The light was aggressive.

It sliced through the floor-to-ceiling windows, hitting Eliza squarely in the face. She groaned, rolling over and reaching blindly for the glass of water that usually sat on her nightstand.

Her hand hit nothing but air.

She cracked one eye open. The ceiling was too high. The crown molding was too intricate. And the sheets... these weren't her scratchy, polyester sheets. This was cotton so smooth it felt like water against her skin.

Memory slammed into her like a physical blow.

The party. The champagne. Dallas.

Eliza sat up so fast her head spun. The room tilted, her brain throbbing against her skull in a rhythmic, painful beat. She looked down.

She was wearing an oversized men's silk pajama top that swallowed her frame. The fabric was impossibly soft against her skin, and it smelled faintly of sandalwood—his scent.

Panic, cold and sharp, flooded her chest. She grabbed the massive duvet and pulled it up to her chin, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Her own dress, the cheap grey one, was nowhere to be seen.

She scanned the room. It was minimalist, masculine, and expensive. Dark wood, grey accents, no clutter.

On the bedside table, a stack of clothes was folded with military precision.

Sitting on top of the clothes was a piece of heavy cardstock and a black credit card.

Eliza reached out with a trembling hand. The card was heavy—metal, not plastic. A Centurion card. It was a blank, supplementary card, bearing only the platinum insignia of the bank.

She dropped it like it was hot coal.

She picked up the note. The handwriting was sharp, angular.

Hydrate. The code is your birthday. —D.

Flashbacks assaulted her. The car ride. The demand for a shield. The paper on the marble table.

Sign.

She gasped, pressing her hands to her mouth. She had proposed to her best friend's father. And he had said yes.

She grabbed her phone from the nightstand. The screen lit up with a barrage of notifications.

52 missed calls from Anson Hyde.

30 texts from Anson Hyde.

12 voicemails.

Then, a single text from a number she didn't have saved, but recognized instantly.

Lawyers are filing. You are safe. Go to school.

Dallas.

Eliza stared at her left hand. There was a ring there. It was a simple platinum band, elegant and understated, but it felt heavier than a shackle.

She scrambled out of bed, her legs wobbly. She grabbed the clothes. A soft cashmere sweater, dark jeans, fresh underwear. She pulled them on. They fit.

They fit perfectly.

She paused, the sweater halfway over her head. How? How did he have clothes in her exact size ready? The thought sent a shiver down her spine, but she pushed it away. She couldn't deal with that right now.

She needed to leave.

She grabbed her bag and the black card—shoving it deep into her pocket—and fled the room.

The penthouse was silent. A housekeeper was dusting in the hallway, a stout woman with grey hair.

"Good morning, Mrs.—"

Eliza didn't let her finish. She bolted for the elevator, jabbing the button, half-expecting it not to work. To her surprise, a green light blinked and the doors slid shut. He had already given her access.

Her phone buzzed in her hand. It was Azalea.

Library. Now. Emergency.

Eliza's stomach dropped. Did she know?

She hailed a cab outside the building, her hands shaking so bad she could barely open the door. The ride to the university took twenty minutes, but it felt like twenty seconds.

She ran through the campus quad, ignoring the stares of students who probably saw the photos of her fleeing the party last night.

She found Azalea pacing behind the reference section in the library. Azalea looked manic, her blonde hair messy, phone clutched in her hand.

"Eliza!" Azalea grabbed her arm and dragged her further into the stacks. "My dad just transferred a crazy amount of money to my account."

Eliza froze. "What?"

"Like, 'buy a small island' money," Azalea whispered, eyes wide. "He said to take you shopping. Why is he spoiling you?"

Azalea looked suspicious. Her eyes narrowed, scanning Eliza's face.

Eliza's mouth went dry. "I... I helped him with a project. Some translation work."

It was a weak lie. Eliza was an art history major, not a translator. Azalea nodded slowly, though a flicker of doubt crossed her mind. Translation work? For her father, who had an entire in-house team of linguists? It felt thin, but Eliza looked so fragile, Azalea decided not to press. For now.

"Whatever. We have orders. Come outside."

Azalea marched her out of the library toward the student parking lot.

"He said your car is a death trap," Azalea said over her shoulder. "Which, to be fair, it is. The brakes sound like dying cats. So I took the liberty of having it towed to a junkyard this morning. You're welcome."

They reached the lot. A flatbed truck was idling there, its empty bed a testament to Azalea's efficiency. Parked in her old spot was a silver Aston Martin. It gleamed under the sun, looking alien among the dented Civics and Toyotas.

