Elie stared at the plastic hotel key card. Her brain completely short-circuited.

She instinctively took a step backward. Her shoulder blades slammed hard against the frosted glass of the bathroom door.

"No," Elie whispered, her voice trembling violently. She shook her head. "No, that's impossible. Ebert wouldn't agree to that."

Mortimer let out a wet, ugly snort. He took another heavy step forward, trapping her completely in the narrow alcove. His massive stomach pressed against her. He looked down at her, mocking her naivety.

"In Wall Street, sweetheart, there is absolutely nothing that a Series C funding contract can't buy," Mortimer sneered, dropping his voice to a dirty whisper. "Including you."

The last brick of Elie's psychological wall shattered into dust. Pure, animalistic panic took over.

She ducked her head and lunged forward, trying to squeeze through the small gap between Mortimer's arm and the wall to escape back into the main suite.

But she forgot about the oversized high heels.

She took two frantic steps before her right ankle twisted violently. A sharp spike of pain shot up her leg.

Mortimer reacted with surprising speed. His thick hand shot out and grabbed a fistful of her long, dark hair.

He yanked backward with brutal force.

Elie let out a piercing scream. It felt like her scalp was being ripped off her skull. The sheer force of the pull threw her off balance, and she fell backward.

She hit the thick carpet of the hallway floor hard. Her elbow slammed into the wall, sending a shockwave of numb, blinding pain up her arm.

Mortimer loomed over her like a mountain of flesh. The thrill of the hunt, the excitement of her resistance, made his eyes gleam with sadistic pleasure.

He crouched down. His thick hands grabbed her bare ankle. He began to drag her roughly across the carpet toward him.

Elie kicked wildly with her free leg. The oversized high heel on her left foot flew off, smashing against the expensive wallpaper.

She reached out, her hands desperately clawing at the wooden doorframe of the hallway. Her fingernails dug into the wood so hard that two of them bent backward, tearing the nail bed and drawing blood.

"Ebert!" Elie screamed at the top of her lungs. "Ebert, help me!"

Right at that moment, the heavy bass of the club music in the main room surged, a deafening drop in the track that completely drowned out her desperate screams.

Her screaming annoyed Mortimer. He raised his thick, meaty hand and brought it down hard across her face.

Smack!

The sharp, explosive sound of the slap echoed in the small space. Elie's head snapped to the side. Her ears rang violently. The metallic taste of blood instantly filled her mouth as her lip split open.

The blow left her dizzy and disoriented. Her grip on the doorframe loosened. Mortimer yanked her ankle, dragging her entirely under him.

He threw his heavy leg over her, straddling her thighs, pinning her to the floor. His hands grabbed the neckline of the red silk dress.

With a violent jerk, the delicate silk tore. The sound of the ripping fabric was the sound of her doom. Elie squeezed her eyes shut, hot tears streaming down her face as she waited for the end.

Suddenly, a massive, deafening crash came from the main room. It sounded like a heavy glass table being smashed to pieces.

The light spilling into the hallway was abruptly blocked by a towering, broad-shouldered silhouette.

Mortimer froze, his hands still gripping her torn dress. He looked over his shoulder, his face twisting in annoyance. "Who the hell is looking to die?"

The next second, a custom-made leather oxford shoe shot out from the darkness with terrifying speed.

The heavy shoe connected squarely with the side of Mortimer's face.

Mortimer let out a sound like a slaughtered pig. The force of the kick lifted his two-hundred-and-fifty-pound body completely off Elie. He flew through the air and slammed heavily into the opposite wall.

The suffocating weight on Elie's chest vanished. She gasped for air, clutching the torn pieces of her dress over her chest, and opened her terrified eyes.

Ebert Ewing stood in the shadows of the hallway. He looked like a demon crawling straight out of hell.

He had taken off his suit jacket. His tie was ripped loose. His chest heaved, and his eyes were a terrifying, bloodthirsty crimson as he stared at the groaning Mortimer on the floor.

Ebert bent down. His large hand grabbed the collar of Mortimer's expensive shirt. With a terrifying display of raw strength, Ebert lifted the massive man off the floor like a dead dog.

Mortimer's face was covered in blood. His nose was completely flattened. He stared at Ebert with wide, terrified eyes, his mouth opening and closing like a dying fish.

"Mr... Mr. Ewing..." Mortimer stammered, spitting blood.

Ebert didn't say a single word. He pulled his right fist back. The muscles in his forearm corded with tension. He drove his fist forward with the speed of a bullet, smashing it directly into the center of Mortimer's face.

