The Lincoln glided to a smooth stop. The driver opened the door, and Azura stepped out. She lifted the hem of her ocean-blue velvet gown, her low-heeled velvet pumps pressing gingerly onto the red carpet. Every step sent a dull, throbbing ache through the bandages wrapped around her injured foot, but she forced her expression into stillness and walked with a carefully controlled limp, disguising the pain as a measured, elegant stride.

A barrage of camera flashes exploded in the distance. The blinding white light made Azura squint. Her stomach tightened with anxiety. She quickly lowered her head and hurried toward the shadowed VIP entrance, favoring her good leg.

Gus Pollock looked up from his tablet. The moment he saw Azura, his panicked expression vanished, replaced by sheer relief. He practically sprinted toward her.

“Number 42? Thank God,” Gus said, speaking a mile a minute. He grabbed her elbow and started pulling her toward a private elevator. “There’s been a massive change of plans. The client’s fiancée, Cecelia Alford, called the agency personally and demanded we swap the original girl for you. Said you’d be a perfect fit for her future husband. I don’t know the drama, I just know you’re up.”

Azura dug her heels into the carpet, resisting his pull. “Wait. Cecelia? Cecelia Alford arranged this?”

“Someone you do not want to piss off,” Gus hissed, his face pale. “Just smile, look pretty, and don’t speak unless spoken to. Let’s go!”

He shoved her into the elevator. When the doors opened on the second floor, he dragged her down a quiet, thickly carpeted hallway and stopped in front of a heavy, carved wooden door. Gus quickly smoothed out the back of her dress, gave her a thumbs-up, and knocked twice before opening the door and pushing her inside.

A thick cloud of expensive cologne mixed with the sharp scent of whiskey hit Azura’s face.

She looked up. Her heart stopped dead in her chest.

Standing in the center of the luxurious waiting room, wearing a flashy, dark-red velvet suit and holding a crystal glass of bourbon, was Colby Mcintosh.

Colby looked up. The arrogant, bored smirk on his face instantly froze. His hand jerked, nearly spilling the amber liquid over his suit.

Azura’s pupils dilated in pure horror. The guy from the garage. The guy who wanted her thrown in Rikers Island.

She spun around instantly, her hand slamming onto the brass door handle. She didn’t care about the hundred dollars an hour. She would rather starve than spend another second near this psycho.

Colby reacted with lightning speed. He dropped his glass onto a table, lunged forward, and grabbed Azura’s bare wrist. His grip was bruising. He yanked her backward into the room and kicked the heavy door shut with his foot.

Outside, Gus heard the slam, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and walked away, assuming the VIP was eager.

Inside the room, Azura violently ripped her arm out of Colby’s grasp. “Are you out of your mind?” she spat, her chest heaving. “Did Cecelia set this up to humiliate me?”

Colby held up both hands, his eyes wide. “Hold on. I ordered a blonde Victoria’s Secret model. Why the hell is my fiancée’s pet charity case standing in my waiting room?”

Azura turned back to the door, twisting the handle frantically. It wouldn’t budge. It was electronically locked from the outside.

Colby watched her struggle, a slow, malicious grin spreading across his face. He walked over to a velvet sofa and sat down, crossing his legs. His eyes raked over her body, taking in the tight blue dress and her exposed back.

“You know,” Colby whistled softly, “you look a lot better in that dress than you did in that trashy jacket.”

“Open the door,” Azura demanded, her voice shaking with rage.

Colby picked up his whiskey. “Here’s the deal. You play my date tonight. You smile, you nod, and you make me look good for the cameras. Do that, and we part ways. No more drama.”

“Your terrifying uncle already dropped the charges. You have nothing on me,” Azura shot back, her eyes narrowing.

Colby’s smile vanished. His eyes turned cold. “I know you go to Columbia. I know you’re on a full scholarship. You walk out that door and embarrass me tonight, and I will personally ensure the Dean receives a detailed report about a scholarship student working as a paid escort. How do you think the disciplinary board handles moral turpitude? Try me.”

