Serena waited five seconds. Then she turned the lock.

The mask dropped. She threw the heavy canvas bag onto the pristine white rug. She unlocked the false bottom of the bag, revealing the sleek, black matte surface of her equipment hidden within the rusted casings. She tapped the screen of a secure tablet.

Trust Portfolio Value: $5,000,000,000.00 [Access Restricted].

Available Liquid Funds: $42,000.00.

She checked the perimeter security feeds she had hacked into during the taxi ride. No cameras in the bedroom. Good.

She stripped off the flannel shirt, revealing a black tank top and arms that were toned, scarred, and dangerous. She walked into the bathroom-a space larger than her entire cabin in the cover story-and turned on the shower. She scrubbed the travel dust off her skin.

Once dried, she opened a small, unmarked jar from her bag. She applied a thin layer of translucent, texturizing gel to her hands and face. It dried instantly, leaving her skin feeling rougher, looking slightly sun-damaged and uneven. The "farm girl" complexion was as much a costume as the boots.

She deliberately put the flannel back on. The disguise had to be 24/7.

Her stomach growled. A low, angry sound.

She unlocked the door and padded out into the hallway. The penthouse was silent. She found the kitchen, a stainless steel laboratory that looked like it had never seen a crumb.

A maid was wiping down the counter. She looked up, startled.

I'm hungry, Serena said, leaning against the doorframe.

The maid, Martha, looked nervous. She glanced toward the living room where Victoria was likely holding court. "I... The kitchen is closed, Miss. Mrs. Sterling has strict schedules. Dinner isn't until eight."

I'm hungry now.

I can't cook anything without authorization.

Serena didn't argue. She walked over to a crystal bowl in the center of the island. It was filled with perfect, waxy green apples. Imported. Organic. Decorative.

She picked one up.

Don't! Martha gasped. "Those are for the centerpiece!"

Serena polished the apple on her flannel shirt. She took a massive, loud bite. Crunch.

Victoria appeared in the doorway, drawn by the noise. She stared at Serena, at the apple, at the juice running down Serena's chin.

That is imported fruit, Victoria hissed. "You are eating a decoration. You are disgusting."

Serena chewed slowly. She swallowed. She looked Victoria dead in the eye, her expression vacant but her posture defiant.

It tastes like an apple, Serena said.

She turned around and walked back toward the bedroom, taking another bite. Crunch.

Back in the Master Suite, the sky outside had turned to ink. Thunder rumbled in the distance, vibrating against the glass. Serena finished the apple and tossed the core into a trash can made of gold mesh.

She looked at the bed. Julian's bed.

She knew who he was. Julian Sterling. The Wolf of Wall Street. The man who had turned his family's legacy into an empire. The man she was contractually obligated to marry to access her grandfather's trust.

She was tired. The jet lag, the acting, the weight of the mission.

She climbed onto the bed. She didn't get under the covers-that felt like a violation too far. She curled up on top of the duvet, hugging a pillow.

The scent of sandalwood hit her again. It triggered a strange, cold shiver down her spine. A physiological reaction she couldn't place. It felt like danger, or perhaps safety, but her mind couldn't label it. It was just a scent.

Focus, she told herself. Get the money. Get out.

She closed her eyes.

Downstairs, the heavy front door slammed open. Heavy footsteps echoed on the stairs. A man's voice, low and exhausted, muttered something to the butler.

The Wolf was home.

The room was pitch black when Julian Sterling walked in.

He didn't turn on the lights. He couldn't. The migraine behind his left eye was a pulsing, living thing, a rhythmic hammer striking the inside of his skull. The charity gala had been a sensory nightmare-too many perfumes, too many fake laughs, too many hands trying to touch him.

He loosened his tie, ripping the silk knot apart with a groan of relief. He swallowed two pills dry-benzodiazepines, strong enough to knock out a horse, or just barely enough to quiet the screaming noise of his PTSD.

He stripped. Jacket, shirt, belt. The clothes landed on the floor in a pile of expensive fabric. He didn't care. Martha would pick them up. Martha always picked them up.

He was down to his boxer briefs. The air in the room was cool, the climate control set to a precise 68 degrees, just the way he needed it to keep the night sweats at bay. He stumbled toward the bed, his vision blurring at the edges as the drugs began to kick in.

He needed sleep. He needed the oblivion where the memories of the kidnapping couldn't find him.

He pulled back the duvet and slid in. The sheets were high-thread-count Egyptian cotton, cool against his heated skin. He exhaled, a long, shuddering breath, and let his body sink into the mattress.

His arm brushed against something.

Something warm. Something soft.

In his drugged haze, his brain didn't register "intruder." It didn't register "danger." The logic centers of his mind were already shutting down. Instead, his primitive brain took over.

The warmth radiated a scent. It wasn't the sterile detergent of the hotel, nor the cloying Chanel No. 5 his mother bathed in. It was vanilla. Subtle, sweet vanilla, mixed with the fresh, ozone smell of rain.

It was a scent that bypassed his conscious mind and struck a chord deep in his limbic system. A feeling of safety he hadn't felt in twenty years.

Julian didn't recoil. He did the opposite. Like a starving man finding bread, he instinctively shifted closer. He wrapped his heavy arm around the warmth, pulling the body against his chest. He buried his face in the hair that smelled like salvation.

