The private clinic smelled of expensive lavender and antiseptic. It was quiet, the kind of quiet that money bought to hide its sins.

Eveline sat on the crinkly paper of the exam table. The room was freezing.

Dr. Aris, a woman with a face as sharp as her needles, snapped on a pair of latex gloves.

Vance stood by the door, arms crossed. A sentinel.

"What are we testing for?" Eveline asked, her voice small.

"Standard panel," Dr. Aris said, tying a rubber tourniquet around Eveline's upper arm. "Lipids, iron, liver function. And Beta-hCG."

The pregnancy hormone.

Eveline tried to pull her arm back. "I have the right to refuse."

"Actually," Vance spoke up from the door. "Under the terms of the Horn Family Trust, Article 4, Section C: The beneficiary must maintain 'optimal physical health' to receive stipends. Refusal to comply with medical directives issued by the Trustee constitutes a breach of contract."

He recited it like a robot.

"It means," Vance clarified, "you refuse the test, you lose the money. Your mother loses the house."

Eveline slumped. The fight drained out of her.

She watched the dark red blood fill the vial. It looked like life leaving her body.

He's going to find out. And then he's going to make me get rid of it.

"Lie back," Dr. Aris commanded.

Eveline lay down. The cold ultrasound gel hit her lower abdomen, making her flinch.

She squeezed her eyes shut. She didn't want to see the screen. She didn't want to see the tiny flicker of a heartbeat that would ruin her life.

Dr. Aris moved the wand around in silence. The machine hummed.

"Hmm," the doctor murmured.

Eveline's heart stopped. "What? Is something wrong?"

Before answering, Dr. Aris's gaze flickered to Vance, a microsecond of shared understanding that made the hair on Eveline's arms stand up. The doctor's professional mask was back in place instantly, but the shift had been there. She clicked a few buttons, printing out an image. She wiped the gel off Eveline's stomach with a rough towel.

"Get dressed. Wait in the hall."

The next twenty minutes were an eternity. Eveline sat in the plush waiting room chair, her leg bouncing nervously. She Googled "forced abortion laws New York" on her phone, her fingers numb.

Finally, the door opened.

Vance walked out. He held a manila envelope. His face was a blank slate. He didn't hand her the official-looking folder from the doctor's desk, but a single, crisp sheet of paper that had been folded and tucked into his inner jacket pocket.

Eveline stood up. "Well?"

Vance handed her the single sheet of paper.

Eveline grabbed it. Her eyes scanned the numbers frantically until she found the line labeled hCG.

< 5 mIU/mL.

Negative.

Eveline stared at the number. She blinked. Negative?

But the nausea. The missed period. The intuition.

"I'm... not pregnant?" she whispered.

"Apparently not," Vance said. "Stress can cause similar symptoms. False pregnancy."

A wave of relief crashed over her, so powerful her knees buckled. She wasn't pregnant. She wasn't carrying a child into this war zone.

But then, the relief was washed away by a strange, hollow ache.

And then, fear.

If she wasn't pregnant, she had no leverage. And worse-Fulton had no reason to hold back.

"Mr. Horn is downstairs," Vance said. "Let's go."

Eveline crumpled the paper in her hand. She had survived the medical check. But now she had to face the man who had ordered it.

The interior of the Maybach was a sensory deprivation tank of luxury. Leather, silence, and Fulton.

Eveline slid into the back seat. The air was warm, but she shivered.

Fulton was reading a file. A copy of her lab results lay on the seat between them.

The car pulled away from the curb, merging into the Manhattan traffic.

Fulton closed the file. He turned his head slowly to look at her.

"Disappointed?"

Eveline swallowed. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't you?"

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, orange plastic bottle.

Eveline's breath hitched. Her birth control pills.

"Hessie tells me you haven't refilled your prescription in three months," Fulton said, turning the bottle over in his long fingers. The pills rattled.

"I forgot," she lied. "I've been busy."

"You forgot." His voice was flat. "Or maybe you thought a baby would be a nice insurance policy."

"I'm not like my mother!" Eveline snapped.

Fulton popped the cap open. He shook a single white pill into his palm. For a fraction of a second, as the pill rested against his skin, a flicker of something possessive-almost triumphant-flashed in his grey eyes before being extinguished by his usual cold indifference.

"Open your mouth."

Eveline pressed her lips together, glaring at him. "I can take it myself."

"I don't trust you," he said. "Open."

When she didn't move, his hand shot out, gripping her jaw. He squeezed, forcing her mouth open.

He placed the pill on her tongue. His fingers lingered there, invading her space, tasting her submission.

"Swallow."

He handed her a bottle of Evian water. He watched, unblinking, as she drank. He watched her throat work as she swallowed the pill.

"Good girl," he murmured, releasing her.

Eveline wiped her mouth, feeling violated. "Are you happy now? I'm not pregnant. I'm medicated. Can I go?"

"We need to discuss this... engagement," Fulton said, leaning back.

