The heavy mahogany door slammed shut behind Carla, cutting off the air in the room.

Julien stared at the closed door. His jaw was locked so tight his teeth ached. He suddenly shoved Charis away from him.

Charis stumbled backward, her heels catching on the thick carpet. The smug smile vanished from her face. She stared at him in shock.

Julien didn't say a single word to her. He took long, aggressive strides toward the door, ripped it open, and walked out.

The hallway was empty. The digital numbers above the VIP elevator were already dropping.

Julien cursed under his breath. He turned and walked swiftly to the end of the corridor. He pulled out a sleek platinum access card, swiped it against the electronic reader, and shoved open the heavy metal door to the employee stairwell.

Inside the suite, Charis was left standing alone with Eleni.

The elegant mask Charis wore completely shattered. Her face twisted into an ugly sneer of pure rage.

She spun around. Her heels clicked furiously against the floor as she marched toward the sofa.

Eleni began to tremble violently. The little girl pressed herself into the corner of the cushions, wrapping her arms around her stuffed rabbit like a shield.

Charis reached out and grabbed Eleni's thin arm. Her manicured nails dug into the child's skin. The force was so brutal that Eleni's skin instantly turned white around Charis's grip.

"Don't you dare make a sound," Charis hissed, her voice a venomous whisper.

Eleni's eyes filled with tears, but her vocal cords remained paralyzed by trauma. She didn't make a peep.

"You are useless," Charis spat at the child. "You can't even keep his attention in the room for five minutes."

Charis shoved Eleni's arm away in disgust. She dug into her purse and pulled out her phone, immediately dialing her private investigator.

"I need a full background check on a substitute music therapist," Charis ordered into the phone. "Right now."

Three floors down, in the underground parking garage, Carla's frantic footsteps echoed against the concrete walls.

She was sweating. She ran until she reached her beat-up, rusted Honda Civic parked in the darkest corner of the lot.

Her hands were shaking so violently she couldn't get the key into the lock. The metal key scratched against the car door three times before it finally slid in.

Carla yanked the door open and threw herself into the driver's seat. She slammed her hand down on the central lock button. The loud click made her feel a tiny fraction of safety.

She dropped her forehead against the steering wheel. She gasped for air. The tears she had been holding back finally broke free, dropping onto the dusty dashboard.

Suddenly, the deafening roar of a massive engine echoed through the concrete garage.

Carla's head snapped up in terror.

A silver Aston Martin tore around the corner like a predator.

The sports car slammed on its brakes. The tires shrieked against the concrete. The Aston Martin swerved and parked horizontally, directly across the front bumper of Carla's Honda.

There was less than two inches of space between the cars. Her only exit was completely blocked.

The driver's side door of the Aston Martin swung upward.

Julien stepped out. The dark aura radiating off his body was terrifying.

He walked straight to Carla's window. He raised his hand and knocked on the glass.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Every strike of his knuckles against the glass felt like a hammer hitting Carla's skull.

Carla pressed her back hard against her seat, shrinking away from the window. She stared out at the man who was currently her worst nightmare.

Julien watched Carla press herself against the passenger side of her car. His eyebrows pulled together. He hit the glass again, harder this time.

Carla shook her head frantically. She fumbled with her keys, shoving them into the ignition. She twisted it, praying the engine would start so she could throw it in reverse.

The old engine sputtered, coughed weakly, and died.

Julien watched her useless struggle through the glass. The mockery in his eyes vanished, replaced by a dark, volatile impatience.

"Open the door, Carla," his voice was muffled by the glass, but the cold command sliced right through it.

Carla pretended she couldn't hear him. She gripped the steering wheel with both hands, her knuckles white, her breathing shallow and fast.

Julien lost the last thread of his patience. He reached out and wrapped his large hand around the cheap plastic exterior door handle of the Honda.

The muscles in his forearm bunched beneath his suit jacket. He planted his feet and yanked backward with brutal force. The cheap plastic groaned under the pressure, stark white stress lines spider-webbing across the surface. He didn't stop. He adjusted his grip, his muscles locking, and yanked a second time. A loud, sickening crack echoed in the garage as the handle completely snapped off the door.

Julien looked at the broken piece of cheap plastic in his hand. He tossed it onto the concrete floor like a piece of garbage.

Carla let out a short scream as the sound echoed. Her body jerked in her seat.

Julien calmly reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out his phone. He dialed a number, his eyes never leaving Carla's terrified face.

"Security," Julien said into the phone, his voice flat and authoritative. "Level B3. A silver Honda just scraped the bumper of my Aston Martin. The driver is locking herself inside and refusing to cooperate. Send a team down here immediately, and notify my legal department."

Carla's eyes widened in absolute horror. She stared at the man abusing his power, twisting the truth without a second thought.

She couldn't afford a smashed window. She couldn't afford the police.

She bit her lip so hard it bled. Defeated, she reached over and pressed the unlock button.

The lock clicked. Julien instantly grabbed the edge of the door frame and pulled the heavy door open.

