The morning sun sliced through the gap in the heavy blackout curtains. It hit Abigail directly in the eyes like a laser beam.

She groaned, squeezing her eyes shut. Her head pounded with a vicious hangover. Every single muscle in her body ached with a deep, bruised soreness.

She slowly opened her eyes.

She stared at the unfamiliar, vaulted ceiling. The crystal chandelier above her was blinding.

Memory hit her like a freight train.

The dark room. The tearing of her dress. The terrifying strength of the man.

And then... the kiss on her scar. The miraculous disappearance of her pain.

She gasped and shot upright in the bed.

The silk sheets pooled at her waist. She looked down and saw the dark, red bruises blooming across her collarbones and chest.

She yanked the blanket up to her chin, her heart hammering against her ribs.

She whipped her head to the side.

The other side of the massive bed was empty. The sheets were tangled, but the man was gone.

The faint, lingering scent of cedar and sex hung heavy in the air.

Abigail scanned the room.

On the mahogany nightstand next to her, three items were perfectly arranged.

A glass of ice water. A single white Plan B pill. And a folded piece of heavy cardstock.

Abigail's stomach plummeted.

She reached out with a trembling hand and picked up the card.

The handwriting was sharp, aggressive, and written in black fountain pen ink.

Plan B. My assistant will arrive in exactly one hour to finalize your departure and compensation.

A hot, sickening wave of humiliation washed over her.

The man who had kissed her scar with such reverence last night was just another cold, calculating bastard in the daylight. He was treating her like a problem to be erased.

She let out a harsh, bitter laugh.

She popped the pill out of the foil, tossed it into her mouth, and downed the entire glass of water.

She threw the covers off and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her knees buckled the moment her feet hit the floor. She had to grab the nightstand to keep from collapsing.

She limped into the massive marble bathroom. She turned the shower on scalding hot and stood under the spray, scrubbing her skin until it was raw and red.

When she walked back into the bedroom, she noticed something she had missed.

Draped perfectly over the velvet armchair was a luxurious, loose-fitting cashmere wrap dress from the hotel's high-end boutique. Next to it was a set of basic, stretch-fit silk undergarments.

They weren't her exact tailored measurements, but they were a calculated, safe guess by a highly efficient assistant who likely cross-referenced her public photos.

A shiver of absolute disgust ran down her spine. The efficiency of it was horrifying.

She ignored the expensive clothes. She walked over to the floor and picked up her torn black gown.

The zipper was completely destroyed. She pulled the dress on and used the thick belt from the hotel bathrobe to tie it tightly around her waist.

She walked out into the living room.

The sofa where she had been attacked last night was perfectly clean.

Her clutch was sitting on the center of the glass coffee table.

Next to her bag was a check.

Abigail walked over and picked it up.

It was made out to 'Cash'. The amount was one million dollars.

She looked at the signature line.

J. Hodges.

The air left Abigail's lungs.

Josephus Hodges. The apex predator of Wall Street. The CEO of T.S. Group.

She had slept with the most ruthless billionaire in the country.

The humiliation instantly boiled over into pure, blinding rage. He thought he could buy her silence. He thought she was a high-end escort.

She grabbed a pen from her bag.

She flipped the million-dollar check over. In large, angry letters, she wrote:

Your technique is garbage. You're only worth a hundred bucks.

She opened her wallet, pulled out a crisp hundred-dollar bill, and slammed it down on top of the check.

She grabbed her bag, slipped her feet into her ruined heels, and marched toward the door.

She threw the door open.

A man in a sharp suit-Alex Stone, the executive assistant-was standing in the hallway, holding a tray of coffee.

Alex's jaw dropped as Abigail stormed past him, her head held high, looking like a war-torn queen.

She stepped into the elevator and hit the lobby button.

Abigail limped through the dim, concrete expanse of the hotel's underground parking garage.

The cold air bit at her bare arms. The bathrobe belt holding her torn dress together felt heavy and ridiculous.

