Adrien made a subtle motion with his hand. On the screen, the gloved fingers retracted, placing the syringe back on the bedside table.

She slumped back against the cushions, oxygen rushing into her lungs in jagged gasps. Her heart was beating so hard it hurt.

Adrien turned his back on her. He walked to a crystal decanter on a side table and poured a measure of amber liquid. He took a sip, the ice clinking against the glass. The sound was casual, domestic, completely at odds with the psychological torture he had just inflicted.

"You're a monster," she whispered.

"I'm a businessman," he corrected, not turning around. "And you have something I need."

"I have a condition."

He turned then, an eyebrow raised. He looked at her like she was a rabbit trying to negotiate with a wolf. "Do you?"

"Alfred," she said, her voice shaking but her chin high. "His care. I want a full-time, private nurse assigned to him, paid from my personal allowance. And I want to see the reports. Daily."

Adrien stared at her for a long moment. Then he pressed a button on the intercom. "Send them in."

The door slid open. Three lawyers in identical navy suits marched in. They placed a stack of documents on the rolling table and pushed it over her lap. It was thick enough to be a novel.

"Standard Non-Disclosure Agreement," the lead lawyer droned. "Voting Share Proxy. Power of Attorney. And a signed psychiatric evaluation."

"Psychiatric evaluation?" She flipped the page.

"You will live here," Adrien said, stepping closer. "In the East Wing. You will have no contact with the outside world. No phone. No internet. Your recovery requires total isolation."

She read the clause. Clause 14: Voluntary Seclusion for Mental Recuperation. It was a prison sentence disguised as a job offer.

"I'm not signing this," she said, pushing the papers away. "This is slavery."

Adrien finished his drink. He set the glass down. "Alfred's night nurse goes on duty at 9:00 PM. She's... an old friend of the family. Without my call, she follows her standard instructions. With my call, she gets replaced."

He checked his watch. "You have ten seconds."

Tears pricked her eyes. She hated him. She hated him with a violence that frightened her. But she picked up the pen.

Her hand trembled as she hovered over the signature line.

Adrien moved behind her. She felt his heat radiate through the thin silk blouse she wore under her gown. He reached over her shoulder, his large hand engulfing hers, steadying the pen.

"Sign it," he whispered against her ear. His breath ghosted over her neck, sending a shiver down her spine. "You belong to Sargent assets now."

She closed her eyes and signed Clarice Howe.

The lawyers snatched the papers away instantly.

"Get her a room," Adrien ordered, stepping back. "And lock down the exits."

The guest suite was larger than her entire apartment. But it was still a cage.

She stood in the bathroom, staring at herself in the mirror. Her hair was matted, her eyes hollow. She stripped off the ruined gown, wincing as the fabric pulled away from the scratches on her arm.

She turned on the shower. The hot water hit her skin, stinging the wounds, washing away the dirt and the smell of the gala.

She scrubbed her skin until it was raw. She wanted to scrub away the feeling of his hand on hers.

She stepped out and wrapped a towel around herself. As she reached for the light switch, a glint of red caught her eye.

High up in the corner, hidden behind a ventilation grate. A camera lens.

She froze. He was watching. Even here. Even now.

A cold fury settled in her gut. She pulled the towel tighter. She looked directly into the lens, her expression hardening.

She raised her hand and flipped him off.

Then she hit the lights, plunging the room into darkness.

In the control room, Adrien watched the screen go black. A small, unamused smile touched his lips.

"Do you want me to remove it, sir?" Cole asked.

"No," Adrien said, leaning back in his chair. "Leave it. I want to see how long she lasts."

The breakfast tray was a shield. When she pushed it away, she wasn't the prisoner; she was the uncooperative asset.

Adrien sat opposite her at the small table in her suite. He was dressed for the day, immaculate and powerful. She, on the other hand, was in a silk robe provided by the staff. She forced herself to see only a business opponent. A problem. A lock to be picked.

"You need to eat," he said, gesturing to the untouched plate of food.

She poured a cup of black coffee. "I need a terminal."

He extended his arm, tapping his watch. "Your schedule is managed. Physical therapy at ten. Language tutoring at noon. You are a Sargent representative. You will be perfect."

She slid the coffee cup across the table. He didn't flinch. He just watched her. His gaze was heavy, tracking every movement of her hands, searching for a tremor.

"I need to monitor the trust's portfolio," she said, her voice crisp. "You may have my proxy, but the assets are still tied to my name. I will not be kept in the dark."

He considered this, taking a slow sip of his own coffee. The silence stretched.

"Fine," he conceded. "A terminal will be installed in your study. Monitored, of course."

She sighed internally. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. "The market is volatile. Your Chen Industries play is risky. If it fails, our family's reputation is damaged."

"Our family?" Adrien stood up, knocking his chair back slightly. The sound echoed in the silent room. "Don't forget your place, Clarice. You are an accessory."

"An accessory with a nine-figure trust fund," she countered, meeting his gaze. She backed up until her hips hit the counter. "You may be the CEO, Mr. Sargent, but I am the face of the Foundation. A scandal would hurt us both."

