Clarissa dragged Maya out of the club doors.

A blast of freezing night air hit her face. She shivered violently, her thin dress offering no protection against the Manhattan wind.

She dragged Maya to the curb. She raised her free arm, waving frantically at the street.

"Taxi! Please!" she yelled.

A yellow cab slowed down. The driver looked at Maya, who was currently bent over, gagging dryly toward the gutter. The driver immediately hit the gas and sped away.

Two more empty cabs did the exact same thing.

Clarissa's chest tightened. She felt like she couldn't breathe. Hot tears of frustration pricked her eyes.

Finally, a beat-up Ford taxi screeched to a halt in front of them.

Clarissa practically shoved Maya into the backseat. She dove in after her, slamming the door shut.

"Brooklyn. Please, hurry," Clarissa gasped out the address.

The taxi jerked forward, merging into the heavy traffic.

Clarissa looked down at her wrist. The second hand swept past the twelve.

It was exactly eleven o'clock.

Her stomach dropped. A cold sweat broke out on the back of her neck.

The taxi hit the Brooklyn Bridge and stopped dead. A sea of red taillights stretched out for miles in front of them.

Clarissa leaned her head against the cold glass of the window. She watched the minutes tick by. Eleven-ten. Eleven-twenty. Eleven-thirty.

With every minute that passed, the knot of terror in her stomach pulled tighter.

At eleven forty-five, the taxi finally pulled up to Maya's apartment building.

Clarissa threw a hundred-dollar bill at the driver. She hauled Maya out of the car, dragged her into the dingy elevator, and practically carried her into her bedroom.

She dropped Maya onto the bed. She didn't even stop to take a breath or grab a glass of water.

Clarissa spun around and sprinted out of the apartment. She ran down the street until she flagged down another cab heading back to Manhattan.

The traffic on the way back was lighter, but it didn't matter. Her heart was beating so fast it felt like a bird trapped in her ribcage.

At twelve fifteen, the cab pulled up to the curb on the Upper East Side.

Clarissa stared up at the massive, ultra-luxury skyscraper. It looked like a fortress.

She pushed the car door open and walked toward the heavy brass and bulletproof glass doors.

The night doorman opened the door for her. He gave a polite bow, but Clarissa saw the look in his eyes. It was pity. Pure, unadulterated pity.

She swallowed hard. Her throat felt like sandpaper.

She walked across the massive, empty marble lobby. She reached the private elevator reserved only for the penthouse.

She pressed her thumb against the biometric scanner. The scanner beeped green. The doors slid open silently.

She stepped inside and pressed the button for the top floor.

The elevator shot upward at a sickening speed. The sudden loss of gravity made her stomach churn. The terror peaked, freezing the blood in her veins.

With a soft ding, the elevator stopped. The doors slowly opened directly into the penthouse foyer.

The apartment was pitch black.

The only light came from the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting cold, silver shadows of the Manhattan skyline across the cashmere rugs.

Clarissa held her breath. She slipped her high heels off her feet.

She stepped onto the soft rug in her bare feet. She prayed to God that Giovanny was already asleep.

She took three silent steps into the living room.

Suddenly, a dim, yellow reading lamp clicked on in the far corner of the room.

Clarissa gasped, sucking in a sharp breath. Her entire body locked up.

At the edge of the light, Giovanny sat in a custom Italian leather armchair.

He had taken off his suit jacket. His tie was pulled loose, hanging around his neck. The top three buttons of his crisp white shirt were undone, exposing his collarbone. He looked relaxed. Deadly.

He held a glass of bourbon. He swirled the liquid. The ice cubes clinked against the crystal. The sound was deafening in the quiet room.

He didn't look at her. He just stared at the amber liquid.

His voice cut through the silence. Low. Cruel.

"Twelve seventeen," Giovanny said. "You are seventy-seven minutes late."

Clarissa swallowed the lump of fear in her throat. She opened her mouth, desperately searching for the right words to save herself.

Giovanny slowly lifted his head.

His eyes locked onto hers. In the dim light, his gaze was colder than the ice in his glass. He looked at her exactly the way a wolf looks at a lamb.