The threat hit Azura like a physical punch to the gut. Her education was her only way out of the slums. It was her life.

Her fingernails dug into the soft fabric of her clutch. She closed her eyes, fighting the bile rising in her throat. When she opened them, they were dead and cold. “Don’t touch me. Not once.”

Colby smirked, standing up. He walked over and bent his arm, offering it to her. “Hook your arm, sweetheart. It’s showtime.”

Azura felt physically sick. She raised her hand, covered in a delicate lace glove, and rested it as lightly as possible on his forearm. Her body was rigid as a board.

The electronic lock clicked. The double doors swung open.

The grand ballroom of the Met Gala was a sea of blinding gold light, crystal chandeliers, and a classical orchestra playing a sweeping waltz. The moment Colby stepped out, hundreds of eyes snapped toward them.

Whispers erupted instantly. Socialites and billionaires stared at the stunning, unknown girl on the arm of the Mcintosh heir. Azura felt like a piece of meat on a butcher’s block. She kept her spine painfully straight, her face an emotionless mask, ignoring the searing pulse in her foot with every poised step.

Above them, on the second-floor VIP wraparound balcony, Hunter Mcintosh stood in the shadows.

He was holding a martini glass. His dark, predatory eyes scanned the crowd below and instantly locked onto Azura.

When he saw her small, gloved hand resting on his nephew’s arm, Hunter’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth ground together. His fingers tightened around the delicate stem of the martini glass until his knuckles turned completely white.

Colby dragged Azura through the suffocating crowd of the grand ballroom, his grip vice-like on her arm. Every abrupt yank sent a jarring bolt of pain through her bandaged right foot, but she bit down hard on the inside of her cheek and forced her legs to keep pace. Politicians, hedge fund managers, and tech billionaires constantly stepped into their path, eager to kiss the ring of the Mcintosh family.

Every time someone asked about Azura, Colby would flash a sleazy, suggestive smile and say, "This is my new companion for the evening."

The word "companion" dripped with objectification. Azura's stomach churned. She wanted to rip her arm away and slap him across his smug face, but the threat of expulsion kept her paralyzed. She forced a stiff, agonizingly fake smile, nodding at people who looked at her like she was an expensive rented accessory.

Up on the second-floor balcony, Hunter watched the display. His chest tightened with a dark, violent possessiveness he couldn't explain. He pulled his phone from his pocket and typed a single sentence.

Come to the second floor. Now.

Down in the crowd, Colby's phone buzzed in his tuxedo pocket. He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and the color instantly drained from his face. The arrogant swagger vanished, replaced by a deep, instinctual fear.

Without a word of explanation, Colby ripped his arm away from Azura. "Stay right here. Don't move. I have to see someone important," he ordered, before turning and practically sprinting toward the VIP staircase.

Azura let out a massive breath, her shoulders sagging in relief. She immediately turned her back on the crowded dance floor and limped as quickly as she could toward the dimly lit dessert tables lining the far wall. Her injured foot screamed in protest with every step, but she gritted her teeth and pushed through, desperate for a moment of solitude.

She hadn't eaten since yesterday morning. A wave of dizzying hypoglycemia hit her. Her hands shook slightly as she grabbed a small porcelain plate and piled it with macarons and salmon tartare.

She stepped behind a massive marble Roman column to hide from the crowd, shoving a macaron into her mouth without an ounce of elegance. She just needed sugar to survive the next few hours.

"Well, well. Aren't you a hungry little thing?"

A thick, slurred voice broke her peace. Azura froze mid-chew.

A heavy-set, middle-aged man with a flushed face and reeking of cheap champagne stumbled around the column. Dax Adler, a notorious Wall Street executive. His bloodshot eyes raked over Azura's body, lingering disgustingly on the exposed skin of her back.

Dax leaned his sweaty palm against the marble column, completely blocking her only exit. "You're a stunning piece of work. Which modeling agency are you from, sweetheart?"

Azura swallowed the dry pastry, her throat tight with revulsion. "I'm not a model. Excuse me." She tried to step around him, carefully keeping her weight off her throbbing right foot.

