The morning sun sliced through the cheap plastic blinds, hitting Debora directly in the eyes. She gasped, waking up with a start, her hand immediately flying to her stomach.

She pushed the blankets off, her bare feet hitting the cold floor. She washed her face and pulled her hair back into a tight, neat ponytail. She put on her only clean professional outfit-a navy skirt suit that was two seasons out of date. However, using her meticulous skills, she had altered the seams so that the waistline and shoulders perfectly hugged her slender frame. Only the slight fraying of the cheap fabric betrayed its true age and her current poverty.

She walked out into the living room. The blanket on the sofa was folded with military precision. Jameson was already gone.

Debora took a deep breath, grabbed her purse, and walked out the door. The loud, chaotic energy of Brooklyn swallowed her as she descended into the subway, riding the train all the way to Manhattan.

An hour and a half later, Debora stood on the sidewalk of the Upper East Side. In front of her was a high-end bridal boutique, its large glass windows displaying gowns that cost more than she had made in a year.

Before prison, she had been a top student at Parsons. Even with a felony on her record, she hoped her skills with a needle could land her a job doing alterations in the back room.

She pushed the heavy glass door open. A silver bell chimed. The air inside was thick with the scent of expensive roses and vanilla.

The boutique manager, a woman with sharp features and a tight bun, looked over Debora's resume. When her eyes hit the parole status, her lips thinned into a hard line. She handed the paper back. "We don't hire criminals."

"Please," Debora said, her voice steady but desperate. "I'll take minimum wage. I'll stay in the back. Just give me a chance to show you my stitching."

Before the manager could reply, a loud, artificial laugh echoed from the front entrance. Several sales associates rushed forward, fawning over a couple walking through the door.

Debora glanced over her shoulder. Her blood turned to ice. Her lungs stopped working.

Walking in the center of the room, wearing a custom-tailored suit and gold-rimmed glasses, was Darrell Poole. The man who had been driving the car that night. The man she had gone to prison for.

Clinging to his arm was a stunning woman dripping in diamonds, her chin tilted up in pure arrogance. Paige Lennox.

Bile rose in Debora's throat. She immediately ducked her head, stepping behind a massive rack of tulle gowns to hide.

Her hands were shaking so badly that as she backed up, her elbow clipped a silver tray resting on a side table. A roll of exquisite, hand-beaded lace tumbled off the tray and hit the floor.

The lace rolled right into the center aisle. A sparkling Jimmy Choo stiletto stepped directly onto the delicate fabric.

Paige gasped dramatically, looking down at the lace under her heel with utter disgust. "God, the staff here is so clumsy!"

Darrell immediately wrapped his arm around Paige's waist, playing the perfect, protective fiancé. He followed Paige's annoyed glare toward the rack of dresses.

Debora was kneeling on the floor, her fingers reaching for the lace. She froze. Slowly, she lifted her head.

Debora's eyes locked with Darrell's.

The gentle, loving smile on Darrell's face shattered. His eyes widened in sheer panic, the color draining from his face.

Paige was still complaining to the manager. Darrell quickly leaned down and kissed her cheek. "Go to the VIP fitting room, babe. I'll handle this."

The second Paige disappeared behind the velvet curtains, the panic in Darrell's eyes morphed into pure, vicious malice.

He closed the distance between them in seconds. He grabbed Debora's upper arm, his fingers digging into her flesh like iron claws.

"Get off me," Debora hissed, trying to pull away.

Darrell ignored her. He dragged her roughly through a side door and shoved her into the dark, narrow alley behind the boutique.

He slammed her back against the rough brick wall. The impact knocked the breath out of her, a sharp pain shooting up her spine.

Darrell planted his hands on the bricks on either side of her head, trapping her. "What the hell are you doing here?" he snarled, his spit hitting her cheek. "Are you stalking me? Trying to ruin my life?"

Debora glared at him, her chest heaving as she fought through the pain in her back. "You don't own New York, Darrell."

Darrell let out a dark, mocking laugh. He reached out and slapped her cheek lightly-a degrading, dismissive gesture. "Did you forget the NDA you signed? You're a piece of trash with a felony record. You breathe a word of this to Paige, and I will have my lawyers bury you so deep you'll die in a cell."

