Vivian ran.

She didn't run like a socialite late for a brunch; she ran like an operative whose cover had been blown. She took the service stairs, ignoring the burning in her calves and the fact that she was holding her high heels in one hand. The plush carpet of the corridor gave way to cold concrete.

She burst out into the alleyway behind the club at 4:00 AM. The city was grey, suspended in that eerie quiet between the late-night revelers and the early-morning delivery trucks. Vivian leaned against the brick wall, gasping for air. She looked down at herself. The red silk dress was rumpled. There was a bruise forming on her wrist where he had gripped her.

She felt dirty. She felt exhilarated. She felt terrified.

Inside the Royal Court, on the 8th floor, the elevator doors slid open with a soft chime.

Lana Vane stepped out. She looked impeccable, even at this hour, though her eyes were sharp with predation. She had tipped the bartender fifty bucks to find out where Julian had gone.

She walked down the hallway, counting the numbers. 886... 887...

888.

The door was locked. Of course it was.

Lana didn't have a bobby pin or spy training. What she had was a lack of morals and sticky fingers. As a housekeeping cart rattled down the adjacent hall, the maid momentarily turned her back to grab fresh towels. Lana, moving with the speed of a viper, swiped the master key card from the top of the cart.

She waited for the maid to round the corner before swiping the card.

Beep. Green light.

Lana paused. A smile, slow and serpentine, curled her lips. She pushed the door open with a single, manicured finger.

The room was still dark, smelling of sex and musk. Lana's nose wrinkled, but her ambition smoothed the expression away. She pulled a small penlight from her clutch and clicked it on.

The beam swept across the room. It landed on the sofa.

Julian was asleep, sprawled out, a sheet tangled around his waist. His chest rose and fell in a deep rhythm. He looked vulnerable, a look the world never saw.

Lana stepped inside, careful not to make a sound. She was about to wake him, to stage a scene of concern, when the beam of light caught a glint on the floor.

She crouched down. Buried in the shag carpet, half-hidden by a discarded throw pillow, was a silver necklace.

Lana picked it up. It was heavy, old silver. An intricate locket. She didn't recognize the design, but she knew quality when she felt it.

She looked at the necklace. She looked at the sleeping billionaire. She looked at the empty space beside him where a woman had obviously been just minutes ago.

The math was simple. Julian was drugged (the bartender had mentioned he looked out of it). He had slept with someone. That someone had fled.

Lana Vane didn't believe in waste.

She unclasped the necklace and fastened it around her own neck. The cold metal sat against her collarbone like a claim.

She walked over to the mirror in the corner, ruffled her perfect blonde hair until it looked "bedhead chic," and smeared her lipstick just enough to suggest passion. Then, she walked over to the sofa and sat on the edge, close enough that her perfume-Chanel No. 5, generic and expensive-would drift over him.

"Julian?" she whispered, touching his shoulder.

Julian groaned. His eyes fluttered open. The headache was a dull throb now, but his memory was a shattered mirror. He remembered heat. He remembered a scent. He remembered a body that fit his perfectly.

He squinted. A blonde silhouette sat before him.

"Is it... you?" His voice was gravel.

Lana leaned down, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. "It's me, Julian. I'm here. Last night... you were incredible."

Julian sat up, the sheet falling to his waist. He rubbed his face with both hands. He felt... satisfied. Physically, at least. But something felt off. The scent. The air smelled of Chanel now, overpowering the wild rose memory.

"I... I don't remember much," he admitted, looking at her.

Lana smiled, a soft, practiced expression she used for romantic comedies. "That's okay. You were a little out of it. But I took care of you."

Julian's eyes dropped to her neck. The silver locket glinted in the dim light.

He frowned. He had a vague, tactile memory of metal against his lips, of a chain tangling in his fingers.

"That necklace," he said.

Lana's hand flew to it, clutching it protectively. "Oh, this? You... you liked it last night."

The physical evidence overrode the glitch in his instinct. She was here. She had the necklace. She knew what happened.

