The Maybach glided smoothly through the rain-slicked streets of Manhattan. It turned off the main avenue and onto a highly private, tree-lined driveway.

The car came to a slow stop under the grand, low-lit portico of the Red Leaf Club. Two rows of valets in crisp uniforms stood at attention.

Davin quickly stepped out of the passenger seat. He opened a massive black umbrella and pulled open the rear door.

Ebert stepped out first. His long legs carried him to the edge of the dry pavement. He turned his head, his cold eyes fixing on Elie still inside the car.

Elie took a deep breath. She pulled the black overcoat tightly around her body. Wearing the shoes that were a size too large, she forced herself to step out of the car.

The moment her stiletto hit the wet, polished marble of the driveway, her ankle rolled sharply. A spike of pain shot up her leg, and she pitched forward.

Ebert reacted with lightning speed. His long arm shot out, wrapping tightly around her narrow waist. He yanked her hard against his solid, hard chest.

Elie gasped. Her hands instinctively flew up, pressing flat against his chest to steady herself. She looked up, her eyes crashing into his deep, dark gaze.

For a fraction of a second, a memory flashed through Elie's mind. Three years ago, during a thunderstorm, he had caught her exactly like this. He had held her so warmly.

But the absolute ice in Ebert's eyes shattered the memory instantly.

He leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear.

"Don't play games with me," he warned, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

Elie bit her lip. She pushed against his shoulders, trying to stand up straight. But the large hand on her waist clamped down harder, locking her against him.

Suddenly, Ebert lowered his head. His mouth crashed down onto the pale, exposed skin of her neck.

Elie's eyes went wide. Her entire body stiffened in shock. She felt his teeth scrape against her skin, right over her pulse point. He sucked hard, biting down with a painful, punishing force.

"Stop!" she gasped, struggling wildly. She pushed at his chest with all her strength, but it was like trying to push a brick wall. He didn't move an inch.

A few seconds later, Ebert lifted his head. He raised his thumb and roughly wiped the saliva from her skin. He stared at the dark, purple-red bruise blooming on her neck with dark satisfaction.

"That," Ebert sneered, his voice dripping with malice, "is so Mortimer knows exactly whose property he's touching. Even when I give you away, you wear my brand."

A wave of absolute nausea and freezing cold washed over Elie. Her pride, her dignity, everything was crushed into the dirt by that single, violent mark.

Ebert let go of her waist. He calmly adjusted the cuffs of his suit jacket, instantly returning to his untouchable, aristocratic posture.

He looked at Davin. "Take her to the VIP suite on the top floor."

Ebert turned on his heel and walked away, disappearing down a different hallway of the club.

Elie stood frozen on the marble floor. The cold wind whipped around her legs. She watched his back disappear, feeling a profound, bottomless despair.

Davin gestured toward the entrance with a blank face. "This way, Miss Joyce."

Elie moved like a puppet with its strings cut. The pinching pain in her toes was nothing compared to the numbness in her chest. She followed Davin into the opulent, gold-trimmed lobby of the club.

Several wealthy New York socialites were lingering near the bar. They turned their heads, their eyes raking over Elie-a woman limping in a man's oversized coat. Their whispers and mocking stares felt like physical slaps.

Elie kept her head down. She dug her fingernails so hard into her palms that the skin broke. She forced herself to ignore them.

They entered a private, gold-plated elevator. Davin swiped a sleek black card. The elevator shot up to the top floor.

The doors slid open. The hallway was lined with thick, sound-absorbing carpet and expensive modern art.

Davin stopped in front of a pair of heavy mahogany doors with gold handles. The most exclusive suite in the club.

Davin turned to face her. His expression was completely devoid of sympathy.

"Take off the coat," Davin instructed coldly. "Mr. Finch does not like unnecessary layers."

Elie squeezed her eyes shut. A single, hot tear escaped, sliding down her cheek. She slowly pushed the heavy black coat off her shoulders. It fell to the floor in a heap.

She stood there, shivering in the tiny red silk dress, the violent purple hickey fully exposed on her neck.

Davin pushed the heavy mahogany doors open.

The heavy mahogany doors swung open. Elie stepped into the room. Her bare arms were covered in goosebumps. Her toes throbbed in the tight heels. Her movements were stiff, mechanical.