Clarissa stood frozen in the foyer. Her hands gripped the leather strap of her purse so tightly her fingers cramped.

She forced herself to take a breath. The air in the penthouse felt too thin.

"The traffic on the Brooklyn Bridge was completely stopped," she said. Her voice cracked, echoing weakly in the massive, empty living room.

Giovanny continued to swirl his drink. He didn't even blink.

"Do you think my time is cheap, Clarissa?" he asked softly.

"You gave me fifteen minutes!" she snapped, her fear briefly turning into defensive anger. "Your curfew was impossible, and you know it."

Giovanny's eyes darkened. The temperature in the room plummeted.

He slammed the crystal glass down on the side table. The loud crack made Clarissa jump.

He stood up. His massive frame seemed to suck all the oxygen out of the room. He walked toward her, his steps slow and heavy.

Clarissa instinctively took a step back. Her bare heel hit the metal track of the elevator doors. She was trapped.

Giovanny stopped right in front of her. He was so close she could feel the heat radiating off his chest. The sharp scent of cedar and bourbon invaded her lungs.

He reached out. His long, strong fingers clamped around her chin.

He tilted her head up, forcing her to look directly into his eyes.

Her vision focused. Being this close, she noticed something she hadn't seen in the dark club.

Right below Giovanny's right eye, there was a tiny, thin red scratch.

It was a fresh cut. A piece of flying glass from Dwayne's shattered lowball glass must have grazed him downstairs during the violent scuffle.

Clarissa's breath hitched. Without thinking, she raised her hand. Her fingers reached up to touch the mark on his skin.

Before she could make contact, Giovanny's hand shot out. He grabbed her wrist mid-air.

His grip was like a steel vise. Clarissa let out a sharp gasp of pain.

A dangerous light flickered in his eyes.

"This," Giovanny whispered, his voice dripping with malice as he referenced the scratch, "is the direct cost of your stupidity tonight."

Clarissa's stomach twisted. The anger drained out of her, replaced instantly by a heavy, suffocating wave of guilt. She had caused this.

Giovanny released her chin. He looked down at her, his expression turning into a mask of pure authority.

"Since you caused this injury, you will take responsibility for my care tonight," he stated.

Clarissa's eyes widened. She pressed her back harder against the elevator doors. "That is sick!" she snapped, her voice shaking with humiliation and disbelief. "You cannot ask me to do that! I am your wife, not your servant!"

Giovanny leaned in. His lips brushed against the shell of her ear.

"Go to the master bathroom and run the water," he commanded, his voice a dark, husky rumble. "As punishment for being late, and for this scratch, you are going to wash my back tonight."

Clarissa's face burned. The blood rushed to her cheeks.

"No," she said, her voice shaking with humiliation. "I won't do that."

Giovanny straightened up. The dark amusement vanished from his face, leaving behind a terrifying emptiness.

"Santos Enterprises needs my signature tomorrow morning to extend their bank loans," he said smoothly.

Clarissa's heart stopped. Her father's company.

Her knees suddenly felt weak. Her body gave a violent tremble. He knew exactly where to strike.

She glared up at him. Tears of pure, hot fury welled in her eyes, but she clamped her jaw shut. She swallowed the bile rising in her throat.

Giovanny didn't care about her anger. He turned around and started walking down the long hallway toward the master bedroom.

He stopped at the end of the hall. He turned his head slightly.

"Move," he ordered. "My patience is gone."

Clarissa closed her eyes. She took a ragged breath, forcing the tears back down.

She dropped her purse on the floor. She peeled off her coat and tossed it onto the sofa.

Her bare feet felt like lead as she forced herself to walk down the hallway, following him into the lion's den.

She pushed open the heavy double doors of the master bedroom. The scent of his cologne was overpowering here.

She walked past the massive king-sized bed and headed straight for the frosted glass doors of the master bathroom.

She pushed the door open. The bright, sterile lights of the bathroom hit her eyes, blinding her for a second.

She stepped inside, her stomach churning with dread.