She spotted her Porsche in the VIP section. She dug her keys out of her bag and pressed the unlock button.

The headlights flashed twice.

Before she could take another step, the screech of heavy tires echoed through the garage.

Two massive, black Cadillac Escalades shot out from the lower ramp. They swerved violently, one braking inches from her front bumper, the other boxing her in from behind.

Abigail froze. Her heart slammed against her ribs.

She took a step back, her hand diving into her bag, her fingers wrapping around the cold metal of her pepper spray.

The rear door of the lead Escalade swung open.

A long leg stepped out.

Josephus Hodges emerged from the vehicle.

He was wearing a flawless, dark grey tailored suit. His hair was perfectly styled. His jaw was locked in a hard, unforgiving line.

He looked nothing like the feral, desperate man from the night before. He radiated cold, absolute authority.

Between his index and middle finger, he held the crumpled hundred-dollar bill she had left on the table.

He walked toward her. His sheer size and presence sucked the oxygen out of the damp garage.

He stopped two feet away, forcing Abigail to tilt her head back to meet his eyes.

"Your note," Josephus said. His voice was a low, flat baritone. "Was very creative."

Abigail didn't flinch. She stared straight into his dark, calculating eyes.

"I thought it was an accurate appraisal," she shot back. "Since you seem to put a price tag on everything."

Josephus didn't blink. He didn't show a flicker of anger.

He raised his hand and snapped his fingers.

Alex Stone stepped out from the shadows behind the SUV. He walked forward and held out a thick, leather-bound legal document to Abigail.

"What is this?" she demanded, refusing to take it.

"A solution to both our problems," Josephus said coldly. "I require a wife to satisfy a clause in my family's trust, and a strategic entry point into the media sector. You require a shield."

Abigail let out a harsh laugh. "I don't need a shield."

"Don't you?" Josephus tilted his head. "Vance Media is burning to the ground as we speak. Preston Vance's scandal will drag you down with it. The board will freeze your assets by noon."

He stepped closer. The scent of cedar wrapped around her.

"Sign this prenuptial agreement. Be my wife in name only for one year. In exchange, I will personally dismantle Preston's empire and hand you the ashes."

Abigail snatched the folder from Alex. She flipped it open.

The terms were brutal. Total compliance for public events. No interference in his private life. She would leave with nothing after twelve months.

It was a transaction. Cold, sterile, and utterly devoid of humanity.

"Why me?" she asked, her voice trembling with suppressed rage. "Why pick a woman with a ruined face and a public scandal?"

Josephus looked at her left cheek. His eyes lingered on the scar for exactly one second before snapping back to her eyes.

"Because you are messy, and you are the key to a very lucrative acquisition," he stated flatly. "Vance Media's collapse will trigger an industry panic. I intend to absorb their assets at a fraction of the cost. Marrying you gives me a legitimate, inside angle to dismantle them from the top down. As for my family, they will never believe I would willingly marry someone so physically flawed and embroiled in scandal. It makes the lie perfect. They will assume it's purely a ruthless business move, satisfying their demands without them digging deeper into my personal life."

The words hit her like ice water.

Any lingering, stupid fantasy she had about the way he kissed her scar last night died instantly.

He didn't care about her pain. He just saw her defect as a convenient tool.

Abigail's blood boiled.

She raised the heavy folder and slammed it directly into the center of Josephus's chest.

The binder popped open. Dozens of pages fluttered through the air, scattering across the dirty concrete floor.

"I would rather go bankrupt," she hissed, her eyes blazing with fury, "than sell myself to a tyrant like you."

The air in the garage turned to ice.

The bodyguards by the SUVs instantly stepped forward, their hands dropping to their waists.

Josephus raised a single finger. The guards froze.

He looked down at the papers on the floor, then back at Abigail. His eyes were pitch black.

"You will regret this," he said softly.

Abigail turned her back on him. She yanked the door of her Porsche open and threw herself into the driver's seat.

She slammed the door shut and hit the ignition. The engine roared, echoing violently off the concrete walls.

