The bass from the speakers vibrates through the floorboards, traveling up Adaline's legs and rattling her ribs.

It is Friday night. Adaline sits at the sticky bar of a crowded, neon-lit pub in Soho. She is wearing a black silk slip dress that clings to her curves, the thin straps barely holding the fabric up.

She lifts a shot glass of cheap tequila and throws it back. The alcohol burns a fiery path down her throat, making her cough, but it successfully numbs the edges of her anxiety.

Across the small circular table, Camilla Royce is nursing a vodka soda, looking at Adaline with a mixture of confusion and judgment. They are only here because the marketing group decided to celebrate finishing the proposal draft.

Adaline's phone vibrates on the wet table.

The screen lights up: Barron Cooke: Tomorrow at 7:00 PM. Shall I send a car to your apartment?

Adaline stares at the text. The polite, controlling tone makes her skin crawl.

She looks up from the phone and scans the crowded dance floor. The strobe lights flash, illuminating sweaty bodies. Her eyes lock onto a guy from her macroeconomics lecture. Chet Donnelly.

Chet is six-foot-two, built like a rugby player, with messy blond hair and a cocky smile. He is exactly the kind of loud, obnoxious frat-boy type that an old, refined billionaire would despise.

Adaline stands up. She smooths down the front of her silk dress.

"Watch my drink," she tells Camilla.

She weaves through the crowd, her heels clicking against the beer-stained floor. She approaches Chet, pasting a bright, flirty smile on her face.

Chet notices her immediately. His eyes drop to her neckline before snapping back up to her face. "Adaline. Didn't think this was your scene."

Adaline steps uncomfortably close to him. She has to shout over the music. "Chet! Do me a huge favor. Take a picture with me."

Chet grins, clearly taking this as an invitation. "Sure thing, gorgeous."

Adaline pulls out her phone and opens the camera. She turns her back to his chest. She grabs his thick arm and wraps it around her waist. She leans her head back so her cheek is pressed intimately against his jaw.

The red and blue neon lights wash over them, making the scene look incredibly illicit.

Adaline snaps the photo.

She immediately ducks out of his grip. "Thanks, Chet. You're a lifesaver."

Before he can try to keep her there, she turns and speed-walks back to the bar. Her heart is pounding with adrenaline.

She sits back on her stool. She opens WhatsApp.

She attaches the photo of her and Chet.

She types: Sorry, Mr. Cooke. I have to cancel our dinner tomorrow. My boyfriend just flew into London to surprise me for the weekend. He gets very jealous.

She hits send.

She stares at the screen, a wicked, triumphant smile playing on her lips. "Checkmate, old man," she whispers.

Three thousand miles away, in New York City.

The boardroom at the top of the Omni Corp tower is dead silent. The air pressure in the room is suffocatingly heavy.

Barron Cooke sits at the head of the long mahogany table. He is wearing a charcoal three-piece suit. His posture is relaxed, but his presence dominates the space.

A senior vice president is sweating profusely as he presents a quarterly loss report.

Barron's personal phone, resting face-up on the table, lights up.

He glances down.

His dark eyes lock onto the photo.

The vice president stutters and stops speaking. The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees.

Barron stares at the image of Adaline. He sees the thin silk dress. He sees the heavy, masculine hand resting intimately on her bare waist. He sees the flush on her cheeks.

A muscle in Barron's jaw feathers. His teeth clench together so tightly a faint clicking sound can be heard.

He knows she is lying. He had her background thoroughly checked. Her ex-boyfriend is Rhys Fallon, a dark-haired actor. The blonde boy in the photo is a prop.

But the fact that she let another man touch her waist just to spite him ignites a dark, violent possessiveness deep in his chest.

Barron slowly picks up his phone. He does not type a reply.

He presses a button on the intercom built into the table.

"Evelyn," his voice is a low, terrifying rumble.

The door opens instantly. His executive assistant, Evelyn, steps in. "Yes, Mr. Cooke?"

"Run facial recognition on the man in this photo. I want his name, his family background, and his current location," Barron commands, sliding the phone toward her. "And prep the Gulfstream. We are flying to London. Now."

Evelyn's eyes widen slightly, but she nods. "Right away, sir."

