Isolde burst into her bedroom, her chest heaving. She ran to the closet and hauled her largest suitcase from the back, throwing it onto the bed. Her hands shook as she unzipped it, but her mind was crystal clear.

She moved to the connecting door and pushed it open. The nightlight cast a soft glow over Bria's sleeping form. Her daughter was curled up, clutching a stuffed rabbit, her breathing soft and even.

"I promise you," Isolde whispered, her throat tight. "I won't let them ruin you. I won't let you become one of them."

She went back to her room and started grabbing clothes from the hangers, not caring if they matched. She shoved them into the suitcase.

A soft knock at the bedroom door made her freeze. She grabbed the heavy brass lamp from the nightstand, her knuckles white around the base.

"Mrs. Ruiz?" Linda's muffled voice came through the wood. "It's me."

Isolde let out a breath and set the lamp down. She opened the door. Linda stood there, holding a mug of steaming milk. Her eyes were red-rimmed.

"I heard the argument," Linda said, stepping inside and closing the door. She set the milk down and began folding the clothes Isolde had crumpled. "Mr. Clark isn't coming home tonight. He's at the apartment in the city. This is your best chance."

Isolde stared at her. "Linda, I can't ask you to-"

"You're not asking." Linda reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a thick wad of bills. She pressed them into Isolde's hand. "It's my savings. Take it. You need cash right now."

Isolde's eyes burned. She squeezed the older woman's hand. "Thank you."

She went back into Bria's room and gently shook her daughter awake. "Hey, sweetie. We're going on an adventure."

Bria rubbed her eyes, her voice sleepy. "An adventure?"

"A big one. We have to be very quiet, okay? Like little mice."

Bria nodded, too tired to argue. Isolde scooped her up, grabbing the stuffed rabbit. They crept down the back stairs, avoiding the main hall. Linda walked ahead, peering around corners. When they reached the side door, Linda created a distraction, dropping a tray of glasses in the kitchen. The guard posted in the hall went to investigate.

Isolde slipped out into the night. She strapped Bria into her car seat, her fingers fumbling with the buckles. She jumped into the driver's seat and started the engine. The tires crunched over the gravel, but she didn't slow down. She hit the gas, and the car shot forward, through the gates, and away from the Ruiz estate.

She didn't breathe easy until the Manhattan skyline appeared in her rearview mirror. She pulled up outside a brick apartment building in the West Village. Vivian Fletcher was already standing by the entrance, her dark hair pulled back, her face tight with worry.

The moment Isolde stepped out, Vivian was there, pulling her and Bria into a fierce hug. "I got your text. Come inside."

Once Bria was tucked away on the spare bed, Isolde collapsed onto Vivian's sofa. The adrenaline faded, leaving her hollowed out. She told Vivian everything. The club. The man with the cedar scent. Agnes's ultimatum. Kelsey's pregnancy.

Vivian's face was a mask of fury. "You need to divorce him, Isolde. Today. Take him for everything he's worth."

Isolde shook her head, her eyes fixed on the floor. "I can't. The prenup... if I file, I walk away with nothing. And Clark will fight me for Bria. He'll use his lawyers, his money. He'll take her just to punish me."

"There has to be a way," Vivian insisted.

The next morning, Isolde dropped Bria off at her elite pre-K program on the Upper East Side. She had just walked back to her car when her phone rang. The screen displayed Clark's name.

She answered, bracing herself. "What do you want, Clark?"

"My office. Now." His voice was devoid of emotion. Cold. Calculating.

"I have nothing to say to you."

"Then listen." The line went quiet for a moment. "I know where you spent the night, Isolde. Vivian Fletcher's apartment on West Village. Second floor, facing the street. Want me to send someone over to say hello?"

A chill ran down her spine. He was watching her. He had been watching the whole time.

"I'll be there," she said, her voice hard.

The drive to Ruiz Architecture was a blur. Isolde parked in the garage and took the elevator to the top floor. She walked into Clark's corner office, the floor-to-ceiling windows offering a sweeping view of the city he thought he owned.

Clark was practicing his golf swing, a putter in his hand. He didn't look up.

"I want a divorce," Isolde said, her voice echoing in the large room.

Clark laughed, a short, ugly sound. He set the putter down and walked toward her. He reached out and grabbed her chin, his fingers digging into her skin. "You ran away like a scared little rabbit last night. How did it feel? Did you think you were actually escaping?"

"I'm not playing games, Clark. I'm leaving."

He dropped his hand, his smile fading. "You're not going anywhere. You're going to do exactly what I tell you." He walked over to his desk and picked up a thick folder. "The Valdez deal is falling apart. You're going to fix it."

Isolde stared at him in disbelief. "You want me to fix your business deal? I'm not your secretary."

"No, you're my wife. And tonight, you're going to attend a dinner at The Cortland Hotel. Jacques Valdez will be there. You're going to go in there, smile, pour his drinks, and do whatever it takes to make him sign that contract."

