Alyssa snatched her Birkin bag from the sofa.

She shoved her feet into her heels and walked out of the penthouse without looking back.

She stepped into the elevator and hit the lobby button.

She caught her reflection in the mirrored doors, staring at the oversized men's shirt hanging off her frame, and bit her lower lip hard enough to taste copper.

The elevator doors opened to the underground garage.

She climbed into her Porsche, slamming the heavy door shut to block out the world.

She rested her forehead against the leather steering wheel, her chest still heaving from the sheer physical presence of Benton in that room.

She turned the key.

The engine roared to life, vibrating through the floorboards.

She sped out of the Plaza Hotel garage, the tires gripping the concrete.

The freezing morning air of New York rushed in through the cracked window, cooling the heat in her cheeks.

She stopped at a red light and glanced at her rearview mirror.

Benton was standing on the curb outside the hotel's main entrance.

He wore a thin black trench coat, his hands shoved into his pockets as the harsh wind whipped around him.

There were no bodyguards, no fleet of Maybachs waiting for him anymore.

The headline from the Wall Street Journal flashed in her mind, detailing how his grandfather had stripped him of every asset overnight.

The light turned green.

The car behind her honked loudly.

She made it half a block before she caught sight of him again in the rearview mirror. The solitary, defiant line of his shoulders against the freezing wind struck a sudden, uncomfortable chord in her chest. It reminded her too much of how her own family looked at her—like a disposable problem.

Her grip on the leather steering wheel tightened until her knuckles ached. He is my asset now, she told herself, a fierce, territorial instinct overriding her lingering anger. And I don't let my investments freeze to death on the pavement.

The rationalization failed to soothe her entirely, and her stomach twisted into an uncomfortable knot.

She yanked the steering wheel hard to the left.

The tires screeched against the asphalt as the Porsche whipped around in a violent U-turn.

She pulled up right in front of him, the brakes squealing.

She rolled down the passenger window and slid her sunglasses over her eyes to hide the sudden tightness in her throat.

"Get in," she ordered. "I can't have my new business partner freezing to death on the sidewalk."

Benton raised an eyebrow.

He opened the door and folded his large frame into the passenger seat.

The cold cedar smell of him instantly filled the small cabin of the sports car.

Alyssa cleared her throat. She glanced down at herself—the wrinkled men's shirt, the missing buttons, the bare legs. A flush of mortification crept up her neck.

"I need to change first," she muttered, more to herself than to him.

She drove not toward Midtown, but toward her apartment on the Upper East Side. Fifteen minutes later, she pulled into the underground garage of her building, told Benton to wait, and took the private elevator upstairs.

Inside her walk-in closet, she stripped off the humiliating shirt and threw on a cream-colored cashmere sweater dress, a pair of sheer stockings, and her favorite black Louboutin heels. She checked her reflection—hair smoothed, lipstick reapplied, composure restored.

She was Alyssa goddamn Sterling again.

She returned to the garage, slid back into the driver's seat without a word, and hit the gas.

Now she drove straight for Midtown.

She pulled up to the entrance of Le Bernardin.

The valet rushed forward and opened her door. He did not blink at her attire—because she finally looked like she belonged there.

She tossed the keys to the kid and walked toward the entrance, her heels clicking sharply on the pavement.

The maitre d' recognized her immediately and guided them to a private booth in the back.

Alyssa ordered the most expensive tasting menu in fluent French, refusing to look at the prices.

She folded her hands on the white tablecloth and stared at Benton.

"You took my money," she said, lifting her chin. "You need to eat if you're going to work for me."

Benton picked up his silver fork.

His movements were precise, carrying the heavy weight of a man raised in absolute wealth.

He took a bite of the fish and looked up at her.

"Thank you for your generosity, boss," he said, his tone perfectly flat.

The word boss sent a warm rush of satisfaction straight to her chest.

The waiter brought the leather checkbook at the end of the meal.

Alyssa pulled her heavy black card from her wallet and dropped it onto the tray without a second thought.

She signed the receipt with a quick, aggressive flourish.

