The door of the Maybach clicked shut, sealing them inside a vacuum of leather and silence. The sound was final, like the lid of a coffin closing.

The car was already moving, gliding through the Manhattan traffic with a smoothness that felt unnatural. Elayne sat pressed against the door, her hands clutching her purse to her stomach.

Gunnar Kirk sat on the other side of the spacious backseat. He hadn't looked at her since she was shoved into the car. He was reading a document on a tablet, his profile sharp and unforgiving in the passing streetlights.

"Mr. Kirk," Elayne started, her voice shaking. "I... I want to apologize. That was necessary. I was being-"

"Thirty-two million," Gunnar said. He didn't look up.

Elayne blinked. "Excuse me?"

"The current debt load of the Baxter family trust," Gunnar said. He swiped a finger across the screen. "Including the bridge loan from Sterling Capital that is currently in default. Your father faces three counts of fraud. Your stepmother has maxed out six credit cards this month alone."

Elayne felt the blood drain from her face. It had been five minutes. How did he know?

"You're efficient," she whispered, the fight draining out of her.

"I'm thorough," Gunnar corrected. He finally turned his head. His eyes were predatory. "That photo of us is already trending. My company's stock price just jumped two percent. The market likes seeing me... humanized."

Cornell Conrad, the man from the restaurant, turned from the front passenger seat. He held out a sleek black tablet.

"The contract is ready, Miss Baxter," Cornell said. His voice was mild, professional, and terrifying.

Elayne looked at the screen. Consulting Services Agreement.

"I need a fiancée," Gunnar said flatly. "The board is trying to trigger a morality clause in my grandfather's trust to oust me. They think I'm unstable. A fiancée from an old, established family-even a ruined one-fixes that image."

"You want me to... act?" Elayne asked.

"Three months," Gunnar said. "You play the part. I get control of the trust. In return, I clear the debt to Arthur Sterling."

"No," Elayne said. The word was automatic. She couldn't be in the spotlight. Not with the secret she was hiding. Not with him. "I have... I have a boyfriend."

Gunnar let out a short, dry laugh. He tapped the screen again. A video began to play.

It was grainy footage from outside the restaurant, taken minutes ago. Arthur Sterling was on the phone, his face red with rage. "Burn it," he was screaming. "Burn the damn gallery down. I want Baxter on the street tonight."

Elayne's hands flew to her mouth. The gallery. Her mother's legacy. It was all she had left.

Gunnar leaned forward. He invaded her space, his scent-sandalwood and cold rain-filling her nose.

"Sign the paper, Elayne," he said softly. "Or I sue you for sexual harassment for what you did in the restaurant. I will bury you in legal fees until you can't afford to buy a cup of coffee, let alone bail your father out."

Elayne looked at him. He was a monster. A beautiful, well-tailored monster.

Her phone buzzed in her hand. A text from Meredith, her stepmother: YOU STUPID GIRL. ARTHUR IS CALLING THE COPS. FIX THIS.

Elayne closed her eyes. She thought of the small, warm weight she held in her arms every night in secret. She needed money. She needed safety.

She took the stylus from Cornell. Her hand trembled as she signed Elayne Baxter on the digital line.

Gunnar took the tablet back instantly. The predator relaxed, satisfied with the kill.

"To the estate," he ordered the driver.

"The estate?" Elayne asked, panic spiking again. "Why? I need to go home."

"Tonight is the engagement gala," Gunnar said, returning to his reading. "You're late, my dear fiancée."

The car accelerated, merging onto the highway that led to Long Island. The city lights faded behind them.

Cornell reached back again. This time, he held a bottle of water and a small, orange prescription bottle.

"For the anxiety, Miss Baxter," Cornell said politely. "We pulled your recent prescription history. We know about the panic attacks."

Elayne stared at the bottle. Her heart stopped. Prescription history. Not full medical records. A wave of cold relief washed over her, so potent it made her dizzy. They knew about the Xanax, but not the reason for it. Not the clinic in Switzerland. Not the nine-month gap.

Did they see the gap? Did they see the "rehabilitation" stay in Switzerland nine months ago? Did they know?

