Ayleen dragged her suitcase into a ridiculously trendy cocktail bar downtown. The kind of place where money and misery went to get drunk together.

She found an empty stool in a dark corner of the bar and ordered the most expensive whiskey they had. Neat.

The air was thick with the sound of forced laughter and the clinking of glasses. She was an island of quiet despair in an ocean of manufactured joy. She didn't belong, and for the first time in four years, she didn't care.

The first glass went down in one long, searing swallow. The burn in her throat was a welcome distraction from the fire in her chest.

Her phone buzzed on the bar. It was her best friend, Jaida.

"Ayleen? Where are you? Are you okay?" Jaida's voice was a frantic lifeline.

"I'm celebrating," Ayleen said, her own voice raspy and unfamiliar. "Celebrating my freedom."

"You don't sound like you're celebrating. You sound like you're dying. Don't move, I'm coming to get you. Keep your phone on."

Ayleen ended the call and signaled the bartender for another. She traced the condensation on the second glass with a numb finger.

The phone buzzed again. A local number she didn't recognize. Probably Don's lawyer, or a reporter he'd sicced on her. She silenced the call without a second thought.

In an office across town, a legal consultant for the Hope Hill clinic paced his floor. "She's not picking up," he muttered, running a hand through his hair.

He dialed again. On the bar, Ayleen's phone screen lit up, then went dark. She was already halfway through her third whiskey.

The alcohol was beginning to work its magic. The sharp edges of her pain were starting to blur. The noise of the bar faded to a distant hum.

A single tear escaped and traced a path down her cheek. She wiped it away angrily with the back of her sleeve.

The clinic's lawyer, now desperate, sent a long text message. Ms. Ramirez, this is an urgent matter from Hope Hill Clinic regarding the results of your recent procedure. Please contact us immediately. There is a critical discrepancy that needs your attention.

The message notification flashed on her screen for a second. But the battery icon was a sliver of red. Before the full text could load, the screen went black.

The phone was dead. And with it, the message that would have changed everything.

Ayleen pushed herself off the stool, the room tilting precariously. She stumbled toward the restroom, bumping into a man in a tailored suit. He shot her a dirty look. She just smiled a vague, foolish smile and mumbled an apology.

In the bathroom, she stared at her reflection. Her face was flushed, her eyes glassy and unfocused. She looked like a stranger. She splashed cold water on her face, but it did nothing to wash away the smell of whiskey and failure.

When she returned to the bar, a group of men had taken her seat, their predatory smiles making her skin crawl. She didn't have the energy to fight. She just grabbed her purse and headed for the exit.

The cold night air hit her like a slap. Her stomach heaved. She leaned against a lamppost, gagging, but there was nothing left to come up.

She rested her head against the cool metal, the neon signs across the street blurring into a kaleidoscope of meaningless color.

A black Maybach, silent as a shark, turned the corner.

Through the one-way glass, Burdette Guerrero saw her. A lone, pathetic figure, slumped against a lamppost, looking cheap and drunk.

"That's her," Sam confirmed from the opposite seat. "Ayleen Ramirez. Looks like she's had a rough night."

A cold, dismissive sneer formed on Burdette's lips. "Rough night? She's celebrating. Look at her. It's disgusting."

The cold wind sliced through her collar, making Ayleen's dizziness worse. She decided she couldn't keep waiting on the street. She needed to go back inside the bar, find a chair, and wait for Jaida.

She turned, her steps unsteady, the streetlights and neon signs swimming before her eyes. She aimed for the bar's entrance, navigating more by blurry instinct than by clear vision.

Just minutes earlier, Burdette Guerrero's Maybach had pulled up to the curb. Through the tinted glass, he'd cast a cold glance at the woman swaying on the sidewalk, then stepped out and entered through the bar's private VIP rear entrance. He despised the place. After less than a few minutes inside, he was already heading back out with Sam and a bodyguard, eager to leave.

Their paths converged like an inevitable car crash.

Ayleen walked straight into Burdette's chest. It was like hitting a wall of muscle and expensive wool. The impact sent her stumbling backward.

The whiskey glass still clutched in her hand flew from her grip. Amber liquid arced through the air in a perfect, horrifying trajectory, splashing directly onto the crotch of Burdette's custom-tailored suit trousers.

The dark stain spread quickly across the fabric.

A stunned silence fell over their small group.

Burdette froze, his entire body rigid with fury. He looked down at the spreading stain on his pants, then raised his eyes to the woman who had caused it.

Ayleen looked up, her alcohol-muddled brain struggling to focus. All she could make out was a sharp, angry jawline and eyes that glittered with menace in the dim light.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry," she slurred, instinct driving her to grab a cocktail napkin from a nearby table. Clutching the flimsy piece of paper, she lunged forward without a second thought—she had to fix her mistake.

Her hand, with that useless napkin, pressed directly against the wet, sensitive area of his trousers.

Burdette sucked in a sharp, ragged breath. His hand shot out and clamped around her wrist like a steel trap. The pressure was immense, shocking, and it sobered her up in an instant.

Ayleen let out a small whimper of pain. "I'm sorry, sir," she mumbled, her head spinning. "It was an accident..."

His face was inches from hers. She could smell the clean, sharp scent of his cologne mixed with the whiskey she'd just spilled. His eyes were black with rage. "Get your filthy hand off me," he snarled, his voice a low, dangerous growl.

The venom in his tone hit her like a bucket of ice water, cutting through the alcohol in an instant. Fear and humiliation washed over her. She tried to pull her hand back, but his grip was unbreakable.

"What's the matter?" he sneered, his gaze raking over her with contempt. "Is this some new, pathetic way to pick up a man? It's a little desperate, even for someone like you."

The insult landed like a slap. Fear burned into hot anger. "Let go of me!" she spat back, yanking her arm. "You walked into me!"

He released her so abruptly that she stumbled backward, crashing into a tall bar stool and sending it clattering to the floor with a loud bang.

People began to stare. Sam immediately stepped forward, shielding them from curious eyes.

Burdette looked down at the stain on his trousers as if it were a piece of rotting garbage. "Send her the bill," he said to Sam, his voice cold as ice. "For the suit. Not that she can afford it."

Ayleen's fury burned through every last shred of reason. She fumbled in her purse, pulled out a black card—the exclusive card issued by Guerrero Group's private bank, customized for the Bradley family—and slammed it down on the table. "Charge whatever you want!"

Burdette's eyes flickered to the card. His pupils contracted. He recognized it instantly. It was the card from his own bank, the Bradley family's customized edition.

His expression grew even colder, a new layer of disgust settling into his eyes. "Of course," he said softly, his voice dripping with contempt. "A kept woman. Spending another man's money is all you know how to do."

She couldn't take it anymore. She grabbed her purse, pushed through the gathering crowd, and fled into the night.

Burdette watched her run, a complex, unreadable expression on his face.

"Sir," Sam said quietly. "Should I run the card?"

Burdette nodded.

He walked into the restroom and stood before the mirror. The dark stain on his trousers was like a mark of humiliation. He, Burdette Guerrero, had been accosted, touched, and defiled by a drunk, classless woman.

He ripped off his tie, turned on the cold water, and splashed it violently against his face. The icy water dripped from his jaw, and the marble room echoed with his ragged, rapid breaths.

Her face—blurry but defiant—was now seared into his memory like a brand.