Benton watched her profile.

His jaw flexed, a dark, predatory amusement pooling in his eyes as he watched her pay for him.

Alyssa shoved the black card back into her wallet.

She walked out of the restaurant, the cold air hitting her face again.

She slid into the driver's seat and looked at Benton as he got in.

"What street are you staying on?" she asked.

Benton rattled off a zip code deep in Brooklyn, his voice completely indifferent.

Alyssa's hands froze on the steering wheel.

She turned her head, her eyes wide behind her sunglasses, waiting for him to laugh and say it was a joke.

He just stared straight ahead.

A heavy weight settled in her chest, and she pressed the gas pedal, steering the car toward the Brooklyn Bridge.

The towering glass skyscrapers of Manhattan faded in the rearview mirror.

The streets grew narrower, the pavement cracked, and the brick walls were covered in thick layers of graffiti.

Alyssa slowed the Porsche to a crawl, her tires thumping over deep potholes.

She pulled up to a crumbling red-brick apartment building.

The streetlamp above them flickered with a loud buzzing sound, casting harsh shadows over the trash lining the sidewalk.

Alyssa frowned, her chest tightening with genuine unease.

"I'm walking you up," she insisted, unbuckling her seatbelt.

Benton didn't argue.

He pushed open the heavy, rusted metal door to the building.

The smell of damp mold and stale cigarettes hit Alyssa's nose instantly, making her stomach churn.

She gripped the wobbly wooden handrail, her heels sinking into the soft, rotting wood of the stairs.

They reached the top floor.

Benton pulled a cheap brass key from his pocket and shoved it into the scratched lock.

The door groaned open, revealing a space no bigger than her walk-in closet at home.

Alyssa stood in the doorway, her breath catching in her throat.

There was a stained sofa, a metal bed frame, and a tiny kitchen counter with peeling laminate.

Benton took off his coat and draped it over a plastic chair.

He walked to the sink and turned the faucet.

The pipes shuddered and banged behind the wall before spitting out a stream of cloudy water.

He filled a cheap glass and held it out to her.

Alyssa stared at the water, remembering the times she had seen him drinking only imported Fiji water at the Steele estate.

Her throat closed up completely.

She ignored the glass, reached into her bag, and pulled out a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills.

She slammed the cash down on the chipped coffee table.

"Move out tomorrow," she ordered, her voice shaking slightly. "Get a real place in Manhattan."

Benton looked at the money, his eyes darkening.

"This isn't in the investment contract," he said quietly.

"I don't care," she snapped, her chest rising and falling fast. "I'm not letting my partner live in a dumpster."

She couldn't stand being in this suffocating room for another second.

She turned around and practically ran out the door.

Her heels echoed loudly down the stairs until the heavy metal door slammed shut at the bottom.

Benton walked to the small, dirty window.

He watched the red Porsche speed away down the dark street.

The blank, defeated look on his face vanished completely.

He walked over to the peeling wall next to the front door and pushed his thumb against a hidden panel.

A green light scanned his fingerprint.

The entire wall slid open silently, revealing a compact, heavily soundproofed server room and surveillance hub that starkly contrasted the decay outside. The reinforced steel walls hummed with the quiet power of a dedicated, off-the-grid generator, a secret installation funded by an untraceable offshore trust long before his public exile.

He sat down in the leather chair, his eyes fixed on the glowing screen tracking the GPS signal of the Porsche. He allowed himself a grim, fleeting smile, thankful for the split second he had taken to slip the magnetic micro-tracker under the lip of her car's rear bumper while she had been distracted by the valet at Le Bernardin.

The Porsche tore down the Long Island Expressway, the engine whining at high speed.

The cold night air whipped through the cracked window, tangling Alyssa's hair around her face.

The digital screen on the dashboard lit up with an incoming call from Caspian.

She tapped the screen to answer.

Caspian's voice blasted through the speakers, high-pitched and frantic.

"Alyssa! The entire Upper East Side group chat is saying you bought Benton Steele!"

