Levine.