Callum violently shoved Kloe's wrist away, his face twisting in disgust as if he had just touched rotting garbage.

Kloe stumbled backward, her heels catching on the stone. She fell back into the arms of her terrified friends. Her face drained of all color.

"M-Mr. Wyatt," Kloe stammered, her voice trembling violently. She tried to force a sickeningly sweet smile. "This is just a misunderstanding. She was-"

Callum reached into the breast pocket of his suit. He pulled out a pristine white silk handkerchief. Slowly, methodically, he wiped the fingers that had just touched her skin.

He didn't even look at her.

"Is this the Holder family's upbringing?" Callum's voice was dangerously quiet, but it carried across the dead-silent garden. "Screaming like a rabid dog in public?"

Kloe's face turned a sickly shade of green.

Being questioned about her upbringing by Callum Wyatt in front of New York's elite was a social death sentence. There was no coming back from this.

The socialites holding Kloe instantly let go of her arms, taking massive steps backward as if her stupidity was contagious.

Aubrey stood behind Callum. She stared at the broad, immovable line of his shoulders. Her chest tightened with an agonizing mix of longing and panic.

She couldn't let him do this. She couldn't let him tie his name to hers.

Aubrey took a deep breath, ignoring the stabbing pain in her foot, and stepped out from behind him.

"My father died before I was born," Aubrey's voice rang out, clear and cold, cutting through the whispers. She stared directly into the crowd. "I am no one's illegitimate daughter."

A collective gasp rippled through the onlookers. This directly contradicted the rumors the Holder family had been feeding the press for years.

"You're a liar!" Kloe shrieked, desperate to regain control.

Callum tossed the silk handkerchief into a nearby trash bin. He let out a dark, terrifying scoff.

He turned his head, his eyes sweeping over the crowd like a blade.

"Miss Aubrey's words are the absolute truth," Callum declared, his tone leaving zero room for debate. "If I hear one more rumor about her bloodline, the legal department of Wyatt Corp will personally dismantle your family's assets. Are we clear?"

Absolute silence.

No one breathed. No one moved. No one in their right mind would risk their family empire to challenge the Wyatt monster.

Aubrey froze behind him, her blood turning to ice inch by agonizing inch. No... it wasn't supposed to happen like this. She had spent four grueling years pushing him away, tearing her own heart out just to keep him out of this exact mess. But now, in less than three minutes, he had leaped straight into the center of her meticulously built battlefield and detonated a bomb. He was tying his name to hers in front of New York's most dangerous predators. Her chest tightened with sheer panic. Her entire plan was spiraling violently out of control.

Kloe stood frozen, her whole body shaking. She knew she was ruined.

The sound of hurried footsteps broke the tension. Beatrice Vance rushed into the garden, followed by four massive security guards.

Beatrice took one look at Aubrey's pale face and bare feet, then glared murderously at Kloe.

"Escort Miss Holder out," Beatrice ordered the guards, her voice dripping with authority. "She is clearly unwell."

Two guards grabbed Kloe by the arms, half-dragging the humiliated, sobbing heiress out of the garden and into the night.

Beatrice turned to Aubrey, her eyes softening. "Aubrey, your foot. Let me call the family doctor right now."

"I'll take her home."

Callum's voice cut off Beatrice's sentence. It wasn't an offer. It was a command.

Aubrey's stomach dropped. "No," she said quickly, stepping back. "I can call an Uber. I don't want to bother Mr. Wyatt."

Callum didn't even acknowledge her refusal.

He stepped into her space, bent his knees, and scooped her up into his arms.

"Ah!" Aubrey gasped, her hands flying up to grip his broad shoulders to stop herself from falling. Her face burned hot with sudden embarrassment.

The crowd gasped again, eyes wide with shock. The untouchable, ruthless Callum Wyatt was carrying a controversial actress like a bride.

Callum ignored them all. He carried Aubrey across the garden with long, powerful strides, heading straight for the massive black Maybach idling at the estate gates.

The driver scrambled out, pulling the rear door open.

Callum practically shoved Aubrey onto the leather seat. He climbed in right after her.