"I'm not whoring for you," Isolde spat, turning to leave.

"Are you sure about that?" Clark's voice stopped her cold. "Are you sure Bria is safe at that little school of hers?"

Isolde froze. She turned slowly, her blood turning to ice. "What did you do?"

"Nothing yet." Clark leaned against his desk, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "But it's a big city. Accidents happen. Little girls wander off. It would be a shame if something happened to that little bastard of yours."

"You're a monster," Isolde whispered, her hands curling into fists.

"I'm a businessman. And right now, my business needs Valdez's signature. So you will go to that dinner, and you will make him happy. Or you will never see Bria again." He pulled a black credit card from his wallet and tossed it onto the desk. "Buy something appropriate. Don't embarrass me."

Isolde stared at the card, then at Clark. She wanted to scream. She wanted to claw his eyes out. But all she could see was Bria's face. She snatched the card off the desk and walked out, the door slamming shut behind her.

Isolde stared at her reflection in the gilded mirror of the hotel restroom. The black dress she had bought was too tight, too low-cut. It felt like a costume. She smoothed down the fabric, her stomach churning. She splashed cold water on her wrists, trying to calm the frantic beating of her heart.

She walked out, her heels sinking into the plush carpet. She stopped in front of the private dining room. The maître d' pulled the heavy wooden door open for her.

The room was thick with cigar smoke. Four men sat around a large round table, their laughter dying down as she entered. The silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable.

A man with greasy hair and a cheap suit-Rudy Kowalski-was the first to move. He stood up, his eyes crawling over her body. "Well, well. Mrs. Ruiz. I have to say, Clark is a lucky man." He reached out and touched her bare arm. "Thanks for sacrificing your evening for us."

Isolde pulled her arm away, her skin crawling. "Where is the investor?"

Rudy grinned and pointed toward the head of the table. "Right there."

Isolde followed his finger. The man at the head of the table was sitting with his back to her, swirling a glass of amber liquid. As she watched, he slowly turned around.

The air left Isolde's lungs.

The sharp jaw. The dark, piercing eyes. The cedar scent that suddenly overpowered the smell of cigars. It was him. The man from the club. The man she had mistaken for an escort.

Rudy was oblivious to her shock. "Mr. Valdez, this is Isolde Ruiz. She's here to make sure we have a very enjoyable evening."

Jacques Valdez. The CEO of the Valdez Group. One of the most powerful men in the country. And she had tried to hire him for sex. The legendary Jacques Valdez was notoriously private, never giving interviews, his face never gracing the covers of financial magazines-only blurry, years-old silhouettes circulated online. She had never imagined she would meet him in the flesh, let alone in a dark hotel room.

Jacques didn't speak. He simply looked at her, his gaze unreadable. He leaned back in his chair, his long fingers tapping against the table. "Are you here to entertain us, Mrs. Ruiz?"

Isolde opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She thought of Bria. She thought of Clark's threat. She forced herself to nod.

Rudy took that as his cue. He grabbed a bottle of vodka from the table and poured a generous amount into a shot glass. "Let's start with a toast! Three shots to our new partnership!"

He shoved the glass toward her. Isolde looked at the clear liquid. She couldn't drink. She never drank. The smell alone made her head spin.

"Come on, don't be shy!" Rudy urged, his face flushed. He reached out as if to force the glass to her lips.

Isolde closed her eyes, bracing herself for the burn.

Click.

The sharp sound of a lighter snapping shut cut through the room. Isolde's eyes flew open. Jacques was holding a thick Cuban cigar, the flame just extinguished. He looked at Rudy, his expression flat.

"She's not drinking that." Jacques's voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of a command.

Rudy blinked. "But Mr. Valdez, it's just a little-"

"Come here." Jacques looked at Isolde, ignoring Rudy entirely. He held out a gold lighter. "Light this for me."

Isolde hesitated. The men around the table exchanged confused glances. But the look in Jacques's eyes left no room for argument. She walked around the table, her legs unsteady. She took the lighter from him.

She leaned in, striking the flame. It flickered to life, illuminating Jacques's face. He was close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his skin. His eyes locked onto hers, the flame reflecting in their dark depths.

"Nice to see you again, little liar." he murmured, his voice so low only she could hear.

Isolde's hand jerked. The lighter slipped, but Jacques caught it, his hand closing over hers. His grip was firm, his skin hot. He held her gaze for a long moment, then guided the flame to the tip of his cigar.

He took a slow drag, then exhaled a cloud of smoke directly into her face. Isolde coughed, stepping back. He released her hand, his eyes never leaving her face.

"You can go back to your corner now." he said, his voice returning to its normal volume.

Isolde retreated, her heart pounding against her ribs. Little liar. He knew. He knew she had lied at the club. And he was playing with her.

