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."

The elevator ride to the 40th floor of the Sterling Tower took exactly 45 seconds. Vivian counted every one of them to keep her heart rate under 70 beats per minute.

When the doors opened, she stepped into the chaos that was the Design Department.

It was a sea of panic. The original S.W. team was huddled in corners, clutching their coffee cups like life rafts. The Sterling HR team was moving through the space like sharks, dropping policy manuals on desks with loud thuds.

"Vivian!"

Winnie, the intern, came running over. She was a tiny girl with glasses too big for her face-a painful reminder of Vivian's own disguise.

"Are you okay?" Winnie whispered. "They fired three people already. They say the new standards are impossible."

Vivian squeezed Winnie's shoulder. "Breathe, Win. It's just corporate posturing. They need us."

"Attention!" A sharp voice cut through the room.

A woman in a severe grey suit stood on a platform. "I am Mrs. Gable, Head of HR. From this moment on, all creative IP belongs to Sterling Group. No freelance work. No side projects. And..." She scanned the room, her eyes landing on Vivian. "Miss Sullivans. Mr. Ford-Sterling expects you in the penthouse immediately."

The room went silent. Xavier, the former Creative Director of Sterling who had been demoted to merge with S.W., smirked from his desk.

"Looks like someone's in trouble," he sneered.

Vivian ignored him. She smoothed her skirt, lifted her chin, and walked back to the elevator.

The ride to the penthouse was silent. When the doors opened, Gavin was waiting. He did a double-take when he saw her.

"You..." he stammered. "The crash."

"Is he in?" Vivian asked, breezing past him.

"Yes, but..."

Vivian pushed open the double mahogany doors.

Julian was sitting behind a desk that looked like it had been carved from the hull of a pirate ship. He was reading a file. He didn't look up.

"Sit."

Vivian sat. The chair was low, forcing her to look up at him. A classic power move.

Julian closed the file and looked at her. Recognition flickered in his eyes-not of his wife, but of the woman from the street.

"So," he said, leaning back. "Vivian Sullivans. The woman who destroys my cars and my acquisitions."

"I didn't destroy the acquisition," Vivian said evenly. "You bought it. Hostilely."

"And you came with the furniture." Julian picked up a pen. "I've reviewed your portfolio. The work under the alias 'Rose'. It's... adequate."

Vivian felt a vein in her temple throb. "Adequate?" Her designs had won awards in Milan under that name. "It is exceptional."

"It shows potential," Julian corrected, though his eyes betrayed him. He had spent the last hour marveling at the blueprints, wondering how a ghost could design with such life. But he wouldn't give her the satisfaction. Negotiation 101: never let the asset know their value. "Confidence," Julian mused. "I like that. But here at Sterling, we require obedience." He slid a document across the desk. "This is a supplementary contract. It binds you to the 'Rose' identity exclusively for Sterling. And it increases the penalty clause."

Vivian read it. It was a golden cage.

"Why?" she asked. "Why do you want Rose so badly?"

Julian stood up and walked to the window. "Because my ex-wife," he said, the word dripping with disdain, "had zero taste. She filled my life with beige. Rose... Rose understands passion. Color. Life. I want that energy in this company to wash away the stench of mediocrity."

Vivian gripped the armrests of the chair. He was talking about her. He was insulting her to her face, praising her alter ego to replace the memory of her real self.

The irony was so thick she could choke on it.

"Your ex-wife," Vivian said, testing the waters. "She must have been terrible."

Julian laughed, a harsh sound. "She was a ghost. A contractual obligation. She had no spine, no fire. Unlike you." He turned to face her. "You have fire, Miss Sullivans. I saw it in the street."

Vivian stared at him. "Maybe she just didn't show it to you because you never looked."

Julian's eyes narrowed. The air in the room grew heavy. He walked around the desk until he was leaning against the front of it, inches from her knees.

"Are you married, Miss Sullivans?"

"Divorced," she said quickly. "Recently."

"Good," Julian said. "Then you know that marriage is a trap. Work... work is honest." He tapped the contract. "Sign it. Or pay the fifty million."

Vivian picked up the pen. Her hand shook, just once. She signed.

Vivian Sullivans.

"Welcome to the team," Julian said. He reached out a hand.

Vivian took it. His skin was warm, calloused. A shock of electricity shot up her arm, just like in the hotel room.

Julian pulled his hand back sharply, as if he had been burned. He looked at her hand, then her face, confusion clouding his eyes.

"That's all," he dismissed her, turning his back.

Vivian stood up and walked to the door. Before she left, she turned.

"Mr. Sterling?"

"What?"

"Beige is a very calming color. Maybe you just needed peace."

She slammed the door before he could respond.

Julian stared at the closed door. He rubbed his hand where he had touched her.

"Who the hell is she?" he whispered.