The heavy car door slammed shut, sealing them inside.

The Maybach's engine let out a low, powerful growl as it pulled away from the Vance estate, merging into the dark Manhattan traffic.

With a soft mechanical hum, the privacy partition behind the driver's seat rolled up, completely sealing off the back of the car.

Aubrey pressed her back hard against the passenger door. She pulled her knees slightly toward her chest, trying to put as much physical space between them as the leather seat allowed.

The neon streetlights flashed through the tinted windows, casting harsh shadows across Callum's sharp jawline.

Callum reached up, his long fingers violently yanking his silk tie loose. He let out a dark, chilling laugh that made the hairs on Aubrey's arms stand up.

He suddenly lunged forward.

His large hand slammed against the window right next to Aubrey's head. His other hand gripped the edge of her seat. He trapped her completely in the cage of his arms.

The overwhelming scent of his cologne and the raw heat of his body sucked all the oxygen out of the small space. Aubrey couldn't breathe.

"Did you have fun?" Callum gritted out, his eyes burning into hers. "Hiding in Hollywood for four years? Playing your little games?"

Aubrey forced her chin up. She met his furious gaze, making her voice sound as bored as possible. "The weather in LA is nice. The parties are better."

The careless words snapped the last thread of his control.

Callum's hand dropped from the window, his fingers clamping around her jaw. He forced her face up, his grip bruising.

"Why?" he demanded, his voice cracking with a raw, violent pain. "Why did you drug me? Why did you throw me away like a piece of trash?"

A sharp ache pierced Aubrey's chest. She wanted to scream the truth, to tell him it was to save his life. But she swallowed the blood in her throat and forced a cruel smirk.

"It was a transaction, Callum," she whispered, making her eyes look empty. "We slept together. I used your family's name to get a few contacts. When I got what I needed, the transaction ended."

Callum's chest heaved. His eyes turned bloodshot, filled with a terrifying, primal rage.

He didn't speak. He crushed his mouth against hers.

It wasn't a kiss. It was an execution. His teeth scraped against her bottom lip, biting down hard enough to draw the metallic taste of blood.

Aubrey let out a muffled groan of pain. She brought her hands up, hitting his solid shoulders, trying to push him away.

Callum caught both her wrists in one hand. He slammed her arms up above her head, pinning them against the cold glass of the window. The old, faded white scars on his knuckles scraped roughly against her delicate skin, sending a sharp, grounding sting through her trembling pulse.

His mouth softened slightly, the brutal biting turning into a desperate, starving invasion. He kissed her like a dying man drinking water.

Aubrey felt the violent trembling of his chest against hers. The iron wall around her heart cracked. A single, hot tear escaped the corner of her eye, sliding down her cheek.

Callum tasted the salt.

He froze. His body went completely rigid. He pulled back just half an inch, his forehead resting heavily against hers. His breathing was ragged.

"Don't run again," he whispered hoarsely, sounding completely broken. "If you run again, Aubrey, I will burn your entire world to the ground just to keep you."

Aubrey turned her face away, breaking the contact. "It's over, Callum. There is no starting over."

Callum let out a cruel, breathless scoff. "In this game, I'm the only one who gets to say when it's over."

The Maybach glided to a smooth stop outside her luxury apartment building in Brooklyn.

Callum released her wrists. He sat back in his seat, instantly pulling the cold, untouchable billionaire mask back over his face.

"I'm sending a doctor tomorrow morning for your ankle," he stated, looking straight ahead. "Do not refuse him."

Aubrey didn't say a word. She shoved the door open and scrambled out of the car, limping wildly into the bright lobby of her building like a fugitive.

Inside the dark car, Callum watched her disappear through the glass doors. The obsession in his eyes was absolute.

He pulled out his phone and dialed his executive assistant.

"Helen," Callum ordered, his voice like ice. "I want a full background check on Aubrey. Every person she talked to, every place she went for the last four years. I want it on my desk by morning."

The air in the sunroom of the Holder family mansion in Beverly Hills was thick with the suffocating scent of Damascus roses.

