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.

Clarissa's tears hit the marble edge of the tub. The explicit sounds from the video continued to echo off the tile walls, making her stomach churn with shame.

Giovanny stared at her wet eyelashes. His jaw tightened. He slowly raised his free hand, his thumb reaching out to wipe the tear from her cheek.

Before his skin could touch hers, a sound ripped through the room.

It wasn't a normal ringtone. It was a piercing, high-pitched siren coming from the black encrypted phone sitting on the vanity.

It was the family's red line. It only rang for life-or-death emergencies.

Giovanny's hand froze mid-air.

He dropped Clarissa's wrist. He stood straight up out of the water. A massive wave crashed over the side of the tub, soaking Clarissa's knees.

He didn't care that he was completely naked. He grabbed a white towel, wrapped it violently around his waist, and lunged for the black phone.

He pressed it to his ear. "Speak."

Through the receiver, Clarissa heard a woman screaming. It was Genevieve, Giovanny's mother. Her voice was hysterical, sobbing his father's name over and over.

Giovanny's face turned the color of ash. The dark, possessive lust in his eyes vanished instantly. It was replaced by a terrifying, absolute zero coldness.

"Where?" Giovanny barked into the phone. "Symptoms?"

He listened for three seconds. "I am on my way."

He threw the phone onto the counter. He turned to Clarissa.

"Get dressed. Now," he ordered. His voice left no room for argument. It was the voice of a general going to war.

Clarissa sat frozen on the floor, her brain struggling to process the sudden shift.

Giovanny didn't wait. He grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet.

He dragged her into the massive walk-in closet. He ripped a heavy black trench coat off a hanger and shoved her arms into the sleeves, roughly covering her soaked silk dress.

He grabbed a pair of trousers and a dress shirt for himself. He pulled them on with frantic speed. His hands were shaking slightly. He buttoned his shirt wrong, skipping a hole in the middle of his chest.

He grabbed Clarissa's wrist again and pulled her out of the bedroom.

They sprinted across the living room. Giovanny raised his left wrist and spoke into his smartwatch.

"Prep the chopper. Roof. Sixty seconds," he commanded.

They crashed into the private elevator. Giovanny slammed his fist against the roof access button. His chest heaved up and down.

The doors opened to the roof.

The freezing New York wind hit them like a wall of ice. The deafening roar of the helicopter blades drowned out everything else.

Clarissa shivered violently. The wet silk dress clung to her legs under the coat, freezing her skin.

Giovanny pushed her toward the chopper. He practically threw her into the backseat, climbed in after her, and slammed the heavy door shut. The noise cut out instantly.

He grabbed a pair of noise-canceling headsets and threw one at her. He put his on and pressed the mic.

"Hamptons. Bartlett Estate. Maximum speed," Giovanny ordered the pilot.

The helicopter jerked violently and shot into the night sky. The glowing grid of Manhattan tilted and shrank beneath their feet.

Inside the cabin, the air pressure dropped.

Giovanny leaned forward. He rested his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands. His broad shoulders were tense, radiating a frantic, helpless energy.

Clarissa watched him. She had never seen this man-this untouchable titan-look so fragile.

Her heart ached. She slowly reached her hand across the leather seat.

She placed her palm gently over his cold, clenched knuckles.

Instead, he flipped his hand over and roughly clamped his fingers around her wrist. His grip was bone-crushing, treating her not as a source of comfort, but as a physical grounding tool to anchor his own spiraling anxiety. He didn't look at her, completely lost in his own selfish panic.

Forty minutes later, the helicopter banked hard. The dark ocean and the massive, brightly lit Bartlett Estate came into view.

The wheels hit the grass of the helipad with a heavy thud.

Before the blades even slowed down, Giovanny kicked the door open. He pulled Clarissa out into the wind.

They ran across the wet grass toward the main house. The dew soaked Clarissa's bare feet.

They charged up the stone steps.

The heavy mahogany doors flew open. Arthur Pembroke, the elderly butler, stood in the doorway. His eyes were red and swollen with tears.