The dinner dragged on. Isolde sat in silence, picking at her food. Every time she looked up, Jacques was watching her. His gaze was heavy, assessing. It made her feel like a piece of meat on a slab.

Rudy, emboldened by the alcohol, tried to pour her another drink. Jacques interrupted him. "Mr. Kowalski, I believe the structural report for the Hudson project is incomplete. Explain the discrepancy in the load-bearing calculations."

Rudy paled, scrambling for his documents. Isolde took the opportunity to slip out of her chair.

"I need the restroom." she mumbled, not waiting for a response.

She fled the room, her heels clicking rapidly down the hallway. She needed air. She needed to think. She needed to figure out how she was going to get out of this nightmare.

Isolde didn't make it five feet past the door. A large hand slammed against the wall right beside her head, blocking her path. The scent of cedar and cigar smoke enveloped her.

She gasped, spinning around. Jacques pinned her against the wall, his body a wall of solid muscle. The hallway was dimly lit, the shadows making his face look even more menacing.

"Running away again?" he asked, his voice a low growl. "You seem to make a habit of it."

"Let me go." Isolde said, trying to keep her voice steady. "I need to get back-"

"Back to what? Playing the dutiful wife?" Jacques leaned in closer, his face inches from hers. "Last night you were throwing yourself at me. Tonight you're serving me drinks. Which one is the real you, Isolde?"

"It was a mistake." she whispered. "I didn't know who you were."

"Didn't you?" He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the silver bracelet. The Mitchell crest glinted under the dim light. He dangled it in front of her face.

Isolde's eyes widened. She reached for it instinctively. "That's mine!"

Jacques yanked it back, holding it out of her reach. "You left it in my room. Along with a lot of unanswered questions." He stepped closer, his thigh pressing against hers. "You expect me to believe it's a coincidence? That the woman who tried to buy me last night just happens to be the wife of the man begging for my investment?"

"It is a coincidence," Isolde insisted, her voice rising in panic. "I didn't know you were the investor. I didn't even know your name until ten minutes ago!"

Jacques scoffed. "You're a terrible liar. A man in my position meets a lot of women who play games. But you? You're playing a dangerous one. Coming to my room. Leaving your little trinket for me to find. Showing up here with your husband's business partners." He grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him. "What are you after? Money? Information?"

"I'm not after anything!" Isolde cried, trying to twist away. "My husband made me come here. I don't want anything from you!"

"Is that right?" Jacques's grip tightened. "Then why did you come to the club last night? Why did you look at me like I was the answer to all your prayers?"

Isolde couldn't tell him the truth. She couldn't tell him she was there to cheat on her husband. It was too humiliating. She clamped her mouth shut, her eyes burning with unshed tears.

Jacques took her silence as an admission. His eyes darkened, a dangerous glint entering them. "Let me give you a piece of advice, Isolde. If you're going to play with fire, make sure you don't get burned. And if you come into my territory, you don't get to run away when things get hot."

He released her chin, stepping back. The elevator at the end of the hall dinged, the doors sliding open. Jacques glanced at the sound, his expression hardening.

Isolde didn't wait. She ducked under his arm and sprinted down the hall, away from the elevator. She pushed through the door to the service stairwell, her heart hammering in her chest. She leaned against the cold concrete wall, her legs giving out. She slid to the floor, gasping for breath.

She had to go back. Her purse was still in the dining room. Her phone was in her purse. She couldn't leave without it.

She waited five minutes, trying to compose herself. Then she pushed open the door and crept back down the hall. She took a deep breath and opened the door to the private dining room.

The atmosphere inside had shifted. It was freezing. Jacques was back in his seat, his face like thunder. Rudy and the other men sat in rigid silence, their faces pale.

Rudy saw Isolde and nearly jumped out of his chair. "Mrs. Ruiz! Thank God. Come, sit down. Pour the wine."

Isolde walked over to the table, her hands trembling. She picked up the bottle of wine.

Before she could pour, Jacques slammed his whiskey glass down on the table. The crack of glass against wood was like a gunshot.

Isolde jumped, the wine bottle slipping. Red liquid splashed across the white tablecloth. Rudy opened his mouth to yell, but one look from Jacques shut him up.

Jacques stood up, his movements slow and deliberate. He adjusted his cufflinks, his gaze sweeping over the terrified men. "This meeting is over. The rest of the discussion is confidential." He turned his cold stare to Isolde. "And she doesn't belong here. Get her out."

Rudy scrambled to his feet. He walked over to Isolde, his face red with suppressed anger. He pointed toward the door. "Out. Now."

Isolde stood frozen, her face burning with shame. Every man at the table was staring at her. She saw the pity, the disgust, the amusement. She grabbed her purse off the chair.

She held her head high, refusing to let them see her cry. She walked out of the room, the door clicking shut behind her.

The moment she was alone, the tears fell. She leaned against the wall, her body shaking. She had failed. She had been humiliated. And Clark was going to make her pay.