Julian sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Right."

He didn't feel the spark he thought he had felt. He felt hollow. But Julian was a man of logic. If A plus B equaled C, then Lana was the woman he had just slept with.

"Gavin!" he called out, his voice returning to its usual command.

The door opened instantly. Gavin stepped in, holding a tray of coffee and aspirin. He stopped dead when he saw Lana sitting on the sofa, disheveled, next to a half-naked Julian.

"Sir?" Gavin's eyes went wide.

Lana stood up, pulling her dress straight with a mock-shy gesture. "Good morning, Gavin."

Julian stood up, unashamed of his nudity as he grabbed his trousers from the floor. "Get Miss Vane a car. And have someone bring a change of clothes for her. Something... appropriate."

"Yes, sir."

Julian walked to the bathroom. He paused at the door and looked back at Lana. She was beaming at him.

He felt a wave of nausea.

Meanwhile, in a cramped apartment in Queens, Vivian stood under the shower spray. The water was scalding hot, turning her skin pink. She scrubbed at her body with a loofah, trying to erase the phantom touch of Julian's hands.

"Stupid," she hissed at the tile wall. "Stupid, stupid, stupid."

She turned off the water and stepped out, wrapping herself in a towel. She wiped the steam from the mirror.

Her eyes were red-rimmed. Her lips were swollen.

She walked into the living room where Winnie was snoring on the couch. Vivian turned on the small TV in the corner to drown out her own thoughts.

The morning news was on. A ticker tape scrolled across the bottom of the screen.

BREAKING NEWS: STERLING GROUP ACQUIRES BOUTIQUE DESIGN FIRM S.W. STUDIOS IN HOSTILE TAKEOVER.

Vivian froze. The towel slipped from her hand.

"No," she whispered.

S.W. Studios. Her studio. Her sanctuary. The place where 'Rose' existed.

The screen cut to a clip of a spokesperson. "Mr. Ford-Sterling sees great potential in the avant-garde designs of S.W. Studios and looks forward to integrating their talent into the Sterling family."

Vivian sank onto the floor.

She had just divorced the man. She had just slept with the man. And now... she worked for the man.

Fate wasn't just cruel; it was a sadist with a sense of humor.

The morning sun sliced through the windows of the penthouse suite at the Royal Court, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Julian sat in a velvet armchair, fully dressed in a charcoal three-piece suit. He looked like a weapon sheathed in Italian wool.

Lana sat opposite him, clutching a cup of coffee. She was wearing the clothes Gavin had procured-a modest cream dress that cost more than most people's cars. Her hand kept drifting to the necklace, twisting the silver chain.

"Last night was an anomaly," Julian said. He didn't offer a preamble. He didn't offer breakfast.

Lana's smile faltered. "Julian, I thought..."

"You thought wrong." He placed a single sheet of paper on the coffee table between them. "I am a recently divorced man. The ink isn't even dry. The last thing I need is a relationship scandal."

Lana picked up the paper. It was a list. Movie roles. Endorsement deals. An invite to the Met Gala.

"What is this?" she asked, her voice trembling with feigned insult.

"Compensation," Julian said coldly. "For your time. And for your silence."

Lana looked at the list. It was a goldmine. It was everything she had been clawing for in Hollywood for five years. But she was greedy. She looked up at him through her lashes.

"People saw me come up here, Julian. The staff. The paparazzi outside. If I walk out of here and say nothing, they'll invent stories. Worse stories."

Julian's jaw tightened. He hated being cornered.

"What do you suggest?"

"Let them think we're... exploring things," Lana said, leaning forward. "Just friends. Close friends. It protects your image. You're not a lonely divorcé; you're the most eligible bachelor in New York moving on."

Julian studied her. He saw the ambition in her eyes. It was ugly, but it was predictable. He preferred predictable to the chaotic mess of emotions he had felt in the dark last night.

"Fine," he said. "But you do not speak to the press without my team's approval. And do not think this makes you the mistress of Sterling Manor."