No... he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep and medication. "Don't... go..."

Serena woke up with the violence of a switchblade snapping open.

Her eyes flew open in the dark. There was a weight on her. A heat. An arm like a steel band clamped around her waist.

Her training kicked in instantly. Assess. Target. Neutralize.

She wasn't Serena the hillbilly. She was Zero. She was a weapon.

She stiffened, her muscles coiling. Her right hand moved with lightning speed, finding the pressure point at the base of the intruder's wrist. She prepared to twist, to dislocate the joint and drive her elbow into his throat. It would take less than two seconds to incapacitate him.

Then she heard it.

Please...

The whisper was broken. Vulnerable. It was the sound of a child terrified of the dark.

Serena froze. She felt the tremor in the body pressed against hers. It wasn't the tremor of aggression; it was the somatic shaking of a nightmare, of deep-seated trauma.

She hesitated. Her hand hovered over his wrist. She could feel his pulse-erratic, racing, then slowing as the drugs pulled him under.

Julian.

This was Julian. He had come to his own bed. He had mistaken her for... a pillow? A comfort object?

She should shove him off. She should break his nose. But a strange, unbidden hesitation stopped her. The way he clung to her was desperate, almost pathetic. It sparked a flicker of curiosity in her cold, pragmatic mind. Why was the "Wolf of Wall Street" shaking like a leaf?

He's drugged, she realized, noting the slackness of his muscles. He doesn't know who I am.

If she attacked him now, she'd blow her cover. A farm girl wouldn't know Krav Maga. A farm girl would scream.

But she didn't want to scream.

She slowly lowered her hand. She lay there, stiff as a board, trapped in the embrace of the man she was supposed to be conning.

The drugs won. Julian's breathing evened out into a deep, heavy rhythm. He was out cold.

Serena sighed, staring into the darkness. She was trapped. If she moved, he might wake up and lash out in a drug-fueled panic.

Exhaustion, heavy and gray, pulled at her eyelids. Just for an hour, she thought. I'll sneak out before the sun hits the window.

She didn't.

Sunlight hit the room like a nuclear blast.

The floor-to-ceiling windows, devoid of curtains because Julian demanded absolute visibility, channeled the morning sun directly onto the bed.

Julian woke up with a gasp. The headache was gone, replaced by a dry mouth and a sense of disorientation. He felt heavy. Rested. For the first time in months, he hadn't woken up screaming.

He shifted. His arm was numb. He looked down.

There was a woman in his bed.

Panic, cold and sharp, pierced his chest. He scrambled backward, his heart hammering against his ribs.

What the hell?

He kicked out, a reflex born of fear. His foot connected with the woman's hip.

Get out!

Serena, who had been in a light doze, didn't scream. She didn't flail. She simply rolled with the force of the kick, falling off the edge of the massive mattress and landing on the thick carpet with a muffled thump.

She sat up immediately. She didn't look scared. She looked annoyed. She rubbed her elbow, her hair a messy halo around her face.

Julian stared at her, his chest heaving. He recognized her now. The flannel shirt on the floor. The dossier photos.

You, he breathed. "The charity case."

He pulled the sheet up to cover his bare chest, feeling absurdly exposed. "What are you doing in my bed? Did you sneak in? Is this some kind of... seduction attempt to secure the alimony before the wedding?"

Serena stood up. She was fully dressed in her flannel and jeans, which made his nakedness even more ridiculous. She looked at him with eyes that were far too calm for a girl who had just been kicked out of bed by a billionaire.

Your sister, Serena said, her voice flat. "Stella. She told me this was my room."

Julian froze. The pieces clicked into place. Stella. The prank. The humiliation.

He closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Stella," he muttered. A vein throbbed in his temple. He didn't apologize. Sterlings didn't apologize for being tricked; they managed the fallout.

He reached for the intercom on the nightstand.

Martha, he barked. "Guest room. Prepare it. Now."

He glared at Serena. "Get your things. Get out. If I ever find you in here again, the contract is void."

Serena bent down and picked up her canvas bag. She slung it over her shoulder. She looked at him, her gaze dropping to his waist, then back to his eyes.

Nice boxers, by the way, she drawled. "Very... executive."

She turned and walked out, closing the door with a soft click.

Julian sat there, stunned. She hadn't cried. She hadn't begged. She had mocked him.

He looked down at his Calvin Kleins. He felt a strange heat rise up his neck.

Downstairs, Stella was waiting in the breakfast nook, sipping coffee, waiting for the screaming match. She had her phone ready to record the audio of the "hillbilly" crying.

Instead, Serena walked down the grand staircase. She was calm. She looked bored.

Morning, Serena said, walking past Stella to the coffee pot.

Stella blinked. "Did... did you sleep well?"

Like a log, Serena said, pouring a cup of black coffee. "Julian is a very... aggressive cuddler."

Stella choked on her latte.

Five minutes later, Julian descended. He was dressed in a charcoal suit, his hair wet and slicked back, his face a mask of icy indifference. He walked into the dining room, the temperature seeming to drop ten degrees.

He stopped behind Stella's chair. He didn't raise his voice.

We need to talk about boundaries, Stella, he said softly.

Stella went pale. She looked from Julian to Serena. The plan had backfired. The mouse hadn't been eaten by the snake. The mouse was drinking their coffee.