The driver hopped out and walked over to Azalea. He handed her a key fob.

Azalea tossed it to Eliza.

"He said this is the replacement."

Eliza caught the keys. The fob was heavy, leather and chrome. She looked at the car. It was worth more than the house she grew up in.

"I can't take this," Eliza whispered.

"You have to," Azalea said, crossing her arms. "You know how he is. If you send it back, he'll just send two."

Students were stopping. Phones were coming out. Whispers rippled through the air.

"Is that Eliza Solomon? Who bought her that?"

Eliza's phone buzzed again. Anson.

She declined the call, her thumb hitting the red button with aggressive force.

She walked to the car and pressed the unlock button. The mirrors unfolded. The lights flashed.

"Get in, Mrs. Koch," Azalea joked, nudging her ribs.

Eliza flinched. The title hit too close to home.

She slid into the driver's seat. The smell of new leather enveloped her. It smelled just like the Maybach. It smelled like Dallas.

She gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles white. She had signed a contract with the devil, and now she was driving his chariot.

The coffee shop on campus was loud, a chaotic mix of espresso machines hissing and students complaining about midterms.

Eliza sat in the corner booth, clutching a latte like a lifeline. The caffeine was making her hands shake worse, but she needed it to combat the fog in her brain.

Azalea was sitting opposite her, scrolling through Instagram with a grimace.

"Everybody is talking about how you vanished," Azalea said, not looking up. "Claudine is posting passive-aggressive quotes about 'loyalty' and 'trash taking itself out.'"

Eliza flinched. A drop of foam spilled onto her thumb. "Let her talk."

"Oh, I am," Azalea said darkly. "I'm commenting with vomit emojis on every single post."

Eliza reached for a napkin to wipe her hand. As she moved, the cashmere scarf she was wearing slipped slightly to the side.

Azalea gasped.

The sound was so loud that two people at the next table turned around. Azalea dropped her phone onto the table with a clatter.

"Eliza! What is that on your neck?"

Eliza's hand flew to her throat. She felt the tender spot just below her ear. A dark, purplish bruise against her pale skin.

She had seen it in the mirror this morning and had been trying not to think about it. The memory of the night was hazy, obscured by alcohol. She remembered stumbling. She remembered Dallas catching her. Had he held her too tightly? Or was it... something else? She couldn't be sure, and the uncertainty was terrifying.

"It's nothing," Eliza stammered, pulling the scarf tighter. "The car door hit me on the way out this morning."

"Bullshit," Azalea hissed, leaning over the table. Her eyes were wide, predatory. "That's not a door, that's a hickey. A world-class, possessive, 'stay away from her' hickey. Who is he?"

Eliza's heart hammered against her ribs. She couldn't say Your Dad. She absolutely could not say that.

"It's... complicated," Eliza said, looking down at her cup. "An older guy."

Azalea's eyebrows shot up. "Older? Like... Anson's age?"

"Older," Eliza whispered.

Azalea opened her mouth to scream, but her phone cut her off. It began to ring, vibrating violently against the wooden table.

The Caller ID flashed: The Bank.

That was her contact name for Dallas.

Azalea answered immediately, her posture straightening instinctively. "Yes, Daddy?"

Eliza held her breath. She could hear the deep rumble of Dallas's voice on the other end, though she couldn't make out the words. The sound alone made the hair on her arms stand up.

Azalea frowned. "Right now? But we have class in an hour."

She listened for another few seconds, then sighed. "Okay. Fine. We're coming."

She hung up and looked at Eliza, confused.

"He wants us at the flagship store downtown."

Eliza's stomach dropped. "Both of us?"

"Yeah. He says you need 'appropriate attire' for a dinner tonight."

"Dinner?" Eliza squeaked.

"Apparently." Azalea gathered her bag. "Come on. You don't keep The Bank waiting."

They walked back to the parking lot. The silver Aston Martin was gleaming in the sun, drawing stares from a group of fraternity guys.

Eliza unlocked the car. She slid into the driver's seat, the leather molding to her body. She pushed the start button, and the engine roared to life, a guttural growl that vibrated through the floorboards.

"You'll get used to the high life, eventually," Azalea laughed, buckling her seatbelt.

Eliza pulled out of the lot, merging onto the main road toward the city. The skyline loomed ahead, glass towers reflecting the afternoon sun.

She glanced at her reflection in the rearview mirror. She adjusted the scarf again, ensuring the mark was covered.