Debora's hands curled into tight fists at her sides. Her fingernails bit into her palms until the skin broke. She stared at the man who had destroyed her life, a burning, violent rage igniting in her chest.

Darrell's face was inches from hers. The smell of his expensive mint breath mints mixed with the garbage in the alley made Debora's stomach violently heave.

She turned her face away, disgusted. Then, gathering every ounce of strength she had, she planted both hands on his chest and shoved him hard.

Darrell wasn't expecting the resistance. He stumbled backward, his expensive suit jacket scraping against the dirty brick wall.

He looked at the dust on his sleeve, his face twisting with rage. "You stupid bitch," he spat. "Look at you. You're nothing. You're a used-up ex-con. You'll rot in the gutter while I marry into the Lennox family."

Debora smoothed down her cheap skirt. She straightened her spine, refusing to cower. She looked him dead in the eye, her lips curling into a cold sneer.

"I might have a record," Debora said, her voice dripping with venom, "but at least I'm a legally married woman now. I'm not a pathetic parasite sucking the blood out of a rich woman to survive."

Darrell froze. Then he threw his head back and laughed-a loud, ugly sound that echoed in the alley. "Married? Who the hell would marry fresh garbage out of a cell?"

He took a step toward her, his eyes gleaming with malicious challenge. "Call him, then. If you have a husband, call the blind idiot right now. Let's see him."

A reckless, defiant surge of adrenaline flooded Debora's veins. She reached into her purse and pulled out her cheap smartphone, the screen spider-webbed with cracks.

She took a shaky breath, unlocked the screen, and tapped the only new contact she had saved last night.

Jameson.

She pressed the call button. The dial tone rang out, loud and clear in the quiet alley. Her heart hammered against her ribs.

Meanwhile, miles away in the heart of Manhattan, the atmosphere inside the glass-walled boardroom of King Consolidated was suffocating.

Jameson sat at the head of the long mahogany table. His face was a mask of pure ice. A senior vice president was sweating profusely, stammering through a disastrous quarterly financial report.

The air pressure in the room was so low that none of the twenty executives dared to breathe too loudly.

Suddenly, a sharp, generic, and incredibly loud ringtone shattered the dead silence.

Every executive flinched. Eyes darted around the table in sheer terror, wondering whose career was about to end for forgetting to silence their phone.

Jameson's brow furrowed. He looked down at the table. The sound was coming from the burner phone sitting inches from his left hand-the phone he had bought specifically for his fake identity.

The screen lit up with a name: Debora.

A flash of absolute shock crossed Jameson's eyes.

Standing behind him, Pierce watched in horror as Jameson, instead of declining the call, reached out. His large finger hit the green button, but his thumb accidentally grazed the speaker icon.

Debora's voice blasted through the boardroom's state-of-the-art acoustic system. It was high-pitched, overly sweet, and laced with a fake, trembling pout.

"Honey... Hubby, when are you getting off work to pick me up?"

Boom.

The boardroom effectively detonated. Twenty of Wall Street's most ruthless predators turned to stone, their jaws practically hitting the mahogany table.

Jameson's entire body went rigid. A violent surge of anger burned up his neck, causing the veins at his temples to throb dangerously. His knuckles turned stark white as he gripped the armrest, completely infuriated by the audacity of this woman. He snatched the phone off the table, his thumb violently jabbing the screen to turn off the speaker.

He pressed the phone to his ear. His jaw was clenched so tight his teeth ground together. "What the hell are you doing?" he asked, his voice dropping to a lethal, vibrating whisper.

In the alley, Debora heard the deep, dangerous rumble of his voice. It gave her the exact ammunition she needed. She raised her voice, making sure Darrell heard every word.

"Hubby, there's a creep bothering me. He said you must be blind to marry me."

Darrell stared at Debora. He heard the deep male voice on the other end. His arrogant smirk faltered, replaced by a dark scowl. He scoffed, adjusting his glasses, and turned around, walking briskly back into the boutique.

Seeing Darrell retreat, the adrenaline instantly drained from Debora's body. Her shoulders slumped. She spoke quickly into the receiver. "Never mind. Sorry to bother you."

She hung up.

In the boardroom, Jameson listened to the dial tone. His face was darker than a thundercloud.

He slowly lowered the phone. He looked up. Twenty pairs of eyes immediately snapped down to stare intensely at their blank notepads.