Dax shifted his bulk, blocking her again. He leaned in close, his sour breath fanning her face. "Don't play hard to get. I saw Colby ditch you. I know you're just a high-end escort. Whatever he's paying you for the night, I'll double it."

The sheer audacity of the insult made Azura's blood boil. Her amber eyes flared with pure rage. "Get out of my way right now, or I will scream for security."

Dax threw his head back and laughed, a wet, ugly sound. "Security? For a whore?" He reached out, his thick, sweaty fingers grabbing her bare shoulder. "Stop acting like a prude and come here-"

Azura's survival instincts took over.

Her hand shot out. She gripped the heavy, solid silver dessert fork from her plate and slammed it downward with all her strength, driving the sharp prongs directly into the back of Dax's hand.

"Aaaargh!" Dax shrieked like a slaughtered pig. He ripped his hand back, blood instantly welling from the puncture wounds. He stumbled backward, his heavy body crashing into a towering champagne pyramid.

Hundreds of crystal glasses shattered against the marble floor with a deafening crash.

The entire ballroom went dead silent. The music stopped. Every single head turned toward the dessert corner.

Dax clutched his bleeding hand, his face purple with rage. He pointed at Azura. "This crazy bitch tried to seduce me, and when I said no, she stabbed me!"

The crowd gasped. The socialites began whispering furiously, their eyes filled with vicious judgment, staring at the isolated, beautiful girl.

Azura stood her ground. Her chest heaved, her knuckles white as she gripped the bloody fork. She looked like a cornered wolf, terrified but ready to fight to the death.

Suddenly, the crowd parted violently.

Beatrice Bancroft, Dax's wife, stormed through the onlookers. She was covered in diamonds and a heavy mink coat, her face twisted in a psychotic fury. She saw her husband's bleeding hand, then looked at Azura's stunning face.

Beatrice didn't ask a single question. She lunged.

She raised her hand, the massive diamond rings on her fingers catching the light, and slapped Azura across the face with terrifying force.

The crack echoed through the silent hall. Azura's head snapped to the side. The metallic taste of blood instantly filled her mouth. Her ear rang violently.

Before Azura could recover, Beatrice grabbed a fistful of Azura's hair and yanked her downward. With her other hand, she grabbed the neckline of the blue velvet dress and pulled hard.

Riiip.

The delicate fabric tore down the seam. Azura's left shoulder and part of her chest were suddenly exposed to the cold air. Azura cried out, dropping the fork to desperately cover herself with her arms. Two other women, eager to please Beatrice, grabbed Azura's arms, pinning her in place. The sudden loss of balance slammed her injured foot flat against the marble floor, and a choked cry of pain tore from her throat.

Up on the second floor, Hunter had just finished tearing Colby apart verbally. He heard the crash and walked to the railing.

He looked down.

When Hunter saw Azura pinned, bleeding, and her dress torn, the temperature in his eyes dropped to absolute zero. A terrifying, murderous aura exploded from his body.

Hunter shoved past the two security guards blocking the VIP staircase so hard that one of them crashed into the wall. He descended the sweeping marble stairs, his long legs taking the steps two at a time. The sharp, heavy click of his leather shoes sounded like the ticking of a bomb.

Arthur and four massive men in black suits flanked him, moving like a tactical strike team. They hit the crowd on the ground floor, violently shoving billionaires and politicians aside to carve a straight path for their boss.

Beatrice was still screaming, her hand raised high in the air, preparing to deliver a second, devastating slap to Azura's face. She never saw him coming.

He didn't speak. He gave Arthur a single, imperceptible nod. Arthur and four massive men in black suits moved with terrifying efficiency. They didn't shout or draw weapons. Two guards seamlessly intercepted Beatrice's arm mid-swing, twisting it just enough to make her gasp and drop to her knees. The other two formed an impenetrable wall between Dax and Azura. The women holding Azura shrieked and scrambled away in absolute panic.