Clarissa stood in front of the massive, sunken marble bathtub. Her hands were shaking so badly she could barely grip the vintage brass faucet.

She twisted the handles. Hot water roared out, crashing against the marble.

Thick, white steam immediately began to rise, clinging to the mirrors and filling the large room with a heavy, suffocating heat.

She picked up a small glass bottle of expensive bath oil. She poured a few drops into the rushing water. Her movements were stiff, robotic. She was desperately trying to keep her mind blank.

The frosted glass door clicked open.

Giovanny walked in. His footsteps were silent on the tile.

Clarissa spun around. She pressed her back flat against the cold marble wall, her chest heaving. She looked like a cornered animal.

Giovanny didn't even glance in her direction. He walked straight to the double vanity.

He looked at his own reflection in the mirror. He reached up and pulled the silk tie from his neck, tossing it onto the counter.

His long fingers moved to the buttons of his shirt. He unfastened them one by one. His movements were slow, elegant, and completely terrifying.

Clarissa quickly turned her head away. She stared hard at the bubbles forming on the surface of the water. The steam made her face flush, but the heat in her cheeks was from pure panic.

She heard the soft rustle of fabric hitting the floor.

Giovanny stepped into the tub. The water displaced, sloshing against the sides.

He sat down and leaned his head back against the marble edge. He let out a long breath. The water covered his stomach, stopping just at his waist.

He turned his head slightly toward her.

"Come here," Giovanny ordered. His voice was a deep, magnetic pull. "Start."

Clarissa bit the inside of her cheek. She picked up a natural sea sponge from the tray.

She forced her feet to move. She walked to the edge of the sunken tub and slowly dropped to her knees on the hard floor.

She dipped the sponge into the hot water. Her hand trembled violently as she reached out.

She pressed the wet sponge against his broad, muscular back.

The second her hand made contact with his hot, wet skin, both of them flinched. The muscles in Giovanny's back instantly locked up tight.

Giovanny closed his eyes. A tiny, almost invisible smirk touched the corner of his lips. He leaned into her touch.

Clarissa rubbed the sponge in two quick, awkward circles. She immediately pulled her hand back.

"Done," she said, her voice tight.

Giovanny's eyes snapped open.

He twisted his torso. His hand shot out of the water and grabbed her wrist. He yanked her forward with terrifying speed.

Clarissa screamed as she lost her balance. She fell forward, catching herself on the edge of the tub just before plunging into the water.

A massive wave of water splashed over the side. It soaked the front of her silk dress. The thin fabric instantly clung to her skin, turning completely transparent against her thighs and stomach.

Giovanny's eyes dropped to her wet dress. His gaze turned dark, heavy, and incredibly dangerous.

"That was pathetic," he said coldly. "I told you to massage my back."

"I don't know how to massage!" Clarissa yelled, pulling frantically at her trapped wrist.

A sharp ping echoed through the bathroom.

Giovanny's phone, sitting on the marble vanity a few feet away, lit up.

Giovanny kept his grip on her wrist. He reached his long arm out and grabbed the phone. He tapped the screen.

It was a message from his executive assistant, Alex Stone. It contained a video file.

Giovanny tapped play.

Suddenly, soft, highly suggestive music filled the bathroom. It was followed by the unmistakable sound of a woman moaning softly.

It was a full-body oil massage tutorial. The visuals on the screen were explicit, bordering on pornographic.

Clarissa's eyes widened in absolute horror. The blood drained from her face, then rushed back in a wave of burning humiliation. Her entire body began to shake.

Giovanny turned the phone screen toward her. His lips curled into a cruel, mocking smile.

"Watch it," he commanded. "Learn the technique."

He leaned closer, his wet chest almost brushing her face. "If you can't figure it out, I will personally demonstrate it on you."

Clarissa stared at the screen. The degradation was too much. Her throat closed up.

A hot tear spilled over her eyelashes. It tracked slowly down her flushed cheek.

Giovanny watched the tear fall. The cruel smile vanished from his face. A strange, dark conflict flashed in his eyes.

He opened his mouth to speak, but the air in the bathroom suddenly shattered.