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.

Adrien woke up with a headache that felt like a drill boring into his temples.

He sat up, the room spinning. He touched the sheets beside him. They were cold.

But there was a scent. Vanilla. And something metallic. Blood?

He reached up to rub his shoulder and hissed. He walked to the mirror. There were scratch marks down his back. Deep ones.

It hadn't been a dream.

He stood still, a strange sensation washing over him. The constant, dull ache of pressure in his chest-the symptom of his impending corporate war-was gone. For the first time in weeks, he felt... in control.

"Cole!" he roared.

The security chief burst in. "Sir?"

"The cameras. Last night. Between midnight and 1:00 AM."

"The storm, sir. The system rebooted. We lost about fifteen minutes of footage in the West Wing."

Adrien cursed. "Find out who was in this room. Check the guest list. Check the staff."

She sat in the breakfast nook, wearing a high-collared cashmere sweater. It was stiflingly hot, but she couldn't risk exposing her neck.

She stared at her black coffee, her hands shaking slightly.

"Good morning!"

Ivy Bates breezed into the room. She looked radiant. Too radiant.

She poured herself a cup of tea and leaned against the counter, making sure the maids could hear her. "Oh, what a night. The storm was terrifying, wasn't it? I got so lost in the hallway... ended up in the strangest place."

She touched her hair, smiling coyly. "Mr. Sargent was working so late. I brought him some documents he needed. He was... very grateful for my dedication."

Her grip on the mug tightened until her knuckles turned white. She was lying. She was taking credit for being in his study.

Cole walked in, his face grim. "Ms. Bates. Mr. Sargent would like to see you."

Ivy's smile widened. She shot her a smug look. "See? Some of us belong upstairs."

She followed Cole out.

She sat there, frozen. Part of her was relieved. If she took the fall, she was safe. But another part of her-a part she hated-was furious.

She stood up and followed them, keeping a distance.

She waited outside the study door. It was slightly ajar.

"You were here last night?" Adrien's voice was low, dangerous.

"Yes, Adrien," Ivy purred. "I came to bring you the revised press release for the Chen merger. You seemed... stressed."

"And what did I do?"

"You... thanked me," she said vaguely.

"I bit you," Adrien said. "Show me."

There was a pause. "What? Adrien, don't be ridiculous."

"My neck," Adrien corrected. "The woman I was with. I bit her on the neck."

Silence.

"Get out," Adrien said. But his voice lacked the conviction of certainty. He was confused. The whiskey had messed with his memory.

Ivy stumbled out, looking pale. She saw her standing there.

"What are you looking at, trash?" she hissed. "He's under a lot of pressure. He gets confused."

She looked at her, then at the closed door.

"Careful, Ivy," she said softly. "Lies have a way of rotting."