The VIP suite was massive. The lights were dimmed to a sultry, dark amber. The air was thick and heavy, suffocating her with the smell of expensive cigars, spilled alcohol, and cheap, overpowering perfume.

Davin pulled the doors shut behind her. The soft click of the lock engaging severed her last connection to the outside world.

Elie's eyes scanned the room. In the center sat a massive, U-shaped leather sofa.

Right in the middle of the sofa sat Mortimer Finch. He was a heavily overweight man with thinning hair and a flushed, sweaty face.

But what made the blood freeze in Elie's veins was the man sitting on the single armchair to the right.

Ebert Ewing.

He was already there. He held a martini glass in his hand, his legs crossed, his expression completely bored and detached.

Mortimer's eyes snapped toward the door. His gaze locked onto Elie. His eyes crawled over the thin red silk clinging to her curves, lingering on the expanse of her bare skin. It was the look of a starving predator.

Then, Mortimer's eyes landed on her neck. He saw the angry, purple-red hickey.

Mortimer's thick eyebrows shot up. A greasy, highly suggestive smile spread across his face.

"Mr. Ewing," Mortimer laughed loudly, his voice grating. "The 'gift' you brought me is absolutely exquisite. And the packaging... very kinky. I like it."

Ebert slowly swirled the clear liquid in his martini glass. He didn't even look at Elie.

"As long as Mr. Finch is pleased," Ebert said, his voice flat and businesslike. "I trust the Series C funding will proceed without any further delays."

Hearing herself being traded like a piece of meat for a corporate funding round made Elie's stomach violently cramp. She felt physically sick. Her fingernails dug deeper into the bleeding crescents in her palms.

Mortimer patted the empty leather cushion right next to his thick thigh.

"Come here, sweetheart. Sit next to me," Mortimer commanded, his voice dripping with lust.

Elie's legs felt like they were made of lead. She couldn't move. She turned her head and looked at Ebert. Her eyes were wide, silently begging him. Please. Don't do this.

Ebert took a slow sip of his martini. He deliberately looked away, staring at the wall. He completely ignored her plea.

The last shred of hope died inside Elie. She clenched her jaw so hard her teeth ached. She forced her leaden legs to move. She walked over and sat down stiffly on the very edge of the cushion next to Mortimer.

The second she sat down, Mortimer's large, sweaty hand clamped down heavily onto her bare thigh.

Elie flinched violently. She instinctively jerked her body away from him.

But Mortimer's other arm shot out, wrapping around her narrow waist. He yanked her hard against his side, pinning her against his bulky body.

The overpowering stench of his cologne mixed with the smell of stale alcohol and bad breath hit Elie's face. She held her breath, fighting the intense, physical urge to vomit.

Sitting across from them, Ebert watched Mortimer's arm wrap around Elie's waist. The fingers holding his martini glass tightened abruptly. His knuckles turned stark white against the crystal.

But his face remained a perfect, frozen mask of indifference. He made no move to stop it.

Mortimer picked up a glass filled to the brim with straight, high-proof vodka from the table. He shoved it directly against Elie's lips.

"Drink it," Mortimer ordered.

Elie turned her head away, pressing her lips tightly together. "I... I don't drink," she managed to say.

Mortimer's greasy smile vanished. He grabbed her chin roughly, his thick fingers digging into her jawbone.

"If you don't drink, you're disrespecting Mr. Ewing," Mortimer threatened.

Elie's eyes darted to Ebert.

Ebert stared at her with dead eyes. "Drink it," he commanded coldly.

Those two words were the final blow. They shattered whatever was left of her soul. A look of absolute, dead resignation washed over her eyes.

Elie took the glass from Mortimer's hand. She tilted her head back and downed the entire glass of straight vodka in one go.

The liquid was like liquid fire. It burned a path down her throat and exploded in her empty stomach.

Elie immediately began to cough violently. The harsh coughing racked her small frame. Tears sprang to her eyes, turning the edges of her eyes a painful, bright red.

Mortimer threw his head back and laughed. Taking advantage of her coughing fit, he slid his sweaty hand higher up her thigh, his fingers moving dangerously close to the edge of the silk dress.

Elie's body shook like a leaf in a hurricane. She slammed her hand down, grabbing Mortimer's thick wrist to stop his hand. She was panting heavily.

She forced her head up. Her eyes were bloodshot and watering.