"You agreed to it at breakfast," Eveline reminded him.

"I agreed to a check-up. I didn't agree to let you marry Bryson Montgomery."

"Why not?" Eveline challenged. "He's a good man. He respects me."

Fulton's eyes darkened. The temperature in the car plummeted.

"Respects you?" He laughed, a harsh, cruel sound. "Do you think he'll respect you when he finds out whose bed you've been warming for the last two years?"

"He doesn't care about rumors!"

"They aren't rumors, Eveline. They are facts."

Fulton pressed a button on the armrest. The partition between the front and back seats slid up with a soft whir, sealing them off from Vance.

Eveline's heart began to race. "What are you doing? We're in the car."

"Exactly."

Fulton lunged.

He pinned her against the door, his body heavy and hard against hers. "You want to play the blushing bride for Bryson? You want to wear white?"

He grabbed the collar of her blouse and ripped. Buttons popped, scattering onto the floor mats.

"Fulton, stop!" she cried, trying to push him off.

"You belong to me," he growled against her neck. "Every inch of you. Your trust fund, your house, your body. You don't get to give any of it away."

His hands were everywhere, claiming, possessing. The car hit a pothole, jarring them, but he didn't stop.

"Vance can hear us!" she sobbed, humiliation burning her cheeks.

"Let him hear," Fulton whispered, biting the sensitive skin of her shoulder. "Let him know exactly who owns you."

Eveline stopped fighting. It was useless. She lay there, staring at the ceiling of the car, tears sliding into her hair.

He wasn't making love to her. He was marking his territory.

And as his hands roamed over her, Eveline made a silent vow. She would marry Bryson. She would do whatever it took. Because being owned by Fulton Horn wasn't love. It was a death sentence.

The elevator opened directly into the penthouse.

Eveline stumbled out, clutching Fulton's suit jacket around her ruined blouse. The panoramic view of Manhattan glittered beyond the glass walls-millions of lights, millions of people, and she was alone in the sky with a monster.

Fulton followed her, his tie loosened, his energy crackling with a dark, satisfied hum.

Eveline headed straight for the guest room. She needed a lock. She needed a wall.

Fulton's foot slammed against the door before she could close it.

"Master bedroom," he commanded.

"No." Her voice was a rasp. "I'm not your toy, Fulton."

He didn't argue. He simply bent down, scooped her up over his shoulder like a sack of flour, and carried her down the hall.

She pounded on his back. "Put me down!"

He tossed her onto the massive king-sized bed. The mattress absorbed her fall. Before she could scramble away, he was looming over her.

But he didn't touch her. instead, he pulled his phone from his pocket.

"Look at this."

He shoved the screen in her face.

It was a news alert from a gossip site. A photo of Bryson Montgomery. He looked disheveled, glassy-eyed, with two scantily clad women hanging off his arms. The headline screamed: OLYMPIC GOLDEN BOY CAUGHT IN DRUG-FUELED ORGY.

Eveline gasped. "That's... that's a lie. Bryson doesn't do drugs. He doesn't even drink much."

"Doesn't he?" Fulton swiped to the next photo. It was blurrier, but it looked damning. "Or maybe you just don't know him."

Eveline looked up at Fulton. "You did this."

"I'm protecting the family reputation," Fulton said smoothly. "We can't have a Horn-even a foster one-marrying a junkie."

"You framed him!" Eveline sat up, fury overriding her fear. "You destroyed his reputation just to keep me?"

"I destroyed him to show you reality," Fulton corrected. He tossed the phone onto the nightstand. "In this world, Eveline, everyone is dirty. Everyone lies. Except me."

He grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him.

"I'm the only one who protects you. I'm the only one who keeps the wolves away."

"You are the wolf," she whispered.

Fulton smiled. It was a terrifying, beautiful thing. "Yes. And you're in my den."

He climbed into bed, fully clothed, and pulled her into his arms. He wrapped his limbs around her like iron bands.

"Sleep."

"I can't."

"Sleep," he ordered.

Eveline lay rigid in the dark. The city lights cast long shadows across the room. She felt the steady thrum of Fulton's heart against her back.

He had cut off her escape route. Hessie wouldn't let her marry a disgraced man.

She waited until his breathing evened out. Slowly, carefully, she reached for the nightstand. If she could get her phone... call Bryson... warn him...

Fulton's arm tightened around her waist.

"Who are you trying to call?"

His voice was wide awake.

Eveline froze. "I... I just wanted to check the time."

Fulton reached over her, grabbed her phone, and powered it off. He dropped it onto the floor, out of reach.

"Focus on sleeping," he murmured, burying his face in her hair. He inhaled deeply, as if her scent was the only oxygen in the room. "You have a big week ahead. The charity gala. You'll be on my arm. Not his."

Eveline squeezed her eyes shut, tears leaking out.

He was suffocating her. And the terrifying part was, in the circle of his arms, she felt safe. And she hated herself for it.