The sound came again. A guttural groan, wet and heavy, coming from the direction of the bathroom.

Eve held her breath until her lungs burned. She pushed herself up from the floor, her bare feet sinking into the plush carpet. She needed to leave. Serena was dangerous, but the presence in this room felt primal.

She reached for the lock she had just engaged.

A hand shot out of the darkness.

It was large, scorching hot, and iron-hard. It clamped around her wrist with bruising force.

Eve opened her mouth to scream, but before the sound could leave her throat, she was yanked forward. The force was overwhelming. She stumbled, flying through the blackness until she collided with a wall of solid muscle.

"Who sent you?" a voice growled. It was deep, rough like gravel, and laced with a terrifying instability.

Eve was pinned against the wall. The man's body was a furnace. He radiated heat that soaked through her thin dress. The scent of him filled her nose-expensive cedar, scotch, and the metallic tang of blood.

"Let me go!" she gasped, clawing at the hand pinning her shoulder.

"Did they pay you?" he snarled. His head dropped, his face burying into the curve of her neck. He wasn't kissing her. He was inhaling her, like a starving man trying to remember what food smelled like. The faint, clean scent of vanilla and jasmine from her perfume seemed to drive him mad.

"Please," Eve whimpered. "I just... I hid here. I didn't know."

He didn't seem to hear her. The drugs in his system were rewriting his reality. His teeth grazed the sensitive skin where her neck met her shoulder. Then, he bit down.

It wasn't a love bite. It was a claim. A warning. Sharp pain radiated down her spine.

"Stop!" Eve screamed.

Survival instinct overrode fear. She brought her knee up, driving it hard into his groin.

The man grunted, his grip faltering for a fraction of a second.

It was the opening she needed.

"Get out," he roared, shoving her away from him. The violence of the push sent her reeling. "Get out before I kill you."

Eve stumbled backward, her hip checking a decorative console table. A vase wobbled.

She didn't wait for a second invitation. She scrambled toward the sliver of light under the door. Her hands shook so badly she could barely work the lock.

As she yanked the door open, the movement snagged her diamond butterfly earring on the doorframe. She felt a sharp tug, a pinch at her earlobe, but the adrenaline masked the pain.

The earring fell silently onto the thick carpet.

Eve burst into the hallway and ran. She didn't stop until she was in her own room, the heavy dresser pushed against the door.

Back in the suite, the lights flickered on.

Marcus stood in the doorway, a syringe of antidote in his hand. He took in the scene instantly. The overturned chair. The lingering, delicate scent of a woman's perfume in the air.

Delos French sat on the edge of the sofa, his head in his hands. Sweat soaked his dress shirt, making the fabric cling to his trembling frame. His eyes were bloodshot, pupils blown wide.

"Sir?" Marcus asked, stepping forward.

Delos took the syringe and jammed it into his thigh without flinching. He breathed through the rush of clarity that followed the pain. The wave of nausea was followed by a deeper, more chilling sensation: the fury of being made vulnerable. Of losing control.

His gaze dropped to the floor. Something sparkled in the carpet fibers.

He reached down. His fingers, usually steady enough to sign billion-dollar mergers, shook slightly as he picked it up.

A diamond butterfly. The post was stained with a tiny smear of fresh blood.

Delos closed his fist around it. The sharp edges dug into his palm. He could still feel the phantom sensation of her skin under his hands, the taste of her fear on his tongue. And that scent. He had to find that scent.

"Find her," Delos whispered. The command was absolute. "Find the woman who owns this."

The next morning, the sun over Manhattan was bright and unforgiving.

In the penthouse office of French Media, Delos stood by the floor-to-ceiling window. He looked immaculate in a charcoal suit, but the shadows under his eyes told a different story. His mind was a steel trap, replaying the gaps in his memory, the humiliation of being drugged in another man's home. The attack on Harmon Holdings wasn't just business now. It was retribution.

"The security footage was corrupted," Marcus reported, standing at attention. "Someone wiped the servers at the Harmon estate between 11 PM and 1 AM. Professionally. We have no visual on who entered your room."

Delos turned. His expression was a mask of cold indifference. He tossed the diamond butterfly onto his glass desk. It spun, a dizzying blur of light.

"They set me up," Delos said. "Richard Harmon invites me to his home, and suddenly I'm dosed with a hallucinogen and a woman is in my room. It's a honey trap."

"We can't prove it, sir."

"I don't need proof to punish them." Delos sat down. "The bid for the Starfall Bay project. Move the deadline up by forty-eight hours."

Marcus blinked. "That's... aggressive. Most firms won't be ready."

"Exactly," Delos said. "Burn them."

At the Harmon estate, the atmosphere was poisonous.

Eve limped into the dining room. She wore a high-collared cashmere sweater despite the warm weather. The bite mark on her neck had bloomed into an ugly, dark bruise.

Julian was already eating, picking at a plate of eggs. He watched her walk in, his eyes tracking her movement like a vulture.

"Rough night?" Julian asked.

"I fell in the garden," Eve lied. She took her seat, keeping her eyes on the tablecloth.

