Aida stepped off the last marble stair onto the thick carpet of the ballroom floor. She walked purposefully toward a passing waiter, reached out, and lifted a tall crystal flute of champagne from his silver tray.

She kept her eyes fixed on Grayson Lott. He was laughing loudly at something a man next to him had said. Aida timed her steps, waiting for the exact second Grayson began to turn around. She walked straight into his path.

She let her ankle roll slightly, faking a stumble. Her body pitched forward.

The champagne flew out of the glass. The pale golden liquid splashed directly onto the sleeve of Grayson's custom-tailored charcoal suit.

Grayson's face instantly twisted into a dark scowl. He spun around, his mouth opening to shout a string of curses.

Aida gasped, her eyes widening in perfectly manufactured panic. "Oh my god, I am so sorry!" she cried out. She quickly pulled a silk handkerchief from her clutch and began dabbing frantically at his wet sleeve.

Grayson looked down. The moment his eyes registered her face, the furious scowl vanished. A slow, oily gleam of intense interest replaced the anger in his eyes.

He reached out and grabbed Aida's wrist. His fingers clamped down like a steel vise, the grip painfully tight, digging into her delicate bones.

Aida winced. A sharp spike of pain shot up her arm. Every instinct screamed at her to rip her hand away, but she forced her muscles to relax. She looked up at him through her lashes and offered a soft, apologetic smile.

"I am Aida Ruiz," she said, keeping her voice light. "CEO of NovaTech. I am so incredibly sorry about your suit."

Grayson didn't let go of her wrist. His eyes slowly dragged down the length of her body, lingering on the curve of her waist before snapping back up to her face. "A dry cleaner won't fix this, Aida. We should discuss compensation somewhere a little more private."

Aida's stomach twisted into a tight, sickening knot. Warning bells shrieked in her head. But the image of the five-million-dollar term sheet upstairs flashed in her mind. She kept the smile plastered on her face and nodded. "Of course."

Grayson's hand slid from her wrist to her waist. He gripped her hip hard, his fingers pressing possessively into her side, and physically pushed her forward, forcing a path through the crowded room.

Up on the second-floor balcony, Brendan stood perfectly still. He watched Grayson's hand resting heavily on Aida's waist. His expression remained unreadable, but his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. After a long moment, he brought his cigar to the glass ashtray and pressed it out with a slow, deliberate twist—not in anger, but in calculation.

“Grayson is moving faster than expected,” he murmured to Alex, who stood a few feet behind him. “He'll try to take her somewhere private. That's when we move.” He glanced at his watch. “Have the intercept teams get into position. I want to be in the underground garage in five minutes.” His voice was flat, controlled—the same cold instrument it always was.

Alex nodded and spoke quietly into his earpiece.

Brendan watched as Grayson pushed Aida toward the revolving doors. He didn't move a muscle, but his eyes tracked every step. Then he turned and walked toward the staircase, his long strides unhurried, predatory. “Tell the security detail to get the vehicles ready. Now.”

Down on the street level, Grayson pushed through the heavy revolving doors, pulling Aida out into the cold, damp night air. The sudden chill made Aida shiver violently.

A hotel valet jogged up, holding an umbrella. A sleek, black Maybach silently rolled up to the curb, its tires hissing on the wet pavement.

Grayson reached out, pulled the heavy rear door open himself, and mockingly bowed. "After you."

Aida hesitated for a fraction of a second. The dark interior of the car looked like an open grave. She took a breath, bent her head, and slid into the plush leather seat in the back.

Grayson climbed in right behind her. He slammed the door shut and leaned forward. "Take us to my penthouse," he told the driver.

The Maybach pulled away from the curb, its powerful engine purring as it merged into the heavy, glowing stream of traffic on Fifth Avenue.

From the balcony, Brendan had already descended the stairs and was now striding through the lobby toward the underground garage. He tapped his earpiece. “Alex, what's our tracking on Lott's driver?”

“Confirmed, sir. The route is heading south toward Lower Manhattan—likely his private basement garage in the Meatpacking District. No public cameras inside that structure,” Alex replied.

Brendan's eyes narrowed. That was the trigger. If Grayson took Aida to a completely private, unmonitored location, the “test” had just become a kidnapping. “Abort the espionage track,” Brendan said, his voice hard as steel. “Move to phase two. I want the intercept teams at the following coordinates. We hit him before he gets her behind closed doors.”

Deep in the subterranean concrete levels of the hotel's parking garage, Brendan walked with long, furious strides toward a massive, black, armored Cadillac Escalade.

He yanked the heavy rear door open and threw himself onto the leather seat. The air inside the SUV instantly felt thick with his suffocating, violent energy.

Alex jumped into the front passenger seat. He held a glowing tablet in his hands, his eyes locked on a blinking red dot moving across a digital map of Manhattan.

"Target vehicle is heading south toward Lower Manhattan," Alex reported, his voice tight.

"Follow them," Brendan ordered the driver. "Tell the intercept teams to get into position."

Three unmarked, black SUVs roared to life. They peeled out of the parking garage in a tight, synchronized formation, looking like mechanical ghosts hunting in the rain.