"Excuse me," she choked out, her voice raspy and broken. "I need to use the restroom."

Elie violently shoved Mortimer's hand off her leg. She scrambled up from the deep leather sofa, her movements frantic and uncoordinated.

Because she stood up too fast, the high-proof vodka hit her brain instantly. The room spun. Her ankle gave out in the oversized heel, and she stumbled forward, nearly crashing into the glass coffee table.

Mortimer's face darkened. He scowled, opening his mouth to yell at her.

"Women are always so much trouble," Ebert's voice cut through the tension. It was smooth, cold, and dripping with disdain. "Forgive her lack of manners, Mr. Finch."

Hearing Ebert apologize for her as if she were a misbehaving pet made Elie's spine lock up. She didn't look back. She practically ran toward the back of the massive suite, searching for the bathroom.

She found the heavy, frosted-glass door. She shoved it open, threw herself inside, and slammed the door shut. Her trembling fingers fumbled with the lock until she heard the heavy thunk of the deadbolt sliding into place.

The bathroom was dead silent. The faint, mechanical hum of the exhaust fan was the only sound. The heavy door completely blocked out the thumping bass of the club music outside.

Elie lunged toward the marble vanity. She gripped the edge of the cold stone counter so hard her fingernails bent.

The violent nausea she had been fighting finally won. She leaned over the porcelain sink and began to dry heave uncontrollably.

Her stomach cramped with agonizing force. Because she hadn't eaten anything all day, there was nothing to throw up. She only gagged up bitter stomach acid and the burning taste of the vodka.

The violent spasms wracked her chest. Tears streamed down her face, mixing with the snot running from her nose. She looked utterly pathetic.

After several minutes, the spasms slowly subsided. Elie felt completely drained, her legs shaking weakly.

She reached out and turned the brass faucet. Freezing cold water rushed out.

She cupped her hands and splashed the icy water onto her face. She splashed it onto her neck, scrubbing her skin frantically, trying to wash away the disgusting feeling of Mortimer's sweaty hand on her thigh.

The cold water dripped from her chin, falling onto the red silk dress and blooming into dark, wet stains.

Elie slowly raised her head. She looked at her reflection in the massive, brightly lit mirror.

Her hair was a tangled mess. Her eyes were bloodshot and swollen. Her face was ashen.

Her gaze dropped to her neck. The dark, purple-red hickey Ebert had left was glaringly obvious against her pale skin.

A surge of pure, unadulterated hatred flashed in her eyes.

She grabbed a rough paper towel from the dispenser. She pressed it against the hickey and scrubbed. She rubbed the paper towel back and forth with brutal force. She scrubbed until the delicate skin on her neck turned bright red, until it felt raw and started to peel.

But the bruise remained.

Elie dropped the paper towel. Her knees buckled. She slid down the tiled wall and collapsed onto the freezing bathroom floor. She pulled her knees to her chest and buried her face in her arms.

She cried silently. Her shoulders shook with the force of her suppressed sobs. Her psychological defenses had completely collapsed.

In the darkness behind her eyelids, she saw her grandmother's frail face lying in the hospital bed. That face was the only reason she was still breathing.

Elie took a ragged, shuddering breath. She wiped her face roughly with the back of her hand. She forced her shaking legs to straighten, pulling herself up from the floor.

She looked in the mirror one last time. She smoothed down her wet hair. She took three deep breaths, forcing the panic down into a tight, hard box in her chest. She locked her facial muscles into a mask of pure, numb ice.

No matter what hell awaited her out there, she had to walk back out. For her family.

Elie walked to the door. She wrapped her hand around the cold metal handle. She hesitated for three agonizing seconds.

Click. She unlocked the door and pulled it open.

The moment the door cracked open, the heavy stench of cigars and cheap cologne flooded her senses.

Elie looked up. Her pupils shrank to pinpricks.

Mortimer's massive, bloated body was completely blocking the narrow hallway right outside the bathroom door. A disgusting, predatory grin stretched across his sweaty face.

He raised his right hand. Between his thick fingers, he held a plastic hotel key card. He waved it slowly in front of her face.

"Mr. Ewing has given his blessing," Mortimer whispered, his voice thick with lust.

He stepped closer, his stomach brushing against her. "I have a private suite booked three floors down. You're coming with me right now."

A loud ringing sound exploded in Elie's ears. The blood in her veins turned to solid ice.