Arthur's Pov

I sat in the back, my gaze fixed on the blurring lights of 5th Avenue. The car had jerked to a halt, the tires screaming against the wet asphalt.

"Sir, I'm so sorry-she came out of nowhere," my driver, Marcus, stammered, his hands gripping the steering wheel.

I didn't answer him. I stepped out of the vehicle, the rain instantly soaking through my clothes. I looked down at her. She was shivering, her eyes rolling back into her head as the shock took hold. Before she lost consciousness completely, her gaze met mine for a fraction of a second-a look of terror. Then, she went limp.

"Is she dead?" Marcus asked, stepping out to stand beside me.

"No," I murmured, my voice smooth and cold as polished stone. "She's exactly what I've been looking for."

I didn't wait for the driver to help. I leaned down, my hands easily scooping her slight frame from the ground. She was ice-cold, her wet blonde hair clinging to my sleeve.

"Get the door," I commanded. "We're going home."

My townhouse on the Upper East Side was a fortress of shadow and marble. I carried the girl through the foyer, my footsteps echoing against the high ceilings.

Minutes later, She was laid out on a bed draped in grey cover. I stood at the foot of the bed, my arms crossed over my chest. I looked down at her, a slow, dark smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.

"Fate is a curious thing, Elias," I said to my personal assistant, Elias, my voice barely a whisper. "I've spent weeks searching for her, and she walks right into my path on a rainy Tuesday."

Elias stepped forward, holding a thick Manila folder. "It took some time to verify the facial recognition from the street cams, sir. But it's her. Amara Vance."

I reached out and took the file. I flipped it open, the pages crisp under my touch. The first thing I saw was a badge photo-Amara, looking younger, her hair pulled back, wearing a medical ID.

Staff Registry: Saint Jude's Psychiatric Institute.

"The same girl," Elias confirmed. "The one who had seen the private file of the hospital. She disappeared the same night you instructed to kill her. It seems she fled Italy and is hiding in New York as a junior architect."

I scanned the notes. "An orphan. No living relatives. No close friends in the city. She's a vacuum, Elias. No one would even report her missing for weeks."

"It's the perfect time to finish it, then," Elias said, his voice dropping. "She escaped our reach at the hospital, and she knows far too much about the files she had come across. If she speaks, the entire Hale's legacy becomes a crime scene. We should kill her now, while she's already half-dead from the cold."

"Before she dies, we need to know what she knows first."

"Sir, the hospital is in fear. If the hospital is exposed–"

I interrupted, finally looking at him. My eyes were hard. "Call the institute. Tell them she has been found, and let them know I will personally oversee her 'rehabilitation' here, in my home. She won't be leaving this house until I know exactly what she saw that day."

Elias hesitated, then bowed his head. "As you wish, sir."

He turned and left the room.

I walked around the side of the bed and sat in the velvet armchair beside her. I leaned forward, my shadow stretching across her body. I reached out, my long fingers hovering just inches away from her throat before moving to brush a stray lock of blonde hair from her forehead.

"You were so clever, Amara," I whispered to the sleeping girl. "To run so far, only to end up back in my hands. Did you think New York would protect you?"

I stood up, my gaze lingering on her parted lips and the way her chest rose and fell. She looked fragile, like a bird with a broken wing, but I knew better. She was a witness. A loose thread in a tapestry of lies I had spent years weaving.

"Should I kill you?" I asked the silence. "You know too much. You should've stayed hidden and quiet, but you chose your path."

Amara's Pov

The first thing I felt was the silence.

I opened my eyes, my lashes heavy. The ceiling above me was adorned with delicate crown molding, and the bed beneath me was so soft it felt like it might swallow me whole. I sat up abruptly, a sharp ache throbbing in my temples. The last thing I remembered was the blinding white of headlights and the cold sting of rain.

I looked down. I was still in my clothes from yesterday, though they had been dried and pressed. My shoes sat neatly by the foot of a wardrobe.

"Where am I?" I whispered, my voice raspy.

I stood up, my legs feeling like lead, and moved toward the door. It opened without a sound. The hallway was a gallery of polished wood and oil paintings. As I reached the top of the grand staircase, my breath hitched. The house was a temple of dark luxury, every corner dripping with elegance.

I descended the stairs, my hand gripping the cold rail. In the foyer, a massive portrait hung above the fireplace. I stopped, my heart skipping a beat.