She slammed her foot on the gas. The tires squealed as she cut the wheel hard, the side of her car missing the Escalade's bumper by a millimeter.

She sped up the ramp and disappeared into the daylight.

Josephus stood perfectly still in the exhaust fumes.

He looked down at the scattered contract.

"Keep eyes on her," he ordered Alex. "She won't last forty-eight hours."

Abigail pushed through the door of her apartment.

She dropped her bag on the floor and collapsed onto the living room sofa. The adrenaline that had kept her upright in the parking garage completely abandoned her.

Exhaustion crushed her chest.

Her phone, buried in her bag, was vibrating constantly. The news alerts were relentless. Vance Media stock was in a freefall.

She groaned, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes.

She forced herself to stand up. She needed to wash the smell of the hotel, and the smell of Josephus Hodges, off her skin.

She walked into her master bathroom. The bright, clinical lights flickered on.

She turned on the faucet, cupped the freezing water in her hands, and splashed it over her face.

She grabbed a towel, patted her skin dry, and finally looked up into the wide vanity mirror.

She froze.

The towel slipped from her fingers and hit the tile floor.

She leaned over the sink, bringing her face inches from the glass. Her breath fogged the mirror.

Her hand shot up. Her trembling fingers traced the skin on her left cheek.

The scar.

The thick, angry, dark red tissue that had looked like a centipede crawling across her face for her entire adult life... looked different, though not miraculously erased.

The chronic, burning inflammation around the edges was completely gone, leaving the surrounding skin a normal, healthy pale color.

The raised, bumpy texture of the scar tissue was still undeniably there, a jagged ridge across her cheek, but the furious, inflamed red had settled into a dull, stable maroon. The active trauma of the wound seemed neutralized.

She pressed her fingertips hard against the center of the scar.

Nothing.

There was no sharp, stabbing nerve pain. There was no burning sensation.

For the first time in years, she felt absolutely nothing but the pressure of her own fingers.

Her brain spun wildly.

She remembered the dark hotel room. She remembered the terrifying weight of Josephus on top of her.

She remembered his lips pressing against the scar. The weird, electrical hum that had shot through her skin.

The pain had stopped the exact second he touched her.

A horrifying, impossible realization crashed over her.

Josephus Hodges wasn't just a ruthless billionaire. His physical touch was somehow the cure to the agony that had ruined her life.

Abigail's knees gave out. She slid down the vanity cabinet and hit the cold tile floor.

A wave of crushing, suffocating regret slammed into her.

Less than an hour ago, she had stood in a parking garage and thrown a contract at the only man on earth who could heal her. She had insulted him. She had declared war on him.

"You stupid, arrogant idiot," she whispered to the empty room, burying her face in her hands.

She scrambled to her feet and ran back to the living room. She dug her phone out of her bag.

She opened Google and searched for the T.S. Group corporate number.

She dialed it.

"T.S. Group, how may I direct your call?" a polite, robotic voice answered.

"I need to speak to Alex Stone, the executive assistant to Mr. Hodges. It's an emergency."

"I'm sorry, ma'am. Mr. Stone does not take unsolicited calls. Please forward your inquiry to our PR department."

The line clicked dead.

Abigail threw the phone onto the sofa.

The physical wall around a man like Josephus Hodges was impenetrable. You didn't just walk back into his life after throwing his offer in his face.

She began to pace the floor, her mind racing. She needed a way back in. She needed to force a meeting.

Suddenly, her phone lit up on the cushions.

It was an unknown private number.

She snatched it up, hoping it was Alex calling back.

"Hello?"

"Abby... please don't hang up."

It was Preston. His voice was hoarse, ragged, and thick with panic.

"The board is threatening to oust me," Preston begged. "Lorelai hasn't stopped crying. The press is camped outside my house. Abby, you have to help me."

Abigail stopped pacing.

She stared out the window at the Los Angeles skyline.

The panic in her chest vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating ice.

A brilliant, venomous plan formed in her mind.