Back in London.

Adaline checks her phone. Ten minutes have passed. No reply.

She laughs out loud. She feels a massive weight lift off her shoulders. She actually did it. She scared him off.

"Bartender!" Adaline shouts, waving her hand. "A round of champagne! Put it on my tab!"

She turns to Camilla, her eyes sparkling with reckless joy.

Suddenly, a heavy body presses against her side.

Adaline flinches and turns. Chet is standing right next to her stool. He is holding two brightly colored cocktails.

"Since we took that couple's photo," Chet slurs slightly, his breath smelling of cheap beer, "I figured we should act like one."

He slides one of the cocktails across the wet bar top toward her. His eyes are dark and predatory.

Adaline's smile vanishes. A wave of disgust hits her. She leans back, creating distance.

"Back off, Chet," Adaline says, her voice cold and sharp. "It was just a photo. Leave me alone."

Chet's face hardens. His pride is visibly wounded. He glares at her for a second, then scoffs. "Stuck-up bitch."

He turns and shoves his way back into the crowd, leaving the brightly colored cocktail sitting on the bar next to Adaline's empty tequila glass.

Adaline rolls her eyes. She turns back to Camilla to complain about him.

In the chaotic, flashing lights of the pub, she does not notice the bartender, Marco, who had been watching the exchange. Catching a subtle, paid-off nod from Chet in the crowd, Marco casually reaches over and swaps the position of her empty tequila glass with the spiked cocktail Chet had left behind.

The DJ transitions into a heavy, thumping techno track. The crowd on the dance floor erupts into a roar.

Adaline turns back to the bar. Her throat is dry from shouting over the music. She reaches out without looking and grabs the glass sitting directly in front of her.

She brings the brightly colored cocktail to her lips and drinks half of it in one gulp. The liquid is overly sweet, masking the taste of the alcohol.

She sets the glass down.

Less than three minutes later, a strange sensation begins at the back of her throat. It starts as a mild tickle, like she swallowed a piece of dust.

Adaline coughs into her fist.

The sensation rapidly escalates into a heavy, unnatural heat that pools in her stomach. It feels like someone has injected liquid fire directly into her veins.

She frowns. She reaches up and tugs at the thin strap of her dress, suddenly feeling incredibly hot. A sheen of feverish sweat breaks out across her collarbones.

She blinks. The flashing neon lights of the pub suddenly stretch into long, blinding streaks of color. Her vision is blurring at the edges. The heavy bass of the music sounds like it is underwater, muffled and distorted.

Panic, cold and sharp, pierces through her alcohol-fuzzed brain.

She looks down at the half-empty glass on the bar.

I've been drugged.

The thought hits her like a freight train. Chet. He bought the drink. He was angry when she rejected him.

Adaline tries to stand up. Her legs feel like they are made of wet sand. Her knees buckle, and she heavily bumps against the edge of the bar.

"Camilla," Adaline tries to say.

The word comes out as a weak, breathless slur. Her tongue feels thick, and her mind is spinning out of control.

Camilla is facing the other way, laughing loudly at something a guy next to her said. She doesn't hear Adaline.

Adaline's chest heaves. Her limbs feel incredibly heavy, yet a terrifying, involuntary wave of arousal begins to cloud her judgment. She knows if she loses consciousness at the bar, whoever drugged her will take her.

Pure survival instinct takes over. She pushes herself off the bar stool. She stumbles blindly away from the dance floor, heading toward the dark corridor at the back of the pub where the VIP rooms and restrooms are located. She needs to find a quiet place to call the police.

She bounces off sweaty bodies. People shove her back, cursing at her, but she cannot hear them. Her lungs are burning. Every breath is a desperate, agonizing struggle.

She reaches the dark corridor. The noise of the club fades slightly.

She leans against the damp brick wall, her chest heaving. She reaches into her small clutch purse with trembling, numb fingers.

Empty.

Her phone is gone. She left it on the bar.

The realization shatters her last shred of hope. Tears of absolute terror spill down her cheeks. Her legs give out completely. She slides down the rough brick wall and collapses onto the sticky floor in front of a closed VIP door.

Darkness edges into her vision. She curls into a ball, gasping for air that won't come.

