"A security review," Adrien announced.

He stood in the center of the security office, arms crossed. Ivy sat on a sterile metal chair, looking nervous. She stood by the counter, holding a clipboard, playing the part of the concerned ward.

"Is this necessary?" Ivy asked, laughing nervously. "I just got turned around in the dark."

"Protocol," Adrien said. "Clarice, confirm her statement."

She stepped forward. "Ms. Bates, you stated you delivered a press release. What was the headline?"

Ivy glared at her. "You think I memorize these things?"

"I have a job to do. As the Foundation's public face, I review all major press releases."

She reluctantly fumbled for an answer. "Something about... a new era of partnership." Her skin was flawless. No marks. No bruises. And definitely no bite on her neck.

She checked her vitals. Normal.

"Well?" Adrien asked from behind the screen.

"The final draft headline was 'Sargent Corp Finalizes Hostile Takeover of Chen Industries,'" she said loudly. "A significant difference. And there's no record of her keycard accessing the study's floor last night."

She looked at Ivy. "Mr. Sargent was in a volatile mood last night. It's impossible he would have simply let you walk away without comment."

Ivy's face crumbled. "He... he told me to get out! That's why! But I was there!"

Adrien ripped the curtain back. "You're lying. Get out of my house. Now."

"Adrien, please!" Ivy wailed as Cole grabbed her arm. "I just wanted to help!"

They dragged her out. Her screams faded down the hallway.

Adrien turned to her. The air in the room grew heavy.

"So," he said, stepping closer. "It wasn't her. Then who?"

"I'm a resident, Mr. Sargent. Not a detective." She turned to stack her papers, her heart pounding against her ribs.

The door opened again. Cole walked in. He was holding a small plastic evidence bag.

"Sir," Cole said. "Found this under your desk. The cleaners missed it."

Adrien took the bag. Inside was a small, white pearl button.

He looked at it. Then he looked at her.

His eyes dropped to her chest. She was wearing the sweater. But he remembered.

"The pajamas," he said. "The blue silk ones."

Her blood ran cold.

"Cole," Adrien said, never taking his eyes off her. "Search her room. Find the blue pajamas."

"You can't," she said, backing away. "That's an invasion of privacy."

"I own you," Adrien snarled. "Go."

Ten minutes later, Cole returned. He held up the navy top. The collar was torn. The top button was missing.

Adrien took the shirt. He held the bagged button up to the remaining ones. A perfect match.

He looked at her, and the confusion in his eyes vanished, replaced by a cold, hard rage.

"It was you," he whispered.

"Adrien, listen-"

"You planned this," he accused, advancing on her. "You knew I was on edge. You knew I was vulnerable. You orchestrated this to get leverage. To blackmail me."

"No! It was an accident! I was trying to escape!"

"Liar!" He threw the shirt at her face. "You're just like the rest of them. A parasite with a pretty face."

He dragged her into his private study and locked the door. The sound of the deadbolt sliding home was final.

"Strip," he ordered.

"What?" She clutched her sweater.

"Show me the mark. I want to see your 'accident'."

She didn't move.

Adrien crossed the room in two strides. He grabbed the collar of her sweater and yanked. The wool tore.

The bruise on her neck was ugly, purple and yellow against her pale skin.

He stared at it, his jaw working. "You let me do that."

"I fought you!" she screamed. "You were drunk!"

"I remember you tasting like defiance," he sneered. He walked to the liquor cabinet, and this time he did grab a bottle. And two glasses.

"You like playing games, Clarice? Let's see how you handle a real negotiation."

"Adrien, no. I'm not drinking with you."

"Drink it."

He forced the glass of scotch to her lips. She clamped her mouth shut, but he pinched her nose. Instinct took over. She gasped, and he poured the liquid down her throat.

She coughed, sputtering, the bitter, burning taste coating her tongue.

"Now," he said, sitting in his leather chair, watching her. "Let's talk about your future. You can either be a prisoner in this house, or a partner. But partners are equals. Show me you have the stomach for it."

The liquor hit fast. Her blood turned to lava. Her skin felt too tight. The room began to warp at the edges.

Adrien looked... different. The monster faded. He became a beacon of power in a chaotic world.

She fell to her knees, clawing at the carpet. Her body was screaming from the shock and the alcohol.

"Ask me," he commanded. "Ask me for what you want. A way out? Money? Power? What is your price?"

She bit her tongue until she tasted copper. No. She would not give him the satisfaction.

She curled into a ball, shaking violently. A whimper escaped her throat, but she clamped her hand over her mouth.

Adrien watched. He was waiting for her to crawl to him. To become the whore he thought she was.

But she stayed on the floor. She dug her nails into the wood until they bled.

"Clarice?" His voice changed. The anger wavered.

She was gasping for air, sweat soaking her clothes. "Go... to... hell."

Adrien stood up. He walked over to her. "Stop acting."

She looked up at him. Her vision was blurring, but the hate in her eyes was clear. "Don't... touch... me."

Then the darkness took her.

Adrien caught her before her head hit the floor. Her skin was clammy and cold.

"Shit," he cursed.

He scooped her up in his arms. The anger was gone, replaced by a sudden, sharp fear. He ran toward the bathroom.

The water was luke-warm.

It hit them gently. Adrien stood under the spray, fully clothed, holding her against his chest.

She gasped, her eyes flying open. The shock forced air into her lungs.

"Breathe," Adrien ordered, his voice rough. "Stay with me."

She was shivering, her teeth chattering, but the chill in her bones was deep. She instinctively pressed closer to him, seeking the only source of warmth.

"Cold," she moaned, burying her face in his wet shirt.

Adrien stiffened. Her body was soft, yielding, and despite the tepid water, the heat between them was undeniable.

"Clarice," he warned. "Don't."

She didn't know what she was doing. The alcohol and the terror had stripped away her inhibitions. She reached up, her fingers tangling in his wet hair. She pulled his face down.

"Adrien," she whispered.

He broke.

He crushed his mouth to hers. This wasn't the confused, drunken assault of the blackout. This was deliberate. Possessive. He kissed her like he wanted to devour her.

She wrapped her legs around his waist. The water pounded around them, steam rising from their skin despite the cool setting.

His hands were everywhere. On her hips, her back, her hair.

The bathroom door slammed open.

"Adrien!"

They froze.

Adrien spun around, shielding her with his body. He grabbed a towel from the rack and draped it over her in one motion.

Victoria Sargent stood in the doorway. She was leaning on her cane, her silver hair perfectly coiffed, her face a mask of disgust. Alfred stood behind her, looking at the floor.

"Grandmother," Adrien said, wiping water from his eyes. His voice was steel. "Get out."

"Have you lost your mind?" Victoria pointed her cane at them. "In the house? With the ward? Like animals?"

"She's not a child," Adrien snapped.

"She is a liability!" Victoria yelled. "And now she is a scandal. If the Board sees this..."

She looked at her, shivering in the towel, her neck bruised, her eyes wild.

"Clean this up," Victoria hissed. "Living room. Ten minutes. Or I call the shareholders."

She turned and marched out.

Adrien turned off the water. The silence was deafening.

He looked at her. There was no lust in his eyes now. Only a grim calculation.

"Are you okay?" he asked quietly.

She nodded, pulling the towel tighter. She felt sick.

"Get dressed," he said, turning away. "We have a war to fight."