Alyssa pressed her foot harder on the gas, a bitter laugh escaping her throat.

"I didn't buy him, Cas. I bought his company. There's a difference."

"It's the same thing! He's a wolf, Alyssa," Caspian warned, his voice dropping. "He got thrown out of his own family. He has nothing to lose. He's going to bite you."

Alyssa's grip on the steering wheel tightened. She knew exactly what the contract said. She had read every clause three times before signing. The funds were in an escrow account she couldn't touch without his countersignature. She had handed him the leash—and he had taken it.

"I know," she said quietly. "But the contract locks him in. If he doesn't deliver, he gets nothing. Not a dime."

"You're betting on a starving wolf not to eat you?"

"Wolves are predictable," Alyssa said, her jaw tightening. "My mother isn't."

The mention of Eleonora made her stomach drop like a stone. She hit the button to end the call, the sudden silence in the car deafening.

She took the exit toward the Hamptons, the tires rolling smoothly onto the private, tree-lined roads.

The massive iron gates of the Gregory estate loomed in the darkness.

The security scanner read her license plate, and the gates swung open slowly.

She parked near the stone fountain and tossed the keys to the night butler waiting on the steps.

She pushed open the heavy oak doors, the blinding light of the crystal chandelier forcing her to squint.

Before she could even take off her shoes, the sharp clack of heels echoed from the second-floor landing.

Eleonora stood at the top of the marble staircase, wearing a silk robe, her face pale with rage.

She was gripping an iPad so tightly her knuckles were white.

"Where did the quarterly dividend from your trust fund go?" Eleonora demanded, her voice echoing off the high ceiling.

Alyssa froze, her hand hovering over the clasp of her heels.

She straightened her spine and looked up, her heart starting to pound against her ribs.

"I made an angel investment," Alyssa said, keeping her voice flat.

Eleonora marched down the stairs, her eyes blazing.

"The receiving account belongs to Benton Steele," she hissed, stopping two steps above Alyssa. "You threw our money at a disgraced, bankrupt failure."

"The return on that contract will triple the trust's usual yield," Alyssa shot back, her hands curling into fists at her sides. She didn't mention that she no longer controlled the funds. That would only make her look weaker.

Eleonora let out a harsh, mocking laugh.

"You don't know the first thing about investing. You're playing a stupid, rebellious game. Do you even understand the paperwork you signed?"

Alyssa's jaw clenched. She understood perfectly. That was the problem.

Eleonora took another step down, her voice dropping to a vicious whisper.

"Ever since that hiking accident in Yosemite, your brain hasn't worked right."

A sudden wave of nausea hit Alyssa.

A high-pitched ringing started in her ears at the mention of the accident, making her skin crawl. The memories were fragmented—a steep trail, a sudden drop, the smell of pine and blood—but she had never forgotten how her mother used that fall to question every decision she made.

"My brain is fine," Alyssa snapped, her voice trembling with sudden, inexplicable rage. "Stop using that stupid accident to control me."

Eleonora's face contorted with fury.

She threw the iPad. It smashed against the velvet sofa, the screen shattering.

"You will go to the bank tomorrow morning and pull that money back," Eleonora ordered.

"The contract is signed," Alyssa said, her chin lifting. "I'm not pulling a dime. And even if I wanted to—" She stopped herself. She wouldn't give her mother the satisfaction of knowing she had lost control.

Eleonora's eyes narrowed. "Even if you wanted to, what?"

Alyssa held her gaze and said nothing. The silence was its own confession.

Eleonora smiled—a cold, knowing smile that made Alyssa's blood run cold.

"You've already lost it, haven't you? You signed away access." She laughed, the sound like breaking glass. "You handed a wolf the keys to your own cage, and now you're pretending it was a business move."

Alyssa turned and walked toward the stairs, her heels clicking against the marble.

"Goodnight, Mother."

Behind her, Eleonora's voice followed like a curse.

"He's going to destroy you, Alyssa. And I won't be there to pick up the pieces."

Alyssa didn't look back. But her hands were shaking as she climbed the stairs.