Meanwhile, at London Heathrow Airport.

The sleek white Gulfstream G650ER touches down on the wet tarmac, its engines roaring as they reverse thrust.

Before the plane even comes to a complete stop, the cabin door opens.

Barron Cooke descends the stairs. He is wearing a long, black wool trench coat over his suit. The London wind whips the hem of his coat, but his posture is rigid, immovable. His face is a mask of terrifying, lethal calm.

Evelyn, his assistant, hurries down the stairs behind him, holding an iPad.

"Sir, we have the location of the pub," Evelyn says, her voice tight with stress. "But Miss Poole's phone has been disconnected. It is going straight to voicemail."

Barron's footsteps halt.

His jaw clenches so hard a muscle ticks visibly beneath his skin. A dark, violent storm brews in his eyes.

He strides toward the waiting black Rolls-Royce Phantom on the tarmac. He yanks the door open himself.

"Soho," Barron orders the driver, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "Break every speed limit. Get me there now."

The Rolls-Royce tears out of the airport.

Inside the pub corridor.

Adaline is semi-conscious. Her skin is flushed a deep, feverish pink. A sheen of sweat coats her skin, and she is panting softly, overwhelmed by the potent chemical coursing through her bloodstream.

Footsteps approach.

A man wearing a bartender's uniform-Marco-stops in front of her. He looks down at the girl curled on the floor.

"Hey," Marco says, nudging her leg with his shoe. "You can't sleep here, sweetheart. You're blocking the door."

Adaline feels the touch. Through her oxygen-deprived panic, her brain screams that this is the man who drugged her. He is here to take her.

Adaline's eyes snap open. Driven by pure, adrenaline-fueled terror, she swings her arm wildly.

Her hand connects with Marco's shin. "Get off... don't touch me..." she rasps, her voice barely a whisper.

Marco scowls. "Crazy bitch," he mutters. He reaches down, grabbing Adaline roughly by the upper arm, intending to drag her out the back alley door.

Before his fingers can fully close around her arm, a sound like a bomb going off echoes through the corridor.

The heavy fire door at the end of the hall is suddenly wrenched open with a violent, resounding crash. The metal hinges groan in protest as the lock gives way to forced entry.

Blinding white light from the streetlamps floods the dark corridor.

Standing in the center of the doorway is a towering silhouette.

The man steps into the corridor. The air pressure in the hallway instantly drops. He radiates a terrifying, suffocating aura of absolute violence.

"Take your hands off her," Barron Cooke says.

His voice is not loud, but it cuts through the thumping bass of the club like a razor blade. It is a command from a man who holds the power of life and death.

Marco freezes. He looks up at the man walking toward him.

Barron Cooke does not walk; he stalks. His black trench coat flares around his legs. Behind him, two massive men in dark suits step into the corridor, blocking the exit.

Marco releases Adaline's arm and takes a step back, his hands raised in surrender. "Hey, man, I was just trying to move her..."

Barron does not even look at the bartender. He doesn't need to. He gives a microscopic nod to his security detail.

In less than a second, one of the bodyguards lunges forward, executing a flawless, professional submission hold. He twists Marco's arm sharply behind his back and forcefully pins him face-first against the rough brick wall. Marco gasps in pain, completely immobilized.

Barron drops to one knee beside Adaline.

The lethal anger in his eyes vanishes the moment he sees her face.

Adaline is gasping for breath, her chest rising and falling erratically. Her face is flushed with an unnatural heat, her skin burning to the touch. She is trembling violently from the narcotic.

Barron's heart contracts painfully in his chest.

He immediately shrugs off his heavy black trench coat. He wraps the thick, warm wool tightly around Adaline's shivering body, completely covering her revealing silk dress.

He slides one arm under her knees and the other behind her back. With effortless strength, he lifts her off the floor, cradling her against his chest.

He stands up. He looks at Evelyn, who has just entered the corridor.

"Shut this place down," Barron orders. His voice is ice. "Buy the building if you have to. No one leaves until we find out what she drank."

He turns and carries Adaline out of the pub.

The cold London rain hits them immediately. Adaline whimpers at the shock of the cold. Instinctively, she turns her face inward, burying her nose into the lapel of Barron's suit jacket, seeking his body heat.