The man in the painting was... haunting. He looked like sin given a human form. He had dark, thick hair swept back from a forehead that suggested a sharp, calculating intellect. His jawline was a jagged edge, and his shoulders were broad. But it was his eyes, a piercing grey eyes that made my skin crawl and heat up at the same time. He looked familiar.

I turned to look at the rest of the room, and that was when I saw it. On a side table sat a smaller, silver-framed photograph.

Lucas.

My knees nearly buckled.

This was Lucas's house. What was I doing in his house?

"You're finally awake,"

I spun around, my back hitting the wall. Standing in the arched doorway was the man from the portrait. But the painting hadn't done him justice. He wasn't wearing a suit now. He wore a black, sleeveless cotton shirt that clung to his hard chest and exposed his arms that were corded with muscle. He was in grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips, that made me look away.

He must be the one that saved me.

"I... I should go," I stammered, my pulse racing.

"You slept for nearly twelve hours, Amara," he said, his voice deep. He walked toward me. "I'm Victor. And you're in no state to be running off into the city on an empty stomach."

"No. T-thank you. For everything," I said quickly. I couldn't be here. Not especially in front of Lucas's father. "I have to go."

I didn't wait for his permission. I hurried toward the front doors. I felt his gaze on my back, a hot, prickling sensation that didn't fade even when I pushed through the doors and into the crisp morning air.

I hurried down the long, gated driveway. At the iron gates, I couldn't help myself. I turned back. Victor was standing in front of the mansion, his grey eyes fixed on me, watching me, as if he were memorizing the way I ran.

I didn't have where to go, but back to Mr. Handerson to beg for another chance. This was the only means to hide and survive.

By the time I reached, I saw him near the entrance-Mr. Henderson. He was on his cell phone, pacing around.

He hung up his phone when he saw me, and looked at me with a sneer of pure disgust. "I thought you were fired. What are you doing here? "

"Mr. Handerson, I apologize for the trouble. I really need this job." I pleaded, my voice breaking. "It's all I have. I'll do anything. Please."

He didn't reply. He turned to go, but I held him back pleading for a second chance. He was known as a rude and mean man, but I didn't care at this point. I thought he would be angry, but he stared at me from head to toe, before his gaze reaching my eyes.

"Anything? Meet me back here at ten tonight. The cleaning crew will be gone. We'll see if you're truly dedicated to keeping your position."

Finally, a flicker of hope.

I nodded. I had to stay hidden. I needed this job. My last job at Saint Jude's had ended in blood and shadows. I had seen a file-of a private patient that should have stayed buried. They had tried to kill me for it, and I had barely escaped the city with my life. This job was my only shield.

Ten o'clock came too fast. The office was dark, the only light coming from the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city.

I entered Mr. Henderson's private office. He was sitting behind his mahogany desk, a glass of scotch in his hand.

"Sit down, Amara," he murmured.

I walked forward sitting opposite him.

"Amara," He stood up, his face flushed. He walked toward me, and before I could react, he had gripped my upper arms, his fingers digging into my skin with bruising force. "You said you'd do anything. Let's see how much you mean it."

He shoved me back against the leather sofa, his weight heavy and suffocating. He smelled of cheap cologne and expensive booze.

"Stop," I gasped, pushing against his chest. "Mr. Henderson, stop!"

"Don't play coy now," he hissed, his hand reaching down to hike up my skirt, his other hand pinning my wrists above my head. His lips on the side of my neck, planting dangerous and disgusting kisses on them.

Panic, sharp and blinding, exploded in my chest. I didn't expect this to happen. He had never looked at me with such lust before. My hand failed out, searching for anything, and my fingers closed around a heavy, sharp object on the side table-his "Architect of the Year" glass award.

I didn't think. I swung.

The glass dug deep into the side of his head with a sickening *thud*. He groaned, his grip loosening as he slumped to the side. Blood began to spill across the white leather of the sofa.

I scrambled back, the award falling from my nerveless fingers and hitting the floor with a hard thud, shattering into pieces. My hands were shaking so hard I could barely breathe.

"Oh, God," I whispered, staring at the red pooling around his head. "Oh, God, what have I done?"

Amara's Pov

I bolted out of the office building, my lungs screaming as the cold night air hit my face. My hands were still sticky with the iron-scented reality of what I had done. I didn't look back. I just ran, my heels clicking frantically against the wet pavement.