Cheryle Weeks sat on a velvet armchair, wearing a pure silk robe. Her face, preserved by millions of dollars and excellent surgeons, held the perfect, serene smile of a veteran Hollywood actress. She slowly lifted a porcelain cup of Earl Grey tea to her lips.

The glass doors of the sunroom were violently shoved open.

Kloe burst into the room. Her hair was a tangled mess, her eyes red and swollen from crying on the private jet all the way from New York.

She collapsed onto the velvet sofa across from her mother and began to sob hysterically.

"He humiliated me!" Kloe shrieked, waving her hands. "That bitch Aubrey seduced Callum Wyatt, and he threatened our family in front of everyone!"

Cheryle's hand paused mid-air. The teacup hovered near her mouth. A sharp, dangerous light flashed in her eyes at the mention of Callum's name.

She calmly set the cup down on the saucer. She pulled a tissue from a silver box and tossed it at Kloe.

"Stop crying," Cheryle snapped, her voice dropping its sweet facade. "Tears are for the cameras, Kloe. In this house, they are useless."

Cheryle stood up. She walked over to the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out over the perfectly manicured lawns of her empire.

"Lillian's little bastard is just like her mother," Cheryle sneered, her voice dripping with venom. "A cheap whore who only knows how to spread her legs for powerful men."

Kloe wiped her nose aggressively. "We can't let her get away with this! She can't step on the Holder name!"

Cheryle spun around. Her eyes were as cold and dead as a snake's.

"Never say the words 'illegitimate daughter' outside this house again," Cheryle warned, her voice a lethal whisper. "If you push her too hard in public, the press will start digging. And if they dig up what really happened twenty years ago, we lose everything."

Kloe shivered, suddenly remembering the terrifying lengths her mother had gone to when forcing Lillian out. She snapped her mouth shut.

Cheryle walked back to the sofa. She gently stroked Kloe's messy hair, her touch terrifyingly soft.

"Don't worry, my sweet girl. Mommy won't let that little bitch take what belongs to you."

Kloe looked up, a vicious hope lighting up her eyes. "What are we going to do?"

Cheryle walked over to her heavy mahogany desk. She opened the top drawer and pulled out a thick, glossy folder. The title read: The Sovereign - Production Pitch.

She tossed the folder onto the glass coffee table.

"Aubrey thinks this show is her big comeback," Cheryle laughed coldly. "So what if Callum Wyatt is protecting her now? I want her to wake up on that set every single day and realize that in Hollywood, we are the ones who pull the strings. I am going to use our capital to crush her so completely in her proudest field that she'll wish she was never born."

Kloe's eyes widened in understanding. "We ruin her on set."

"Exactly," Cheryle said. "Your sister Tatum is an idiot, but she's a useful idiot. We'll use the family fund to buy her a spot in the cast."

Cheryle instructed Kloe to call the PR department immediately. They were going to dump a massive amount of cash on the producers of The Sovereign.

"I want Aubrey to wake up every single day on that set and remember that capital can crush her like a bug," Cheryle smiled, a cruel, twisted expression.

Outside, the California sky suddenly darkened. Heavy raindrops began to smash against the glass roof of the sunroom.

Kloe pulled out her phone, her arrogant smirk returning as she dialed the producer's number.

Cheryle picked up her cold tea. She took a sip, her eyes staring blankly at the wall. The memory of Lillian standing on the Golden Globes stage, holding the trophy that should have been hers, burned in her mind. Her manicured nails scratched violently against the porcelain cup.

I destroyed the mother, Cheryle thought. I will destroy the daughter.

A sharp knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. The head butler stepped in, looking nervous.

"Madam," he bowed. "The police department called. Mr. Johnston is trying to make contact with Aubrey in New York."

Cheryle's face turned a violent shade of purple.

She hurled the teacup at the floor. It shattered into a hundred pieces against the marble, cold tea splashing everywhere.

"Cut the phone lines!" Cheryle screamed, her elegant mask completely destroyed. "Confiscate his cell phone! Do not let my husband speak to that bitch!"