Barron's breath catches. He tightens his grip on her and strides to the waiting Rolls-Royce.

The driver holds the rear door open. Barron slides into the spacious back seat, keeping Adaline securely in his lap.

"The nearest private hospital," Barron commands the driver. "Now."

The heavy door shuts, sealing them inside the soundproof, dimly lit cabin.

Adaline's brain is completely misfiring. The potent designer narcotic mixed into the cocktail is flooding her system, heavily distorting her senses. Combined with the alcohol, she is entirely delirious.

Her panicked mind is losing the battle against the chemical. The extreme heat, the racing heart, and the hypersensitivity of her skin are undeniable effects of the powerful aphrodisiac-laced drug Chet had intended for her.

She squirms in Barron's lap. The thick wool coat feels too hot.

"So hot..." Adaline whimpers. She tries to push the coat off her shoulders.

Barron immediately catches her wrists in one large hand. His grip is firm but incredibly gentle.

"Stop moving, Adaline," Barron says, his deep voice rumbling in his chest. "We are almost at the hospital."

Adaline blinks. Her vision is blurry, but through the dim streetlights passing by the window, she focuses on the sharp, masculine line of his jaw.

She does not recognize him. In her mind, Barron Cooke is a thirty-three-year-old fossil. The man holding her has a chest as hard as marble and a jawline that could cut glass.

Her drug-addled brain decides this handsome stranger is her only salvation from the burning heat inside her.

Adaline twists her hands, breaking his gentle grip. She reaches up and presses her hot palms flat against Barron's chest.

Barron's entire body goes rigid. His muscles lock like steel.

"Don't take me to the hospital," Adaline begs, her voice a breathless, raspy whisper. She arches her back, pressing her body closer to his. "Please. Help me."

Barron frowns deeply. He thinks she is terrified of needles or doctors. "You have been given a high-grade narcotic. We need to get you an IV to flush it out of your system."

"I don't need a doctor!" Adaline cries out, frustrated by the burning heat inside her. She slides her hands up his chest and wraps her arms around his neck. She pulls herself up so her face is inches from his. "I was drugged. Please... just help me."

Barron's breath hitches. The scent of her-sweet vanilla mixed with tequila and rain-floods his senses. She is practically straddling him in the back of the car.

"Adaline," Barron growls. The sound is dark, laced with heavy, suppressed desire. He grabs her waist with both hands, trying to push her back against the leather seat.

But he is terrified of hurting her fragile, hive-covered skin. His hesitation gives her an opening.

Adaline drops her head. Her hot, feverish cheek rubs against the sensitive skin of his neck. Her fingers fumble with the knot of his silk tie.

Barron's Adam's apple bobs sharply. The air in the car becomes dangerously thin. He grabs her wandering hands and pins them gently against his chest.

"Look at me," Barron commands, his voice harsh with the effort of holding himself back. He forces her to meet his eyes. "Do you know who I am?"

Adaline blinks slowly. A loopy, delirious smile spreads across her swollen lips.

"I don't care," she giggles softly. "You're so handsome... way hotter than that thirty-three-year-old fossil Barron Cooke..."

Barron freezes.

The words hit him like a bucket of ice water.

Old fossil.

For a split second, pure shock registers in his dark eyes. Then, the pieces fall into place. Her bizarre texts. Her aggressive rejection. Her constant references to his 'health'.

She thinks he is an old man.

A dark, dangerous amusement flares in Barron's chest.

Before he can process the revelation, Adaline leans forward. Her soft, burning lips brush clumsily against the corner of his mouth.

The fragile string of Barron's self-control snaps.

He lets out a harsh breath. His arms wrap around her waist like iron bands, pulling her flush against his body, trapping her completely so she cannot move another inch.

He buries his face in her hair, his chest heaving as he fights the primal urge to take what she is offering.

"Adaline," he whispers against her ear, his voice ragged and lethal. "When you wake up, you are going to pay for this."

The Rolls-Royce slams on the brakes, throwing them slightly forward. They have arrived at the emergency bay.

The sudden stop jolts Adaline. Her eyes roll back in her head, and she goes completely limp, passing out cold against Barron's chest.