I reached the corner of the block and stopped, my heart hammering against my ribs. Across the street, two men stood under the flickering amber glow of a streetlamp. They wore long black coats, their posture rigid and alert. One of them turned his head, and the light caught the jagged scar running from his temple to his jaw.

My blood turned to ice.

I knew that face. I had seen it in the rearview mirror of a car in Italy, right before the bullets started flying. They were the ones who had been sent to finish me at the hospital. How did they find me here in New York?

I stumbled backward, a sob catching in my throat.

I turned to run the other way, but my legs gave out. I didn't hit the ground. Instead, I fell into a wall of solid, warm muscle. Strong arms wrapped around me, pulling me into a tight, crushing hug that smelled of cedarwood and expensive tobacco.

"Easy, Amara," a deep voice rumbled against my ear.

I looked up, my vision blurred by tears, and met the silver eyes of Victor.

"Please," I whispered, clutching the front of his coat. My fingers left dark, wet stains on the grey wool. "Save me. Please... just take me back. Take me to your house. I'm being chased. Please."

Victor didn't ask questions. He didn't look shocked. He simply swept me toward a black sedan idling at the curb. He opened the door, tucked me inside, and climbed in beside me. As the car pulled away, I looked out the tinted window. The men in black were staring at the car, their expressions unreadable as we disappeared into the New York traffic.

The mansion felt different this time. Victor led me to living room. He went to a sideboard, poured a cup of steaming coffee, and handed it to me.

"Drink," he commanded softly.

I took the cup, my hands shaking so hard the ceramic clattered against my teeth. The warmth of the liquid helped settle the tremors, but the fear remained.

"Who are they, Amara?" Victor asked. He was leaning against a desk, his arms crossed over his chest.

I looked down at the coffee. If I told him the truth-that I was a target in Italy-he would throw me out. Or worse, he would hand me over to protect his own interests.

"I... I don't know them," I lied, my voice small. "I think they were muggers. Or robbers."

Victor watched me for a long moment, his silver eyes narrowing. "You're a terrible liar. But it doesn't matter."

" What were you doing there by that time?" I asked curious. "You seem to know where I am. You even know my name."

" You can say it's fate. I feel drawn to you, Amara. There is a spark in you that I find... intriguing. I can give you protection. My name is a shield in this city. No one touches what belongs to me."

I looked up at him, my brow furrowing. Belong to him? Was he trying to be like Mr. Handerson now?

"You want the protection, don't you?" he countered. His voice was smooth, devoid of judgment. "You want to feel safe when you close your eyes at night."

"What makes you think I can't protect myself?" I asked. "You barely know me."

" You can't," he said simply. He paused, his gaze dropping to my hands. "I can also clean up the mess at your office. The police will find no prints, no weapon, and no security footage of you ever entering that building tonight."

The coffee cup nearly slipped from my fingers. I stood up, my eyes widening in horror. "How... how did you know?"

"I saw it," Victor said. He didn't move an inch. "I happened to be there when it happened. I saw him touch you, and I saw you defend yourself. You have a survivor's instinct, Amara. I admire that."

I dropped the cup onto the rug, the dark liquid spreading like a bruise. I couldn't trust this man. He had watched me kill someone and said nothing. He had let it happen. I turned toward the door, my heart racing. "I have to leave. I can't be here."

"Where will you go?" he asked, his voice cool and level. "Back to your apartment, where those men are likely waiting? To the precinct, to confess to a murder you can't take back?"

I stopped, my hand on the brass doorknob. He was right. I had nowhere.

"Be my wife for three months," Victor said.

The words felt like a physical blow. I turned back to him, stunned. "What?"

"A legal marriage. Three months," he repeated. "It gives you my name, my legal team, and my security. At the end of ninety days, we annul the marriage, I provide you with a new identity and enough money to never work again, and you walk away free."

I stared at him, my mind spinning. Like father, like son. Lucas had used me and then dumped me when things got hard. Now his father wanted to use me as a pawn.

"I'm not interested," I snapped, my pride flickering back to life.

I turned the handle, ready to walk out into the night and take my chances with the men in black, but the door swung open before I could pull it.

I froze.

Lucas stood in the doorway, his hand still on the outer handle. Beside him was the brunette woman-his wife.