He grabbed her wrist, his grip bruising. "Then behave. Attend your appointments. Smile for the cameras when I tell you to. I don't care about your opinions on my business."

"You could lose everything," she said calmly.

"I'm already dead if I lose this company." He let go of her, disgust flickering in his eyes. "We're hosting the Japanese delegation next week. You will be the perfect hostess. But I don't trust you not to make a scene."

"Trust is expensive," she muttered.

"If you fail," he said, walking to the door, "Alfred's new nurse will be replaced with the old one."

She needed to know the layout.

She walked down the main corridor, keeping her head down. She tried to turn toward the West Wing, where the server room was located.

"Miss Clarice."

Alfred, or rather, a man who looked startlingly like him but younger and colder-his replacement, she presumed- stepped in front of her. "The library is the other way."

"Right. Sorry. Still learning my way around."

"Hey! You!"

She turned. A woman was clicking down the hallway in Louboutins. She was blonde, beautiful, and looked at her like she was a stain on the carpet. Ivy Bates. The PR consultant.

"There you are," she said, her voice dripping with false sweetness. She didn't wait for an answer. She thrust a heavy leather bag at her. "Take this to the study. And be careful, it's worth more than your life."

She mistook her for a servant. Good.

"Yes, ma'am," she said, taking the bag.

Ivy turned her back to check her reflection in a hallway mirror. "God, this place is dreary. Adrien needs to redecorate. Something less... ancestral."

While she preened, she slipped her hand into the side pocket of her bag. Her fingers brushed cool plastic. A keycard.

She palmed it, sliding it into her pocket in one fluid motion.

"Well?" Ivy snapped, turning back. "Go!"

She hurried away, head down.

Back in her room, she pulled out the card. It was a Level 2 security pass. Not enough for the main gates, but enough to get into the communications room.

She looked out the window. The sky was turning a bruised purple. A storm was coming. The satellite uplink would be spotty. The security grid would have momentary lags during the switch to generator power.

She checked the patrol schedule she had drawn on a napkin.

Tonight. It had to be tonight.

Midnight.

Thunder rattled the windowpanes, masking the hum of the surveillance cameras. She waited for the lightning. Flash. One, two, three. Darkness.

She slipped out of her room. She was barefoot, wearing the silk pajamas the staff had provided. They were navy blue, blending into the shadows.

She moved down the corridor, counting the steps. The patrol passed the intersection at 12:05. She had a three-minute window.

She reached the study door. She swiped Ivy's stolen card. The light turned green.

She pushed inside. The room was massive, smelling of old paper and expensive scotch. She went straight for the desk, reaching for the hardline phone.

Suddenly, the lights flickered. Once. Twice. Then dead.

Total darkness. The storm had knocked out the main grid.

She froze. The backup generators would take ten seconds to kick in.

She heard a sound. A glass clinking against wood. The soft sigh of an exhale.

She turned to run, but she slammed into something solid. A wall of heat.

A hand clamped around her waist, burning through the silk. She was yanked backward, dragged into the center of the room.

She opened her mouth to scream, but a large, hot hand covered it.

"Looking for something?" a voice growled. Adrien.

He sounded sober. In control.

"Adrien," she muffled against his hand. "Let me go."

"In my private study," he muttered, his forehead dropping to rest against her shoulder. He smelled of whiskey and rage. "After I explicitly forbade it. You're not just unstable, you're defiant."

He spun her around and pinned her against the heavy oak desk. His lips crashed onto hers.

It wasn't a kiss. It was a collision. He tasted of whiskey and desperation.

She struggled, her nails digging into his back, scratching skin.

"Stop!" she cried out as his hand moved from her mouth to tear at the buttons of her top.

"Quiet," he growled. "If you're going to act like a thief, I'll treat you like one."

Lightning flashed, illuminating the room for a split second. His eyes were blown wide, pupils dilated, not with confusion, but with a cold, possessive fury. He saw Clarice Howe. He saw his property, misbehaving.

The pain of his betrayal was driving her mad, and he was using her fear to ground himself.

They fell onto the thick Persian rug. She fought him, but he was too strong, and the heat radiating from him was confusing her own senses. Fear mixed with a dark, twisted arousal.

He bit her neck, hard. She gasped, arching her back.

It was chaotic. Fast. A blur of thunder and friction.

When it was over, he collapsed on top of her, his breathing slowing as the adrenaline left him.

The emergency lights buzzed to life, casting a dim orange glow.

She pushed him off, scrambling backward. She was shaking. Her clothes were torn. Her neck throbbed.

She looked at him. He was watching her, his expression unreadable.

Panic seized her. If Victoria found her...

She grabbed her shirt, clutching it to her chest, and ran.

She didn't notice the small pearl button that had popped off her collar. It rolled under the edge of the desk, a silent witness in the shadows.

She made it back to her room and locked the door. She ran to the bathroom, turning on the water to drown out her sobbing.

She looked in the mirror. A purple bruise was already forming on the side of her neck. A bite mark.

She touched it, wincing.

She had to hide this. She had to hide everything.