Julian stood up. He walked behind her chair. Eve stiffened, her muscles locking up. He leaned down, his nose hovering inches from her hair.

He inhaled deeply.

"You smell different," Julian whispered. "Like you took a bath in cheap soap to wash something off. But underneath it... there's something else. Something expensive. Scotch, maybe."

Eve's heart hammered against her ribs. "It's from the guests. Someone hugged me."

"Who?" Julian pressed, his hand resting on the back of her neck. His thumb brushed the collar of her sweater.

The door slammed open.

Richard Harmon stormed in, his face a mottled red. He threw a tablet onto the table. It slid across the wood and crashed into the milk pitcher.

"He moved the deadline!" Richard roared. "Delos French moved the deadline! We have two days!"

"It's a power move," Julian said, stepping away from Eve. "He's testing us."

"He's trying to bury us!" Richard turned on Eve. "And you. You're useless. You and that ridiculous 'crisis communications' firm of yours. All you do is manage scandals, and now we're in one!"

"I can help," Eve said quietly. "I know the legal framework for the bid better than anyone."

"You're a publicist, Eve, not a lawyer," Richard spat. "You spin stories. You're an expense."

"I passed the bar exam two years ago, Father," she replied, her voice dangerously low. "You just refused to acknowledge it."

Richard ignored her. He looked at Julian. "Fix this. Or neither of you gets a dime from the trust this month."

The butler, Alfred, entered with a silver tray. "A courier just arrived, sir. From French Media."

Richard snatched the envelope. He ripped it open.

Eve watched his eyes scan the paper. He paled.

"What is it?" Julian asked.

"It's a notice of breach of hospitality," Richard whispered. "He knows something happened last night."

Eve gripped her fork until her knuckles turned white. She stared at the signature at the bottom of the letter. Delos French. The loops of the letters were sharp, aggressive.

She realized with a jolt of pure terror that the man who wanted to destroy her family was the same man whose blood she had drawn. And he was coming for them.

The air in Richard's study was stale, smelling of old paper and desperation.

Eve stood by the bookshelf, organizing files. Her hands were busy, but her mind was racing. She needed a way to deflect attention. Julian kept glancing at her, his suspicion a physical weight in the room.

Julian walked over to her. He pretended to reach for a binder, his hand covering hers on the shelf. His skin was clammy.

"Don't think I've forgotten," he murmured. "You're hiding something. Who was he?"

Eve yanked her hand away. She grabbed a heavy law book and held it to her chest like a shield. "Back off, Julian."

Richard slammed the phone down on the receiver. "They won't extend. We're dead in the water."

Eve took a breath. This was it. The gamble.

"Father," she said. Her voice was clear, cutting through the tension. "I think I know why French is targeting us."

Richard spun around. "What?"

Eve reached into her pocket. She pulled out a scrap of fabric she had found in the hallway that morning-a piece of torn lace from Serena's dress.

"Last night," Eve said, her eyes steady, "I was walking near the guest wing when I saw Serena. She was trying to get into one of the suites. She was... incoherent."

She didn't say she was there. She didn't say she went inside. She let the implication hang in the air like smoke.

"The guest wing?" Richard's eyes narrowed. "That's where French was staying."

"I also know there's a blind spot in the security cameras in that specific hallway," Eve continued, the lie smooth and practiced. "A fact I'm sure Serena is well aware of. If she tried to... force herself on him while he was incapacitated..."

The color drained from Richard's face. "That idiot girl."

"Bring her in!" Richard bellowed at the door.

Moments later, the housekeeper dragged Serena in. She was hungover, pale, and confused. She was still wearing her robe.

"What is going on?" Serena whined.

"Did you go to French's room last night?" Richard demanded.

"I... I don't remember," Serena stammered. "I was drinking."

"You stupid, selfish girl!" Richard crossed the room in two strides.

Crack.

The sound of his hand connecting with Serena's face echoed off the mahogany walls.

Serena crumbled to the floor, sobbing. "Daddy, stop!"

"You ruined us!" Richard kicked her in the hip. "You went whoring after him and insulted him!"

Julian rushed forward, grabbing Richard's arm. "Dad, stop! She's bleeding!"

Eve stood in the corner. She didn't flinch. She watched her sister curl into a ball, watched her father lose control. It was cruel. It was ugly.

But it wasn't her.

"Get her out of my sight," Richard panted, straightening his tie. "Send her to the clinic. Dry her out. I don't want to see her face until this deal is signed."

The housekeeper helped a sobbing Serena out of the room.

Richard turned to Eve. His eyes were cold, assessing.

"Since you're the only one who knows how to clean up a mess," he said, "you're going to fix this. You'll finish the bid."

"I will," Eve said.

"And you'll deliver it," Richard added. "Personally. You'll go to the French Media gala tomorrow and you will beg for his forgiveness on behalf of your sister."

Eve's stomach dropped. "Me?"

"Yes. You. You're the only one he hasn't seen yet."

Eve looked down at her hands. He hadn't seen her face. But he had touched her. He had tasted her blood.

"Yes, Father," she whispered.