She took the pills, her fingers brushing Cornell's. He didn't react.

Gunnar closed his eyes, leaning his head back. He looked exhausted, human for just a second, before the mask slipped back into place.

Elayne moved her hand to her stomach, tracing the faint line of the C-section scar through her dress.

They don't know, she told herself. If they knew, this car would be turning around.

She had sold her soul to the devil, but she had to make sure he never found the angel she was hiding.

The ballroom of the Kirk estate was a cavern of gold leaf and crystal. It smelled of expensive perfume and old money.

When Gunnar walked in with Elayne on his arm, the room didn't just go quiet; it froze.

Elayne kept her chin high. She could feel the weight of hundreds of eyes. They were dissecting her. The fraudster's daughter. The ruined girl.

"Smile," Gunnar murmured, his lips barely moving. His hand was a warm, heavy weight on the small of her back. "You adore me."

"I'm contemplating murder," Elayne whispered back, smiling radiantly.

"Good. Passion sells."

He steered her toward the main bar, then paused as a group of gray-haired men waved him over. "Stay here," he commanded. "Don't speak. Don't embarrass me."

He walked away, leaving her stranded on an island of parquet floor.

Almost immediately, the sharks circled.

"Well, well," a voice drawled. Angelique Tate. The Senator's daughter. She was wearing a dress that cost more than Elayne's father's bail.

Angelique stepped into Elayne's personal space, holding a flute of champagne. "I heard they let visitors bring snacks to the penitentiary now. Is that where you've been, Elayne? Visiting Daddy?"

A titter of laughter rippled through Angelique's entourage.

"And that dress," Angelique sighed, looking Elayne up and down. "So... vintage. Is that from the season before the FBI raided your closet?"

Elayne's fingers tightened around her glass. She wanted to shrink. She wanted to run.

But then she remembered the contract. Maintain the Kirk image. A Kirk didn't get bullied. A Kirk destroyed.

Elayne took a slow sip of her wine. She let the silence stretch until Angelique looked uncomfortable.

"It is vintage," Elayne said, her voice sweet and clear. "Unlike your gown, Angelique. Isn't that a Ponti original? I heard he was indicted for money laundering last week. The FBI is seizing all assets purchased from his atelier. You might want to check if they're waiting for you at the coat check."

Angelique's face went slack.

Elayne turned to the woman on Angelique's left. "And Mrs. Vanderbilt. How is your husband? Is he enjoying his time in the Caymans? I heard the weather is lovely, though the paternity laws are quite strict regarding... outside children."

The circle of women recoiled as if Elayne had pulled a knife.

Elayne smiled. She had been a curator. She knew every dirty secret, every hidden asset, every fake masterpiece in this room.

Angelique's face turned a blotchy red. "You bitch," she hissed. She jerked her hand, splashing her champagne forward.

Elayne sidestepped with the grace of a dancer.

The liquid missed her entirely and splashed onto the pristine white tuxedo of the Japanese investor standing behind her.

The investor gasped. The room went silent.

Angelique stood there, glass empty, looking horrified.

A hand settled on Elayne's waist.

Gunnar was back. He looked at the wet tuxedo, then at Angelique's terrified face, and finally at Elayne.

He didn't look angry. The corner of his mouth twitched.

"My fiancée seems to be having a lively evening," Gunnar said, his voice cutting through the tension. He pulled Elayne closer, his grip possessive.

He leaned down, his breath hot against her ear. "I thought I told you to behave."

"I'm protecting your asset value," Elayne whispered back. "Weakness devalues the stock."

Gunnar looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time. There was a flicker of respect in the ice.

"Remind me never to cross you in public," he murmured.

Just then, a commotion at the entrance caught Elayne's eye. She froze.

Meredith. Her stepmother was arguing with security, trying to push past the velvet rope.

Elayne's blood ran cold. If Meredith saw Gunnar, she would demand more money. She would make a scene.

"I need the ladies' room," Elayne said abruptly, pulling away from Gunnar.

She didn't wait for his answer. She turned and walked fast toward the side corridor, slipping out of the ballroom before Meredith could spot her.