His large frame immediately filled the open space, blocking any chance of escape. He leaned in, placing one hand on the roof of the car and the other on the back of her seat.

He trapped her completely in his shadow.

The familiar scent of cold mint and dark tobacco invaded Carla's lungs. It made her stomach twist into painful knots.

Carla pressed herself flat against the seat. "What do you want from me, Mr. Wagner?" her voice shook.

The formal title ignited a dangerous fire in Julien's eyes.

He reached out. His long fingers clamped around her narrow jaw, forcing her face up to look at him.

"Five years," Julien sneered, his voice dripping with toxic satisfaction. "Five years, and this pathetic life is all you have to show for it?"

Carla was forced to look up at him. Her eyes were red, but she glared back. "My life is none of your business."

Julien let out a harsh, humorless laugh. His eyes scanned her faded collar and the dusty, cheap interior of the car.

"When you took my grandmother's ten million dollar trust fund, I assumed you'd be living in a mansion in Beverly Hills by now," he said.

At the mention of the ten million dollars, Carla's entire body violently flinched. The words ripped open the deepest, most infected wound in her chest.

Julien felt the flinch. His fingers tightened slightly on her jaw.

"Did you blow through all the cash?" he whispered, his words designed to kill. "Is that why you scurried back to Manhattan? Looking for your next wealthy target?"

A wave of intense nausea hit Carla. The dam broke. Hot tears spilled over her eyelashes and dropped directly onto Julien's hand.

The scalding heat of her tears made Julien's fingers twitch, but he didn't let go. He kept her pinned, refusing to give her an inch of mercy.

The hot tears hitting his skin did nothing to soften the hard lines of Julien's face. He abruptly let go of her jaw.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a dark silk handkerchief, and slowly wiped his fingers.

The gesture was a physical slap to Carla's face. It completely shattered whatever dignity she had left.

Julien reached into his other pocket. He pulled out a heavy metal object and dropped it onto her dashboard.

Clang.

Carla looked down. It was her piano tuning wrench. She must have dropped it by the Steinway when she ran.

Julien looked down at her. "Get out of the car. You're having coffee with me. Consider it payment for returning your tool."

Carla clenched her jaw. "I don't need the wrench. I have another appointment. Let me go."

Julien let out a dark chuckle. He pointed a finger at the broken door handle, then at his Aston Martin blocking her in. "You aren't leaving this garage until we have coffee."

Carla knew she had no choice. She grabbed her bag and forced herself out of the cramped car, her legs shaking as she stood up.

He led her out of the garage and into a high-end, boutique cafe right next to the rehab center.

The cafe was dripping in wealth. Soft jazz played through hidden speakers. The patrons were dressed in designer clothes, sipping espresso.

Carla stood in her faded coat, feeling the weight of a dozen wealthy eyes on her. She pulled her collar tighter around her neck, wishing she could disappear.

Julien guided her to a corner table. He ordered a black coffee in flawless French, not even bothering to ask Carla what she wanted.

When the waiter placed the cup down, Julien crossed his long legs. His dark eyes locked onto Carla like a spotlight during an interrogation.

Carla kept her head down. Her hands were in her lap, her fingers twisted together so tightly her nails dug into her own flesh.

Julien took a slow sip of his coffee. "I hear you charge by the hour now as a substitute?" his tone was casual, but the blade was hidden underneath.

Carla took a deep breath. She forced her head up. "It's honest work. I don't steal."

Julien's eyes darkened instantly. He leaned forward, his broad chest closing the distance between them.

"You don't steal?" he repeated softly. "Then what do you call the money you took from the Wagner family?"

Carla's heart seized. Her stomach cramped violently.

"That was..." Carla swallowed hard, forcing out the exact words the Non-Disclosure Agreement legally required her to say. "That was my compensation for my youth."

The lifeless, rehearsed words acted like gasoline on a fire.

Julien slammed his porcelain cup down onto the saucer. The loud crash made several people at the surrounding tables jump.

They looked over, but the second they saw the million-dollar Patek Philippe watch on Julien's wrist, they quickly looked away.

"Compensation for your youth," Julien gritted his teeth. The veins in his neck stood out. Pure, unadulterated jealousy and rage burned in his eyes.

"And the engagement ring I gave you?" he demanded. "You pawned it the very next day. Was that just for the cash, too?"

Carla's eyes burned. The memory of sitting outside that pawn shop, sobbing until she threw up, just to pay her father's first legal fee, tore at her chest.

But she couldn't tell him. She nodded stiffly. "Yes. Cash is more practical than a stone."

Julien laughed. It was a terrifying, hollow sound. The last trace of human warmth left his eyes.

He reached into his wallet, pulled out a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills, and slammed them down onto the table right in front of her.

"Since you love cash so much," Julien sneered. "Sing the Bridal Chorus for me right now. All of this is yours."

The bills scattered across the table. Carla's face drained of all color. She felt as though he had stripped her naked in the middle of the crowded room.

Before she could react, Julien's phone lit up on the table.

The caller ID flashed brightly: Charis.