Lana beamed. "Of course not, darling."

Julian stood up. He walked to the door, pausing to sniff his cuff. There was a faint trace of that scent again-Wild Rose. He looked at Lana. She smelled like a department store perfume counter.

He frowned, shaking his head. It must be his imagination.

Vivian slammed the door of her Chevy Malibu. She stood in front of the brick building that housed S.W. Studios in Brooklyn.

Or rather, what used to be S.W. Studios.

Movers were hauling boxes out to a truck with the Sterling logo on the side.

"Hey!" Vivian shouted, running up to a mover who was carrying her drafting table. "Put that down! That's personal property!"

"Company property now, lady," the mover grunted, not stopping.

"Dante!" Vivian screamed.

Dante, her business partner and the public face of S.W. Studios, emerged from the building. He looked like a man walking to the gallows.

"Vee," he said, avoiding her eyes. "I'm so sorry."

"You sold us?" Vivian grabbed his lapels. "We had a pact, Dante. No corporate buyouts. We stay independent."

Dante began to cry. Actual tears. "I had to. The gambling debts... they were going to break my legs, Vee. Sterling offered a buyout that cleared everything."

Vivian let go of him as if he burned her. "You coward."

"There's a catch," Dante sniffled, digging into his pocket. He pulled out a thick contract. "The acquisition... it was contingent on the talent. On 'Rose'."

Vivian snatched the contract. She flipped through the pages. Her eyes widened.

Clause 14.b: The Lead Designer (alias 'Rose') must remain with the company for a minimum of two years post-acquisition. Failure to comply will result in a penalty of $50,000,000.

Fifty million dollars.

Vivian laughed. It was a dry, hysterical sound. "He owns me."

"He doesn't know it's you," Dante whispered. "He just knows he bought the designer named Rose. You can still be anonymous. Just... go to the Sterling HQ. Do the work."

Vivian looked at the signature at the bottom of the page. Julian Ford-Sterling IV. The pen strokes were aggressive, tearing through the paper.

She had escaped his house only to walk right into his cage.

"I can't pay fifty million," Vivian said, her voice hollow. Her hidden accounts had money-Rose earned well-but not that much, and moving that kind of volume would trigger every federal agency she had spent a decade avoiding.

"I'm sorry, Vee," Dante wept.

Vivian stared at the Sterling truck swallowing her life's work. The anger that had been simmering since the divorce, since the night at the club, since the necklace was lost, finally boiled over.

It crystallized into something cold and hard.

"Fine," she said. She smoothed her skirt. "I'll go."

She looked at Dante with eyes that could cut glass.

"But tell Mr. Ford-Sterling to prepare himself. He wanted Rose? He's going to wish he bought a cactus."

Vivian's knuckles were white on the steering wheel of the Malibu. The air conditioning had died three months ago, and the New York heat was turning the car into a rolling oven. She was no longer wearing the rags of her "wife" persona. She was dressed in a sharp, tailored pencil skirt and a silk blouse she had retrieved from her storage unit-clothes that fit the woman she actually was, not the one she pretended to be.

She was rehearsing her resignation speech. Mr. Sterling, you can take this contract and shove it up your... No. Too emotional. Mr. Sterling, I refuse to work for a corporate vulture... Too cliché.

The traffic light ahead turned yellow. Vivian accelerated. She just wanted to get this over with.

Suddenly, a massive black SUV in front of her slammed on its brakes.

There was no time to think. Vivian slammed her foot down, but the old brake pads of the Chevy just screamed in protest.

CRUNCH.

The sound of metal folding on metal was sickening. Vivian was thrown forward, the seatbelt locking painfully across her chest. Her forehead banged against the steering wheel.

Steam hissed from the hood of her car.

"Perfect," she groaned, rubbing her head. "Just perfect."

Ahead, the rear door of the black SUV-a Maybach, she noted with a sinking feeling-opened.