She hurried down the hallway, looking for a bathroom, but took a wrong turn. She found herself at the foot of the grand staircase. She ran up, needing to put distance between herself and the chaos.

She opened the first door she found on the second floor and slipped inside, leaning back against the heavy wood, breathing hard.

The room was dark. It smelled of old paper and dust.

"Who are you?" a voice rasped from the shadows. "Why do you hold yourself like that?"

Elayne jumped, her hand flying to her throat.

In the corner, sitting in a wheelchair, was an old man. His skin was like parchment, his eyes clouded with cataracts. Old Man Kirk. Gunnar's grandfather.

He pointed a shaking finger at her. Specifically, at the locket resting on her collarbone.

"That locket," the old man whispered. "It's a Patek Philippe 'Firstborn.' My wife had one. A heavy thing for a girl with no child to wear."

Elayne clutched the locket tight. Inside was the only photo she had of her son.

"I... I don't know what you mean," she stammered, backing toward the door.

"Liar," the old man hissed. "The blood always tells."

Elayne stumbled out of the old man's room, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She turned blindly and collided with a solid wall of chest.

Strong hands gripped her shoulders to steady her.

"Easy," Gunnar's voice said.

Elayne looked up. He was frowning, looking at her pale face. "Did you get lost?"

"I... yes," Elayne lied, her voice breathless. "It's a big house."

Gunnar stared at her for a second too long, then steered her down the hall. "Come in here. We need to talk."

He opened the double doors to the main study. It was a masculine room, all mahogany and leather. He closed the door, shutting out the distant hum of the party.

Gunnar walked to a crystal decanter and poured two fingers of amber liquid. He handed her the glass.

"Drink."

Elayne took a large swallow. The whiskey burned, grounding her.

"You have a silver tongue, Elayne," Gunnar said, leaning against his desk. He was watching her like a specimen in a jar. "What you did to Angelique Tate... it was brutal. I liked it."

Elayne set the glass down. She reached into her clutch and pulled out a crumpled check. It was for fifty thousand dollars-the proceeds from selling the last painting she had managed to hide from the marshals.

She slid it across the desk.

"This is a down payment," she said, her voice steadying. "I'll pay you the rest. I can't do this. I can't be your fiancée."

Gunnar looked at the check. He didn't pick it up. He laughed, a low, dark sound.

"Fifty thousand?" He pushed off the desk and walked toward her. "Elayne, my stock went up four points tonight. That's worth three hundred million dollars. Do you think this covers my time?"

He reached out, took the check, and slowly tore it in half. Then in quarters. He let the pieces flutter down onto the Persian rug.

"You aren't leaving," Gunnar said. "In fact, the terms have changed."

"What?"

"My grandfather is failing. The board is circling. I need you close." He stopped right in front of her, boxing her in against the armchair. "You're moving into my penthouse. Tomorrow."

"No!" Elayne panicked. "I can't. I... I have insomnia. Terrible insomnia. I pace all night. I scream. I'll keep you awake."

Gunnar's eyes narrowed. "Are you hiding a man in that apartment, Elayne?"

"No," she said too quickly.

"Then you're moving in." He pulled out his phone. "Cornell. Send the styling team to the Baxter residence at 8:00 AM. Pack her up."

He hung up before she could protest.

"You can't just order me around!" Elayne cried. "What if I go to the press? What if I tell them this is all a sham?"

Gunnar stepped closer. He reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered on her jawline. The touch was electric, terrifying.

"You won't," he whispered. "Because your father's bail is posted by my company. You talk, he goes back to a cell. General population this time."

Elayne froze. He held all the cards.

"You're a monster," she whispered.

"I'm a businessman," Gunnar corrected. "And you are my most valuable asset right now."

A siren wailed in the distance, getting closer.

There was a knock at the door. A servant entered, looking flustered. "Sir, the police are at the gate. A Mrs. Meredith Baxter was trying to climb the fence."

Gunnar raised an eyebrow at Elayne. "Your family is colorful."

He opened the door for her. "Go home, Elayne. Pack your bags. I'll see you at breakfast."

Elayne walked out, her legs feeling like lead.

8:00 AM. She had less than ten hours to make her son disappear.