Dax saw his wife forced to the ground. He roared in anger and charged forward, raising his fists. But the moment his eyes focused on the man standing in the shadows just behind the guards, Dax's knees buckled. He collapsed onto the broken glass, his face turning the color of ash. Hunter Mcintosh.

Hunter didn't spare Dax a single glance. He remained an imposing, silent figure of absolute authority. He shrugged off his bespoke suit jacket.

He dropped to one knee right in the middle of the mess, ignoring the sharp glass slicing into his expensive trousers. He wrapped the large, warm jacket tightly around Azura's trembling, half-naked body.

Azura was hyperventilating. Her eyes were unfocused, wild with panic. She flailed her arms, her nails blindly scratching at whoever was touching her.

Hunter didn't pull away. He let her nails drag across his exposed wrist, drawing a thin line of blood. He grabbed her wrists, his grip firm but careful not to bruise her further.

He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear. "It's me," he said, his voice a low, commanding rumble that vibrated through her chest. "You're safe."

Azura froze. The familiar scent of cedar and tobacco cut through her panic. She slowly raised her head. Her amber eyes, swimming with unshed tears, locked onto Hunter's pitch-black gaze.

Hunter slid one arm under her knees and the other around her back, lifting her effortlessly into his chest. Azura was swallowed by the oversized jacket, her face pressed against his crisp white shirt.

The entire ballroom was paralyzed. The most ruthless, cold-blooded CEO in New York, a man who never showed public emotion, was kneeling in broken glass for a nameless escort.

Dax shook violently on the floor. "Mr. Mcintosh!" he stuttered, sweat pouring down his face. "She... she attacked me! She's a crazy hooker-"

Hunter stopped walking. He turned his head slowly. His eyes swept over Dax with the cold detachment of a mortician looking at a corpse.

"This woman is a guest of the event," Arthur stated, his voice cutting through the silence, smooth and chillingly polite as he addressed the stunned crowd. "The Mcintosh family does not tolerate assault on these premises." A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. Dax's jaw dropped, his eyes rolling back in sheer horror.

Hunter looked at Arthur. "Escort Mr. and Mrs. Adler out. Ensure they never attend another event in this city," Hunter ordered, his voice barely above a whisper, yet it carried a lethal weight. It wasn't a public declaration of affection; it was the ruthless dismissal of a nuisance. "And tomorrow morning, audit Adler's firm. If there is a single discrepancy, liquidate it."

Beatrice, hearing the death sentence of her entire life, let out a pathetic whimper and passed out cold on the floor.

At that moment, Colby finally pushed through the crowd. He saw his uncle holding his "date." Colby's mouth opened and closed like a fish. "Uncle Hunter, I can explain-"

Hunter shot him a glare so lethal that Colby physically recoiled, instantly shutting his mouth and stepping back into the crowd.

Hunter turned and carried Azura straight toward the private VIP elevator. The doors slid open, and he stepped inside.

The moment the metal doors closed, cutting off the stares of the crowd, the silence in the small box became deafening. The only sound was their overlapping breathing.

Azura's shock began to wear off, replaced by a burning, humiliated pride. She pushed her hands against his hard chest. "Put me down. I can walk."

Hunter ignored her. His arms tightened around her like iron bands, pressing her closer. "Stop moving, or I'll drop you," he warned coldly.

Azura felt the steady, powerful thud of his heartbeat against her cheek. Her face flushed a deep, angry red.

The elevator dinged at the penthouse suite level. Hunter kicked the heavy double doors open, strode across the massive, luxurious living room, and unceremoniously dumped her onto the wide leather sofa.

Azura hit the cushions with a soft grunt. She immediately pulled the suit jacket tighter around her chest, pulling her knees up defensively.

Hunter stood towering over her. He reached up and violently yanked his tie loose. A dark, dangerous storm raged in his eyes.

He leaned down, his fingers gripping her chin, forcing her to look up at him. "You would rather let Colby parade you around like a cheap whore, and let those animals tear your clothes off, than come to me and ask for help?" he snarled, his voice vibrating with raw fury.