Whether it was a bruise or... something else, Dallas had left a mark on her. And he had done it in a place that was hard to hide.

It felt like a brand.

Suddenly, the dashboard screen lit up. Eliza had paired her phone to the car's Bluetooth earlier.

A text message notification popped up on the center console, huge and undeniable.

Sender: Anson Hyde

Message: Stop playing games. Come home. You belong here.

Azalea saw it. She let out a low whistle.

"He's obsessed," Azalea said, shaking her head. "It's actually creepy. Good thing you have a new 'older man' to distract you."

Eliza gripped the steering wheel tighter. "Yeah. Good thing."

She drove faster, putting distance between herself and the university, between herself and Anson. But she was driving straight toward the man who had put a ring on her finger and a mark on her neck.

And she had no idea what his game was.

The air inside the jewelry store was perfumed and chilled to a temperature that kept the clientele awake and the diamonds sparkling.

The store manager, a man in a suit so expensive it hummed with tailored arrogance, bowed slightly as they entered.

"Ms. Solomon," he greeted them. "Please, follow me to the VIP suite."

He led them past glass cases filled with jewels that could feed a small country. They entered a private room at the back, enclosed by frosted glass walls.

A tray of sparkling water was waiting.

"Our client instructed us to show you the investment collection," the manager said, clasping his hands.

Azalea choked on her water. She coughed, slamming the glass down. "Investment? Who is buying?"

Eliza froze. Dallas moved fast. Too fast.

"It's... a portfolio diversification," Eliza lied, grasping at the first thing that came to her mind. "Diamonds hold value."

Azalea looked skeptical, crossing her arms. "Since when do you care about investment portfolios?"

"Since I decided to stop being poor," Eliza snapped back, a little too defensively.

"Fair enough," Azalea shrugged, her attention quickly distracted by a massive 5-carat emerald cut diamond sitting on a velvet pillow.

Eliza picked up a ring. It was a vintage setting, platinum with a solitaire diamond. She slid it onto her finger.

It fit perfectly.

Of course it did. Just like the clothes.

Suddenly, the bell at the front entrance chimed. Not a polite ding, but a jarring sound caused by the door being thrown open with force.

Voices raised at the front desk.

"Sir, you cannot go back there!"

"Get out of my way."

Eliza's blood ran cold. She knew that voice.

She turned just as the frosted glass door to the VIP room was shoved open.

Anson stood there. He looked disheveled. His tie was crooked, his hair messy, and his eyes were wild. He spotted Eliza instantly.

He stormed over, ignoring the manager, ignoring Azalea.

"That platinum band... it looks cheap, Eliza. Is that the best your new benefactor could afford?" Anson spat. He didn't reach for her. He reached for the velvet tray on the table, picking up a grotesquely large diamond necklace.

He dangled it in front of her face. "This is what you're worth. Not that... pathetic little shackle. Come home. I'll buy you ten of these."

"She's not for sale, Anson," Eliza said, her voice shaking but her chin up. She clenched her left hand into a fist, protecting the simple band.

"Not for sale?" Anson laughed darkly. "Everything about you is for sale. I control your trust fund, Eliza. Your entire life is funded by my signature. I can cut you off without a penny."

"Not anymore," a calm, icy voice said from the doorway.

Everyone turned. Dallas's senior lawyer, Mr. Sterling, stood there, flanked by two security guards. He held a tablet.

"As of 9:15 this morning, upon the official execution of her new legal status change, all assets within the Solomon Trust have been legally transferred to Ms. Solomon's independent control," Mr. Sterling announced, his voice carrying through the silent room. "You no longer have signing authority, Mr. Hyde. In fact, you are in breach of fiduciary duty for your past... expenditures."

Anson's face went from arrogant red to a ghostly white. The financial power, his primary weapon, had just been vaporized.

"I'll find out who is backing her," Anson hissed, dropping the necklace back onto the tray with a clatter. "And I'll ruin him. I will bankrupt him and leave him in the gutter. And then you'll come crawling back."

He spun around and stormed out.

Eliza stood there, trembling. The adrenaline was fading, leaving her knees weak.

The store manager stepped forward, bowing slightly to Mr. Sterling. "Mr. Hyde is now banned from all our properties, effective immediately."

Eliza stared at the door. He was going to try to ruin her husband.

He was going to try to ruin Dallas Koch.

She almost laughed. It was a hysterical, terrified sound bubbling in her throat. Anson was about to kick a steel wall and break his foot.