A sickening, wet crunch echoed in the hallway. Mortimer's nose shattered completely. Blood sprayed through the air, splattering against the expensive wallpaper.

Mortimer screamed in agony. He flailed his arms, weakly trying to push Ebert away.

Ebert's left hand shot out, grabbing Mortimer's right wrist. Ebert had snapped Mortimer's arm with a brutal, practiced twist that spoke of a dark, ruthlessly efficient violence.

The loud, crisp sound of bone breaking was unmistakable.

Elie shrank back into the corner of the wall. Her hands trembled violently as she held the torn silk against her chest. She stared at the bloody, brutal scene unfolding inches away from her. The sickening crunch of bone and the metallic stench of warm blood made her stomach churn violently. She shrank back against the wall, a scream trapped in her raw throat.

She had never seen Ebert lose control like this. Even three years ago, on that terrible rainy night, he had been cold and calculating. Now, he was a rabid beast, tearing his prey apart.

Mortimer collapsed onto the floor like a pile of bloody mud. He curled into a ball, sobbing and begging for mercy.

"Please! Please!" Mortimer wailed. "Didn't you... didn't you give her to me as a gift?"

That single sentence hit the absolute core of Ebert's rage.

Ebert raised his leather shoe. He brought it down hard, stomping directly onto Mortimer's fat, bloody cheek. He ground his heel into the man's face.

Ebert leaned down. His eyes were so dark they looked like endless voids. The muscles in his jaw ticked violently. He spoke through clenched teeth, every word dripping with lethal venom.

"She is my property," Ebert growled, his voice vibrating with rage. "Even if she is trash that I threw away, a filthy pig like you doesn't get to touch her."

The words hit Elie like a physical blow to the chest. It was in this haze of visceral terror that his declaration cut through, colder and sharper than any physical blow.

Trash that I threw away.

The tiny, pathetic spark of hope that had ignited when he saved her was instantly extinguished. It turned into a block of solid ice in her stomach.

He didn't save her because he cared. He saved her because of his twisted, psychotic sense of ownership. She was just an object.

The music in the main room abruptly cut off. Davin, followed by four massive bodyguards in black suits, rushed into the hallway.

Davin sucked in a sharp breath when he saw the blood covering the walls and floor. He quickly raised his hand, signaling the bodyguards to step forward.

Ebert slowly removed his foot from Mortimer's face. He turned around. Davin immediately handed him a pristine white handkerchief.

Ebert took it and slowly, methodically wiped the blood from his knuckles.

"Get rid of him," Ebert ordered coldly, not looking at the whimpering man on the floor. "By tomorrow morning, I do not want to see the name Finch Capital anywhere on Wall Street."

Hearing that sentence, Mortimer's eyes rolled back in his head, and he passed out from pure terror. The bodyguards grabbed him by his broken arms and dragged him out of the suite like a bag of garbage.

The hallway fell dead silent again. The heavy, metallic smell of blood hung thick in the air.

Ebert dropped the bloody handkerchief onto the floor. He turned slowly and looked down at Elie.

She was shivering uncontrollably. She was missing a shoe. Her red dress was ripped open. The side of her face was swollen and red, and a thin trail of blood leaked from the corner of her mouth.

Ebert's eyes swept over her bruised face. For a fraction of a second, a flash of intense, agonizing pain cracked through his cold facade. But he blinked, and the ice returned instantly.

He reached up and unbuttoned his white dress shirt, stripping it off, leaving him in only a black tailored vest. He threw the white shirt roughly. It landed over Elie's head.

"Put it on," Ebert snapped. His voice was filled with irritation and disgust, as if looking at her made him sick.

Elie fumbled blindly with the fabric. She shoved her arms through the sleeves of the oversized shirt, pulling it tight around her body to hide her exposed skin.

Ebert didn't offer his hand to help her up. He turned on his heel and walked toward the exit. "Follow me," he ordered.

Elie bit down on her bleeding lip. She placed her hand against the wall and forced herself to stand. Her right ankle was swollen to the size of a baseball. Every step sent a blinding spike of pain up her leg.

She limped after him, dragging her injured foot. She looked like a broken ragdoll that had been thrown away, only to be dragged back by its cruel master.

They walked out of the club doors. The freezing night wind hit Elie, making her teeth chatter.

The Maybach was waiting. Ebert stood by the open door, his eyes cold and impatient as he watched her painfully drag herself toward the car.