A bodyguard stepped out first, scanning the perimeter. Then, a pair of polished oxfords hit the asphalt. Long legs clad in dark suit trousers followed.

Julian Ford-Sterling IV emerged. He adjusted his cufflinks, looking at the crumpled rear of his quarter-million-dollar car with an expression of mild inconvenience.

Vivian grabbed her sunglasses from the dashboard. They were oversized, cat-eye frames. She shoved them on. She checked the mirror. Her lip was bleeding slightly. Good. It added to the look.

She kicked her door open.

"Are you insane?" she shouted, stepping out into the street. "Who brakes in the middle of an intersection?"

Julian turned. He saw a woman in a pencil skirt and a silk blouse that had seen better days, storming toward him. Her hair was a messy wave of chestnut. Her mouth was a slash of red anger.

He didn't recognize her.

Why would he? His wife was a hunched-over creature in oversized cardigans. This woman walked like she owned the pavement.

"You rear-ended me," Julian said calmly, his voice carrying over the honking horns. "That usually implies you were following too closely."

"I was driving perfectly!" Vivian snapped, stopping two feet from him. She had to tilt her head back to look him in the eye. He was tall. Annoyingly tall. "You stopped for a pigeon!"

Julian looked past her to the road. There was, indeed, a pigeon waddling away unbothered.

"I stopped for a pedestrian," he lied smoothly. "You, however, were clearly distracted. Texting? Applying makeup?"

"Planning a murder," Vivian hissed. "Currently yours."

Julian blinked. A corner of his mouth twitched. He wasn't used to being shouted at. Most people apologized. Most women flirted.

"You have spirit," he said, stepping closer. He towered over her, casting a shadow that blocked the sun. "But spirit doesn't pay for a dented bumper on a Maybach."

Vivian felt that familiar pull-the magnetic field that surrounded him. It made her want to punch him and kiss him simultaneously. She hated it.

"My insurance will cover it," she lied. Her insurance barely covered a scratch.

"I doubt it," Julian said, glancing at her rusted Chevy. "But I'm a generous man. I'll have my lawyers contact you."

"Don't bother," Vivian reached into her purse. She pulled out a business card-one she had printed an hour ago at Kinko's. She slapped it against his chest.

He looked down. The card remained stuck to his lapel for a second before he caught it.

Vivian Sullivans. Designer. S.W. Studios.

Julian froze. He stared at the name.

"Vivian," he said, testing the word. His face twisted in a grimace of distaste.

Vivian held her breath behind her sunglasses. Here it comes. The recognition.

Julian looked up. His eyes swept over her face, lingering on her mouth, then her hair. But there was no spark of memory. Only annoyance.

"Vivian Sullivans," Julian repeated, his voice dripping with ice. "Of all the names in New York. I suppose mediocrity loves company."

He didn't know. He truly, genuinely didn't see her. He only saw the name of the woman he had just divorced-a name he clearly loathed. The realization was a slap in the face. She had lived with this man for two years, shared meals (mostly silent ones), and he didn't know her features well enough to recognize her without ugly glasses and bad foundation.

"I'm not soft," Vivian said, her voice dropping an octave. "And I'm late for work. My new boss is a tyrant."

Julian raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

"A complete narcissist," she confirmed. "So if you'll excuse me, I need to go get yelled at."

She turned on her heel and marched back to her steaming car. She yanked the door open, got in, and slammed it.

Julian stood in the middle of the street, watching her. He should be annoyed. His car was damaged. He was late. And her name was a curse.

But as he watched the angry brunette wrestle her car into gear and screech away, he felt something he hadn't felt in years.

Amusement.

"Gavin," he said as he got back into the Maybach.

"Sir?"

"Call the legal team. Tell them to go easy on the settlement for the crash."

"Yes, sir. Who was it?"

Julian pulled the card out again. He ran his thumb over the name.

"An employee," he said. "With a very unfortunate name. Run a check on her. I want to know if she's related to my ex-wife, or if God is just playing a cruel joke on me."