Inside the Maybach, the silence was heavy. Grayson suddenly shifted his weight, sliding closer to Aida. He reached out and wrapped a thick lock of her dark hair around his finger, tugging it slightly.

Aida's entire body went rigid. Her breath caught in her throat. She kept her eyes straight ahead, looking past the driver's shoulder. In the side mirror, through the rain-streaked glass, she saw the aggressive, boxy headlights of a massive black SUV riding dangerously close to their bumper.

The Maybach turned off the busy avenue and glided into a narrow, poorly lit one-way street in Lower Manhattan. The sidewalks were completely empty, the brick walls of the old warehouses looming like dark canyons on either side.

In the passenger seat of the trailing Escalade, Alex pressed a finger to his earpiece. "Execute," he commanded.

Two of the black SUVs suddenly accelerated, their engines roaring over the sound of the rain. They shot past the Escalade, flanking the Maybach on both sides.

The SUV on the left violently swerved, cutting directly in front of the Maybach's hood, and slammed on its brakes.

The Maybach's driver let out a panicked shout. He yanked the steering wheel hard to the right, his foot stomping down on the brake pedal.

Before the Maybach could stop, the second SUV accelerated and rammed its reinforced steel bumper brutally into the Maybach's rear right door.

The sickening crunch of tearing metal echoed down the empty street. The impact sent the heavy Maybach spinning out of control. The tires screeched against the wet asphalt before the car violently slammed into a cast-iron fire hydrant on the sidewalk.

A massive geyser of water erupted into the air, raining down on the crushed hood. The Maybach's passenger-side windows shattered inward in an explosion of safety glass.

Inside the cabin, the airbags deployed with a deafening pop. The violent jolt threw Aida forward, and the side of her head smashed brutally against the hard plastic frame of the window.

A sickening wave of dizziness washed over her. Her vision blurred into dark spots. She felt a warm, thick liquid slide down her temple and drip onto her collarbone.

Grayson was thrown against the opposite door. He groaned, shaking his head, and immediately started screaming a string of violent curses. He kicked wildly at his jammed door, trying to force it open.

The Escalade screeched to a halt ten yards away. Brendan didn't wait for the car to fully stop. He kicked his door open and stepped out into the freezing rain.

He walked toward the smoking wreck of the Maybach, his jaw locked. He grabbed the handle of the mangled rear door, planted his foot against the frame, and violently wrenched the metal door entirely off its hinges, throwing it onto the wet street.

Brendan looked inside. His eyes locked onto the blood streaming down Aida's pale face. His pupils contracted to pinpricks. The breath completely vanished from his lungs, leaving a cold, hollow panic in his chest.

He leaned into the ruined cabin, carefully avoiding the jagged edges of the broken glass. He slid his arms under Aida's knees and behind her back, pulling her limp body out of the wreckage.

Aida's head lolled against his chest. Her eyes were half-closed, her consciousness fading. Driven by pure survival instinct, her fingers weakly curled into the wet fabric of his suit lapel, holding on.

Grayson finally managed to kick his door open. He crawled out onto the street, his suit ruined, his face red with rage. He pointed a shaking finger at Brendan. "You son of a bitch!"

Grayson lunged forward, reaching out to grab Aida's dangling arm. "She's with me! Put her down!"

Brendan's eyes turned to absolute ice. He pulled Aida's limp body tighter against his chest, wrapping his left arm firmly around her waist to secure her dead weight against him. Without missing a beat, he shifted his stance, raised his right leg, and drove the flat of his expensive leather shoe directly into the center of Grayson's chest with bone-crushing force.

Grayson let out a choked gasp as the air was forced from his lungs. He flew backward, crashing heavily onto the waterlogged asphalt.

Before Grayson could move, two massive men in black suits materialized from the rain. They grabbed Grayson by the arms, dragged him up, and slammed him face-down onto the hood of an SUV, pinning his arms behind his back.

Brendan didn't look at Grayson again. He shrugged off his suit jacket, the silk lining still warm from his body heat, and wrapped it tightly around Aida's shivering shoulders.

He carried her away from the wreckage, his long strides eating up the distance back to the Escalade.

He laid Aida gently across the wide leather backseat, then climbed in beside her. He carefully lifted her head and rested it on his thighs.

Brendan reached into the compartment between the seats and pulled out a white first-aid kit. He ripped open a sterile gauze pad, pressed it firmly against the bleeding gash on Aida's forehead, and held it there.

Aida sucked in a sharp, hissing breath through her teeth as the pressure hit the wound. Her dark eyelashes fluttered wildly against her pale cheeks.

"Drive," Brendan ordered the driver, his voice tight and low. "Get to the private hospital on the Upper East Side. Now."

Outside, Alex stood in the rain, watching as the bodyguards shoved a struggling Grayson into the back of one of the SUVs.

The Escalade tore away from the scene, its tires spinning on the wet pavement. Inside the cabin, the heavy, metallic smell of fresh blood filled the air.

Aida forced her eyes open a fraction of an inch. Her vision was swimming, but she could see the sharp, tense line of Brendan's jaw and the dark, stormy look in his eyes as he stared down at her.

