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.

Giovanny pulled Clarissa into the grand foyer of the estate. The rubber soles of his shoes squeaked sharply against the polished marble floor.

Arthur stepped forward, his hands trembling. "Sir. Master Theodore has just been stabilized."

Giovanny stopped dead. His shoulders dropped three inches. He let out a harsh, ragged exhale. The crushing grip on Clarissa's hand loosened just a fraction.

"Take me to him," Giovanny rasped.

Arthur nodded quickly and led them down a long corridor lined with oil paintings of Bartlett ancestors. They headed straight for the east wing, which had been converted into a state-of-the-art private medical facility.

The heavy double doors of the medical wing were closed.

Dr. Alistair Frye, the family's concierge physician, stood outside in the hallway, scrolling through a tablet.

Giovanny marched up to him. "Report."

"Acute myocardial ischemia, Giovanny," Dr. Frye said quietly. "It was severe. But thanks to the equipment here, we caught it in time. He is out of the woods for now."

Clarissa let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. Her knees suddenly felt weak. She swayed slightly, leaning her weight against the wall.

Just then, the side door of the medical wing clicked open.

Genevieve Bartlett walked out.

The matriarch of New York high society always looked flawless. But tonight, her blonde hair was messy. Her mascara was smudged under her eyes.

She saw Giovanny and let out a broken sob. She threw her arms around her son's neck, burying her face in his chest.

"Oh, Giovanny, I was so terrified," she cried.

Giovanny wrapped his arms around her, patting her back gently. "It's over, Mother. He's safe."

After a minute, Genevieve pulled back. She wiped her eyes with a tissue.

She turned her head and finally noticed Clarissa standing against the wall.

Genevieve's eyes swept over them. She blinked. Then, she looked closer.

She looked at her son. Giovanny's hair was still damp. His shirt was completely unbuttoned at the collar, and the middle buttons were mismatched, exposing his chest.

Then, Genevieve looked at Clarissa.

Clarissa was wearing Giovanny's massive black trench coat. The coat was open. Underneath, her silk dress was completely soaked, clinging to every curve of her body like a second skin.

Genevieve's eyes moved up to Clarissa's face. Clarissa's cheeks were flushed a deep, bright red from the humiliation in the bathroom. Her eyes were slightly swollen from crying.

Genevieve's brain connected the dots.

The fear in the older woman's eyes vanished. It was instantly replaced by a look of absolute shock, followed by a massive, undeniable spark of joy.

Genevieve gasped loudly. She covered her mouth with her hands.

She leaned forward, dropping her voice into a loud, conspiratorial whisper.

"Oh, dear God," Genevieve said, her eyes darting between their messy clothes. "Did I... did I interrupt you two in the middle of something very important?"

Clarissa froze. Her brain short-circuited.

She looked down at herself. The wet dress. The flushed skin. Giovanny's misbuttoned shirt.

The realization hit her like a freight train.

Her face burned hotter than fire. The blood rushed to her ears.

"No!" Clarissa stammered, waving her hands frantically. "No, Genevieve, it's not-it was an accident in the bathroom, we were just-"

Genevieve smiled. It was a knowing, thrilled smile. She stepped forward and grabbed Clarissa's cold hands.

"Oh, sweetheart, you don't have to explain," Genevieve cooed. "You young people are so passionate. You didn't even have time to dry your hair before rushing here!"

Two maids and Dr. Frye immediately looked down at the floor, trying to hide their awkward smiles.

Clarissa wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole. She looked at Giovanny, her eyes wide with panic. She silently begged him to fix this. To tell the truth.

Giovanny stood perfectly still.

He looked at his mother's overjoyed face. Then he looked at Clarissa's terrified, flushed expression.

A dark, calculating shadow fell over Giovanny's eyes. A new, terrifying plan formed in his mind.

Clarissa stared at Giovanny. Her chest he heave. Say something, she mouthed silently. Tell her the truth.

Giovanny's eyes slowly dragged over Clarissa's wet, trembling form. He looked back at his mother's hopeful, glowing face.

He moved.

Giovanny reached out and wrapped his long, heavy arm around Clarissa's waist. He yanked her hard against his side.

Clarissa let out a sharp gasp as she slammed into his solid chest. The trench coat slipped off her shoulder, exposing more of the wet silk clinging to her collarbone.

Giovanny dipped his head. He pressed his lips firmly against her temple. It wasn't a sweet kiss. It was a brand of ownership.

He lifted his head and looked at his mother. A smooth, apologetic smile touched his lips.

"Yes, Mother," Giovanny said, his voice a low, intimate rumble. "Your timing was quite unfortunate tonight."

Clarissa's heart stopped beating. Her eyes widened in pure horror.

She opened her mouth to scream that he was lying.

Giovanny's fingers dug into the soft flesh of her waist. He pinched her hard through the wet silk.

The sharp pain shot through her nerves. Clarissa sucked in a breath, biting her tongue to stop herself from crying out. The denial died in her throat.

Genevieve clapped her hands together. She looked like she was ready to faint from happiness.

"Praise the Lord," Genevieve practically sang. "Theodore's heart almost stopped, but thank God it didn't stop you two from... well, from your enthusiasm."

Giovanny chuckled. It sounded dark and rich. "We are working very hard on the family's future, Mother."

Clarissa squeezed her eyes shut. Her face was so hot she felt dizzy. She buried her face into Giovanny's chest just to hide from the older woman's gaze.

Genevieve laughed. "Oh, look at her, she's so shy! It's wonderful."

The medical wing door clicked open again. Dr. Frye stepped out.

"Mrs. Bartlett, Theodore is awake. He is asking for you," the doctor said.

Genevieve nodded quickly. She wiped a stray tear from her cheek.

Before she walked into the room, she turned to the hallway.

"Arthur!" Genevieve called out.

The old butler stepped forward. "Yes, Madam?"

"Have Marta prepare the master guest suite immediately," Genevieve ordered. Her voice was sharp and commanding. "Tell her to make it warm. And very, very private."

She turned back to Giovanny and patted his arm. "Go upstairs. Get out of those wet clothes. And for heaven's sake, finish what you started."

Genevieve turned and disappeared into the medical wing. The heavy door clicked shut behind her.

The hallway fell dead silent.

Clarissa shoved both hands against Giovanny's chest. She pushed him away with all her strength and stumbled backward.

"Are you insane?!" she hissed, her voice trembling with rage. "Why did you lie to her? Do you know what you just did? We can't take this back!"

Giovanny calmly reached up and adjusted his collar. The charming son vanished. The cold, ruthless predator returned.

"Would you prefer I tell her the truth?" Giovanny asked softly. "Should I tell my mother that I was forcing my wife to watch a pornographic video in my bathtub to punish her?"

The words hit Clarissa like a physical slap across the face.

Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. He had trapped her perfectly. Her own shame kept her silent.

Marta, the head housekeeper, walked down the hall. She kept her eyes respectfully lowered to the floor.

"Sir, Madam. The suite is ready," Marta said with a polite smile.

Giovanny stepped forward. He grabbed Clarissa's wrist again. His grip was unbreakable.

He leaned down, his lips brushing her ear.

"You will play along tonight," he whispered, his voice laced with venom. "Or I will make things much worse."

Giovanny pulled her forward. Clarissa's legs felt like lead, but she had no choice. She followed him up the grand staircase, walking straight into the trap.