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.

Isolde stumbled into the hotel lobby, her vision blurred by tears. She fumbled in her purse for her phone. She had to call Clark. She had to try and explain. Maybe if she begged, he would understand.

The phone rang and rang. No answer.

Panic clawed at her throat. She turned back toward the dining room. Maybe she could talk to Jacques. Maybe she could apologize. Maybe-

The door flew open. Rudy Kowalski stormed out, his face twisted in rage. He spotted Isolde and marched over to her.

"You stupid bitch!" he shouted, spittle flying from his lips. "Do you know what you just did? Valdez just killed the deal! Three hundred million dollars, gone! Because of you!"

Isolde shrank back, her hands raised. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"

"Sorry doesn't cut it!" Rudy grabbed her arm, his fingers digging in. "Clark is going to destroy you. You hear me? You're finished!"

He shoved her away, storming off toward the elevators. Isolde stood in the middle of the lobby, the stares of the hotel guests boring into her like needles.

Her phone rang. She looked at the screen. Clark.

She answered, her voice a hoarse whisper. "Clark, please, let me explain-"

"You're done." His voice was devoid of any emotion. The line went dead.

Isolde stared at the black screen. The fear that had been simmering in her gut exploded into full-blown terror. Clark's threats were never empty.

Bria.

She dialed the nanny's number. No answer. She dialed the school's front office. The line rang twice before a receptionist picked up.

"Manhattan Preparatory Academy, how can I help you?"

"This is Isolde Ruiz. I need to check if my daughter, Bria, is still at school."

"One moment, Mrs. Ruiz." A long pause. "No, ma'am. Her father picked her up over an hour ago."

The floor dropped out from under Isolde. "What? He wasn't supposed to-did he say where they were going?"

"No, ma'am. He had the proper identification. We couldn't stop him."

Isolde hung up, a scream building in her chest. She ran out of the hotel, into the chaotic Manhattan traffic. She hailed a cab, throwing a bill at the driver. "Manhattan Prep! Hurry!"

By the time she reached the school, the sun was setting. The playground was empty. The building was dark. She ran to the security booth, pounding on the glass.

"Where is she?" she yelled. "Where is my daughter?"

The guard shook his head, confused. "Ma'am, the school is closed. If you don't have custody papers-"

Isolde didn't listen. She ran to the curb, dialing Clark's number over and over. It went straight to voicemail. She texted Agnes. Nothing.

She wandered the streets, her mind racing. Bria was allergic to cats. Clark's mistress, Kelsey, had three Persians. If Bria was there, she could go into anaphylactic shock.

Isolde collapsed onto a bench, her body wracked with sobs. People walked by, giving her a wide berth. She didn't care. Her daughter was gone.

Her phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.

She opened it. It was a photo. A little girl with dark hair, standing in front of a dessert display. Her back was to the camera, but Isolde would recognize that little pink jacket anywhere. Bria.

Isolde scrambled to her feet. She zoomed in on the photo. In the corner, a poster advertised a jazz night. It was the hotel. The very hotel she had just left. The message felt calculated, timed perfectly to her despair. Whoever sent this wanted her back here.

She sprinted back toward The Cortland, her lungs burning. She burst through the revolving doors and ran into the main dining room. It was packed with people. She pushed through the crowd, her eyes scanning every face.

"Bria!" she screamed. "Bria!"

A waiter tried to stop her. "Ma'am, you can't-"

"Bria!" Isolde shoved him aside, running toward the back of the room.

Two security guards moved toward her. Isolde panicked, her eyes darting around the room. And then she saw him.

Jacques Valdez was walking out of a VIP corridor, his bodyguard Ken a step behind him.

Isolde didn't think. She just acted. She ran toward him, her hands outstretched. "Help me! Please, you have to help me!"

Ken stepped forward, his arm blocking her path. He was a wall of solid muscle.

"Please," Isolde begged, trying to see around him. "Mr. Valdez, please!"

Jacques walked past her. He didn't even look in her direction. His face was impassive, his eyes straight ahead. He treated her like she was invisible. Like she was nothing.

Isolde's knees buckled. She fell to the floor, the sobs tearing from her chest. She was alone. No one was going to help her.