Her lips parted. Her voice was barely a whisper. "Where... where is my term sheet?"

Before Brendan could answer, her eyes rolled back, and she slipped completely into darkness.

Aida woke up to the sharp, chemical sting of bleach and rubbing alcohol burning her nostrils. She opened her eyes, blinking against the harsh fluorescent lights, and realized she was lying on a stiff mattress in a sterile, white hospital room.

Emmet was sitting in a plastic chair next to her bed. When he saw her eyes open, his shoulders dropped, and he let out a long, ragged exhale of relief.

Aida reached up. Her fingers brushed against a thick, tight square of gauze taped over her forehead. A dull, throbbing ache pulsed behind her eyes. "What happened?" she rasped, her throat dry.

Before Emmet could answer, the heavy wooden door of the private suite swung open. Brendan Walls walked in. He was wearing a fresh, perfectly tailored navy suit, looking as though he hadn't spent the night standing in the freezing rain.

Brendan's cold eyes swept over Emmet. The sheer, oppressive weight of his presence instantly sucked the oxygen out of the room.

Emmet stood up, his jaw tight with resentment. He looked at Aida. She gave him a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. Emmet swallowed his anger and walked out, pulling the door shut behind him.

Brendan walked over to the side of the bed. He didn't ask how she was feeling. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a black leather folder, and tossed it onto the white blanket covering Aida's legs.

Aida frowned. She picked up the folder and opened it. Inside was the five-million-dollar investment contract. On the last page, Brendan's bold, aggressive signature was already scrawled in black ink.

Brendan reached into his pocket again. He pulled out a heavy key fob with a silver Porsche crest and dropped it directly onto the open contract. The metal hit the paper with a sharp smack.

"Compensation," Brendan said, his voice completely devoid of emotion. "For the fright you experienced last night."

Aida stared at the keys and the signature. A cold, cynical realization settled in her stomach. This wasn't an apology. This was hush money. A classic capitalist transaction to buy her silence regarding the violent car crash.

She didn't hesitate. She reached over to the bedside table, grabbed a plastic pen, and signed her name next to his with quick, sharp strokes.

Brendan watched her hand move. A dark, complicated flicker of annoyance flashed in his eyes as she accepted the blood money so easily.

Aida threw the covers off her legs and swung her feet over the edge of the bed. "I need to get back. The company needs this money wired today."

Brendan reached out. His large hand clamped down hard on her shoulder, pinning her to the mattress. "You are staying here for another two days for observation. The doctors confirmed a mild concussion. You are a liability to yourself right now."

Aida reached up and shoved his hand off her shoulder. Her eyes were ice cold. "The transaction is complete, Mr. Walls. NovaTech can't wait forty-eight hours. If I drop dead from a brain bleed, use the five million to pay for my funeral. I don't need your fake concern."

Brendan's jaw clenched. The muscles in his neck tightened, but he didn't reach for her again. He turned around and walked out of the room without another word.

An hour later, after aggressively signing a stack of Against Medical Advice discharge waivers and ignoring the furious protests of the nursing staff, Aida walked out of the hospital, and took a cab straight back to the NovaTech building.

She pushed open the glass door of her office, dropped her bag on the floor, and immediately sat down at her desk. She began typing furiously, processing the incoming funds and clearing the backlog of panicked emails from her vendors.

Hours passed. The sun set, plunging the city into darkness. Outside her glass walls, the open-plan office was completely empty. The silence in the building was absolute.

Aida rubbed the back of her stiff neck. Her head throbbed. She pushed her chair back and stood up, intending to walk down the hall to the breakroom for a cup of coffee.

She stepped out of her office. Suddenly, the heavy, echoing thud of a man's footsteps sounded from the dark end of the hallway.

Aida froze. Her heart skipped a beat. She turned her head, peering into the shadows.

A tall, broad figure stepped out of the gloom. It was Grayson Lott. His face was covered in dark purple bruises, and his bottom lip was split, but his eyes were wide and manic.

Aida's stomach plummeted. A cold sweat broke out across her back. She instinctively took a step backward.

"Your billionaire bodyguard isn't here tonight, Aida," Grayson sneered, his voice dripping with malice. "Did you really think Walls could just lock me away? My father's legal team had the precinct commander personally sign my bail papers three hours ago. And now, we are going to settle our accounts."

He walked forward, his steps slow and deliberate. He forced Aida to back up until the back of her thighs hit the edge of her wooden desk. She was trapped.

Aida slid her right hand behind her back. Her fingers frantically felt across the smooth surface of the desk until they brushed against the cold metal handle of a heavy steel paper knife. She gripped it tight.

Grayson placed both his hands flat on the desk, caging her in. He leaned in close, burying his face in the space between her neck and shoulder, inhaling deeply.

"You are going to come have a drink with me right now," Grayson whispered, his breath hot and sour against her skin. "Or I make one phone call, and my venture capital network-which just so happens to own the majority debt of your largest creditor-calls in your loans by tomorrow morning. Your servers get seized before lunch. Your choice."