The Maybach passed through the massive wrought-iron gates of the Reeves Manor. The Gothic-style mansion loomed in the darkness, its stone walls looking more like a fortress than a home.

Brenda stepped out of the car. Her knee ached dully.

The head butler, Giles, was waiting at the massive oak front doors. He bowed slightly. "Miss Vincent. Please follow me."

Brenda expected to be led upstairs to the library where she usually tutored Aiden. Instead, Giles led her down a long corridor and opened the doors to a private, dimly lit drawing room.

Bryon was sitting in a deep leather armchair. He was wearing a perfectly tailored black tuxedo, the bow tie hanging loose around his neck. He held a crystal glass of amber whiskey.

Brenda stopped in the doorway. "Where is Aiden? I need to start the lesson."

Bryon took a slow sip of his whiskey. "Aiden got into a fight at school today. He is grounded in his room. There will be no tutoring tonight."

Brenda felt a surge of relief. "Then I'll leave."

She turned around.

"Not so fast," Bryon's voice cut through the room, cold and sharp.

He picked up a manila folder from the side table and tossed it onto the glass coffee table in front of him.

"The repair estimate for the Maybach," Bryon said.

Brenda walked over and picked up the folder. She opened it. Her eyes scanned the itemized list and landed on the total at the bottom.

$312,000.

Brenda gasped. The paper shook in her hands. She looked up at him, her eyes blazing. "This is extortion! It was a bumper! You can't charge three hundred thousand dollars for a bumper!"

Bryon stood up. He walked slowly toward her, his tall frame casting a long shadow. "It is a custom-built, ballistic-grade carbon-fiber bumper shipped from Germany. That is the cost."

He stopped right in front of her. The smell of whiskey and cedar enveloped her.

"But," Bryon said softly, looking down at her, "I am willing to wipe the debt clean. Tonight."

Brenda clutched the folder to her chest, her knuckles white. "How?"

"You will accompany me to a charity gala tonight. You will act as my date. You will smile, you will hold my arm, and you will do exactly as I say. Do that, and the debt is forgiven."

Brenda stared at him. Her stomach twisted into tight knots. She knew the upper-class world. She knew nothing was ever just a simple favor.

"I can pay you back," Brenda lied, her voice trembling. "I can set up a payment plan."

Bryon let out a dark, mocking laugh. "On a university lecturer's salary? It would take you a hundred years. You don't have a choice, Brenda."

Before she could argue, Bryon snapped his fingers.

The doors to the drawing room opened. Two women dressed in chic black outfits walked in, pushing a rolling rack filled with glittering evening gowns.

"Make her presentable," Bryon ordered the stylists.

For the next hour, Brenda was stripped, scrubbed, and painted. She fought every step of the way, but the stylists were relentless.

They forced her into a midnight-blue velvet gown. It clung to her curves like a second skin, featuring a plunging back that left her spine completely exposed. The doctor had administered a localized painkiller injection to her knee, numbing the sharp agony into a dull, manageable throb, but every step still felt precarious.

When the makeup artist noticed the faint red marks on her collarbone-the bruises from Bryon's mouth-she didn't say a word. She simply took a brush and expertly covered them with shimmering body highlighter.

When Brenda finally stepped out of the dressing room, Bryon was waiting.

He turned around. His slate-gray eyes swept over her, from the sleek updo of her dark hair down to the elegant, silver flat shoes on her feet. A dark, hungry fire flared in his eyes, so intense it made Brenda want to step back.

He walked up to her. He held an open velvet box. Inside rested a diamond necklace that caught the light like crushed ice.

Bryon stepped behind her. He draped the heavy necklace around her throat. His cold fingertips brushed against the sensitive skin of her nape, sending a violent shiver down her spine. His gaze flicked down to her flat shoes. "Do not think for a second that your little injury earns you any mercy tonight," he murmured.

He leaned down, his lips brushing her ear. "Remember your role tonight," he whispered, his voice a dark threat. "If you embarrass me, you will pay me back every single cent."

Brenda bit her lower lip, tasting her own lipstick. She forced herself to nod.

They walked out to a waiting Rolls-Royce.

Twenty minutes later, the car pulled up to a private club in Manhattan. The moment the door opened, a barrage of camera flashes exploded like lightning.

Brenda squeezed her eyes shut, blinded by the light.

Bryon's arm wrapped tightly around her bare waist. His grip was possessive, almost painful. He pulled her flush against his side, shielding her from the worst of the flashes as he guided her up the red carpet.

Inside the grand ballroom, the air was thick with the smell of expensive perfume and old money.

Every eye in the room turned to them. Whispers broke out instantly. Bryon Reeves never brought dates to public events.

Brenda forced a stiff smile, her face hurting from the effort. Her knee throbbed despite the flat shoes and the fading painkillers.

A waiter walked by with a tray of champagne. Bryon stopped him. Instead of taking a glass of alcohol, Bryon picked up a crystal glass of warm water and pressed it into Brenda's hand.

Brenda looked up at him, startled by the unexpected gesture.

But before she could process it, the crowd near the entrance parted.

A woman walked into the room. She wore a flowing white haute couture gown. Her hair was styled in soft waves. She looked gentle, elegant, and perfectly fragile.

Brenda felt the arm around her waist turn to solid iron. Bryon's entire body went rigid.

Brenda looked at the woman, then up at Bryon's face. His jaw was clenched so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek. His eyes were locked on the woman in white.

The woman in white glided across the ballroom floor, a serene smile on her face. The wealthy guests parted for her, murmuring respectful greetings.