Jameson slammed the financial folder shut. The sound cracked like a whip. "Meeting postponed. Redo the entire report," he ordered, his voice devoid of any emotion.

He stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor, and strode out of the glass doors.

"Pierce," Jameson barked as he walked toward his private elevator. "Get the car. Now. I'm going back to Brooklyn."

Jameson stepped out of the cramped elevator, the muscles in his back tight with rage. He stalked down the dim hallway of the Brooklyn apartment building and shoved his key into the lock.

He pushed the door open so hard it slammed against the wall with a loud bang.

The living room was empty. Jameson ripped his tie from his neck and threw it onto the sofa. He was about to call her name when the bedroom door clicked open.

Debora stepped out. She was wearing an oversized, faded t-shirt. Her hair was damp around the edges, and her eyes were slightly red, as if she had just washed her face.

She froze when she saw him standing there, chest heaving. Her hands immediately flew to her stomach, her fingers twisting into the hem of her shirt. She looked guilty.

Jameson didn't hesitate. He closed the distance between them in three long strides, backing her up until her hips hit the edge of the kitchen counter. There was nowhere left to run.

He planted both hands on the marble countertop, caging her in. He leaned down, his face inches from hers, his broad chest practically brushing against her.

"What was that little stunt today?" Jameson demanded, his voice a low, vibrating threat. "Who gave you permission to call me that?"

Debora shrank back against the counter, her heart hammering against her ribs. His physical presence was overwhelming. "I... I ran into someone I know. Someone bad. I just needed him to back off."

Jameson let out a harsh, mocking laugh. He lifted his hand, his long fingers wrapping around her jaw, forcing her to look up into his icy eyes.

"You want to play the loving wife to your friends?" he sneered. "Then maybe I should start collecting my husbandly rights."

Before Debora could process his words, Jameson dipped his head and crushed his mouth against hers.

It wasn't a kiss; it was a punishment. It was hard, demanding, and entirely consuming.

Debora's eyes flew wide open. The scent of cedar and aggressive, dark pheromones invaded her senses. Her brain short-circuited.

Jameson's large hand slid from her jaw down to her waist, his palm burning hot through the thin cotton of her t-shirt. His grip tightened, pulling her flush against his hard body. There was a raw, undeniable hunger in his touch that terrified her.

Her body reacted instantly. Not with desire, but with a violent, biological rejection.

A massive wave of nausea rolled up from her stomach, hitting the back of her throat. The morning sickness, triggered by the sudden adrenaline and his overwhelming scent, was uncontrollable.

Debora shoved both hands against his solid chest, pushing him with all her might. She slapped a hand over her mouth.

Jameson stumbled back half a step, his eyes flashing with shock and immediate fury. He opened his mouth to yell at her.

Debora didn't look at him. She bent over, a dry heave racking her small frame. She pushed past him, practically sprinting across the living room.

She slammed the bathroom door shut behind her.

A second later, the violent sound of her retching echoed through the thin walls, followed by the rush of the sink faucet.

Jameson stood frozen in the kitchen. The heat in his veins turned to ice. His face went pale, and then a dark, ugly flush of humiliation crept up his neck.

He looked at his hands. He remembered the sheer panic in her eyes, the way she had pushed him away like he was a disease.

His ego, the pride of a man who commanded empires, took a brutal hit. She was disgusted by him. A second later, that humiliation morphed into a seething, irrational rage. He had come here to break her, to torture her for what she had done, so why did he care about the murderer's reaction? This sudden, inexplicable sting of rejection made him feel out of control, and that loss of control only fueled his hatred for her even more.

Jameson marched over to the bathroom door. He hit the wood with the side of his fist. "Don't play games with me, Debora," he warned, his voice dripping with venom.

Inside the bathroom, Debora slumped against the sink. She splashed cold water into her mouth, tears of physical exertion leaking from her eyes. She gripped her stomach, too weak to speak, terrified he would figure out the truth.

When no answer came, Jameson kicked the plastic trash can in the hallway. It clattered against the wall.

He stormed into the living room, yanked a spare blanket out of the closet, and threw it onto the sofa. He lay down in his clothes, staring at the cracked ceiling in the dark. His jaw ached from clenching it. He swore to himself he would break her completely.