"Mrs. Reeves," a senator said, bowing his head slightly.

Brenda's heart skipped a beat. Mrs. Reeves? Was this Bryon's wife? Had she slept with a married man? A wave of nausea hit her stomach.

But as the woman stopped in front of them, Bryon's voice cut through the music, cold and sharp as broken glass.

"Sister-in-law. It's been a while."

Brenda let out a quiet breath. Not his wife. His brother's wife.

Elissa Mcconnell's eyes flicked down to the heavy, possessive grip Bryon had on Brenda's waist. A shadow passed over her gentle features, so fast Brenda thought she imagined it.

Elissa looked up, her smile returning, perfectly sweet. "Bryon. It's lovely to see you out. You rarely bring friends to these events. This lovely lady must be very important to you, right?"

The condescension was subtle, wrapped in a polite question, but Brenda felt the sting. Elissa was reminding her that she didn't belong here.

Bryon didn't answer Elissa. Instead, he turned his head.

Before Brenda could react, Bryon's hand slid up to cup her jaw. He tilted her face up and crashed his lips down onto hers.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was hard, claiming, and entirely for show. He devoured her mouth, his tongue sweeping over her lower lip, forcing her to part for him.

Brenda's eyes widened in shock. Her hands flew up to his chest, intending to push him away, but his grip on her jaw was unyielding.

When he finally pulled back, Brenda was gasping for air, her lips swollen and red.

Bryon looked back at Elissa. A cruel, triumphant smirk played on his lips. "This is Brenda. My new girlfriend."

Elissa's smile froze. The knuckles of the hand holding her champagne flute turned white. "I see," she said, her voice slightly strained. "I'm glad you're finally moving on from the past, Bryon."

Bryon's eyes darkened. "Moving on?" he repeated, his voice dropping to a dangerous register. "Some things you never move on from, Elissa. You just take what's yours."

The tension between them was thick enough to choke on.

Brenda stood frozen. The pieces suddenly snapped together in her mind.

The forced makeover. The diamond necklace. The public display.

She wasn't here to pay off a debt. She was a prop. A tool Bryon was using to make his sister-in-law jealous. He was in love with his brother's wife, and Brenda was just the disposable pawn in their sick, twisted game.

A deep, burning humiliation ignited in Brenda's chest. Her stomach twisted violently.

She tried to step back, to pull away from his side.

Bryon felt her movement. His arm around her waist tightened like a python, jerking her hard against his side. His fingers dug painfully into her hip bone.

Elissa noticed the struggle. She tilted her head, her voice dripping with fake concern. "Bryon, be careful. You're hurting her."

It was the ultimate power play. The mistress of the house reprimanding the man for playing too rough with his new toy.

Brenda felt physically sick.

The orchestra struck up a waltz.

Bryon didn't say another word to Elissa. He grabbed Brenda's hand and dragged her onto the dance floor.

He pulled her flush against his chest, one hand holding hers, the other resting heavily on her bare back. They began to move to the music.

"Is this fun for you?" Brenda hissed, keeping her voice low so the surrounding couples wouldn't hear. Her fingernails dug into the fabric of his tuxedo jacket.

Bryon looked down at her, his expression unreadable. "Keep smiling."

"You used me," Brenda said, her voice trembling with rage. "You dressed me up like a doll to make your sister-in-law jealous. You're pathetic."

Bryon's eyes flared with sudden, violent anger. His hand on her back moved up, his fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of her neck. He yanked her head back slightly.

"Do not pretend to understand things that are above your pay grade," he warned, his voice a lethal whisper against her lips.

"If three hundred thousand dollars is what it costs to be your human shield, it's disgusting money," Brenda spat back.

Something snapped in Bryon's eyes.

Right in the middle of the crowded dance floor, he crushed his mouth against hers. It was a punishment. His teeth grazed her lip, drawing a tiny drop of blood. He kissed her with a brutal, overwhelming force that stole the breath from her lungs.

Around them, a few people gasped.

Brenda tasted blood. Panic and fury exploded inside her.

She lifted her foot and stomped the hard sole of her silver flat down as hard as she could on Bryon's polished leather shoe.

Bryon grunted, his grip loosening for a fraction of a second.

Brenda shoved him hard in the chest. She broke free.

She didn't care about the debt. She didn't care about the stares. She hiked up the heavy velvet skirt and ran off the dance floor.

She pushed past the waiters and the elite guests, bursting out the heavy front doors of the club into the freezing night air.

She kept running down the sidewalk. The silver flats were offering no support for her injured knee, sending fresh waves of agony up her leg. She stopped, kicked the shoes off, and left them on the pavement.

She ran barefoot down the cold, dirty concrete of the Manhattan street. The freezing wind whipped through her thin dress.

She finally stopped at a dark street corner, leaning against a brick wall. She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering uncontrollably. The humiliation and the cold finally broke her. Tears spilled over her eyelashes, hot and fast.

Suddenly, a heavy, incredibly warm cashmere coat was draped over her bare shoulders.

The scent was familiar. Clean linen and faint mint.

Brenda spun around.

Standing there by his idling car, having followed Bryon’s motorcade in a desperate trail from the hotel, was Kareem Vinson.

Kareem looked at her bare feet, her tear-stained face, and the expensive dress. His eyes filled with deep, immediate pain.

"Brenda," Kareem said softly, his voice breaking. "What have you done to yourself?"

Brenda let out a choked sob. Kareem—the only person from her past who knew her true identity. She didn't care about anything else. She threw herself forward and buried her face in Kareem's chest, crying uncontrollably.