The world tilted on its axis. The black spots in Ivana's vision grew larger, merging into a dark tunnel.

She reached out blindly for the bus stop sign, her fingers slipping on the hot metal. Her knees buckled, and she slid down to the curb, sitting on the concrete that was hot enough to fry an egg.

People walked past her. A man in a suit stepped around her legs, muttering about junkies.

Ivana wasn't a junkie. She was a mother. She was a scientist. She was starving.

Inside the Maybach, the air was a crisp sixty-eight degrees. Gannon sat in the back seat, a file open on his lap. He wasn't reading it.

He was watching the woman on the curb through his sunglasses.

She looked like a broken doll. Her face was pale, a stark contrast to the angry red mark on her cheek where Aleta had slapped her.

"Drive," Gannon said.

His driver, a burly man named Thomas, hesitated. "Sir? She looks... not good."

"She's acting," Gannon snapped. "She's a con artist, Thomas. That's what she does."

But he didn't look away.

He saw her hand trembling as she reached into her bag. She pulled out a small tin of mints.

Her fingers were clumsy. The tin slipped. It clattered onto the sidewalk and rolled, falling through the grate of a storm drain.

Ivana stared at the grate. Her shoulders slumped. It was a posture of absolute defeat.

Gannon felt a twinge in his chest. A sharp, annoying prick of conscience.

She put her head between her knees.

"She's going to pass out," Thomas said quietly.

Gannon cursed under his breath. He threw the file onto the empty seat next to him.

"Unlock the doors."

The lock clicked.

Gannon didn't get out. He couldn't. If he touched her, he might strangle her. Or worse.

"Get her," he ordered.

Thomas got out. A wave of heat rushed into the car.

Ivana felt hands on her arms. Strong, firm hands. She was too weak to fight.

"Come on, miss," a voice said.

She was lifted up. The world spun.

Next thing she knew, she was being lowered onto soft leather. The door slammed shut. The noise of the street vanished, replaced by the hum of the engine and the soft whir of the air conditioner.

She blinked, trying to focus.

She was in a car. A very expensive car.

She looked to her left.

Gannon was pressed against the far door, as if her poverty was contagious.

"Drink," he said.

He pointed to a bottle of Evian in the cup holder.

Ivana stared at the water. Her throat was sandpaper.

She reached for it. Her hand shook so much she couldn't unscrew the cap.

Gannon made a noise of impatience. He snatched the bottle from her, twisted the cap off with a sharp crack, and shoved it back into her hand.

She drank. She drank until she choked, water spilling down her chin and onto her hoodie.

Gannon watched her. His expression was unreadable behind the sunglasses.

"Slow down," he said.

Ivana lowered the bottle. She wiped her mouth.

"Thank you," she rasped.

Gannon didn't respond. He looked out the window.

Her stomach let out a loud, prolonged growl. It was a monstrous sound in the quiet cabin.

Ivana wrapped her arms around her midsection, her face burning.

Gannon turned back to her. He lowered his sunglasses.

"Skipping meals to save for your next Chanel bag?" he asked.

Ivana didn't answer. She didn't have the energy to fight him.

Gannon opened the center console. He pulled out a small, rectangular box.

He tossed it into her lap.

"Eat. I don't want you dying in my car. The paperwork would be a hassle."

Ivana looked at the box. La Maison du Chocolat.

Her heart stuttered.

It was the truffle collection. Specifically, the raspberry ganache ones.

They used to buy a box every Friday night. They would sit on his roof deck, sharing them one by one.

She looked at him. Did he remember? Or was this just his standard car snack?

She opened the box. The smell of rich dark chocolate wafted up.

She took one. She popped it into her mouth.

The sugar hit her bloodstream almost instantly. The tart raspberry, the bitter cocoa. It tasted like memories. It tasted like four years ago.

She ate another. And another.

Gannon watched her lips move. He watched a speck of chocolate adhere to the corner of her mouth.

His eyes darkened. He looked away abruptly, shifting in his seat.

"Where are you staying?" he asked.

Ivana swallowed. "A motel. In Bushwick."

Gannon scoffed. "Classy."

He tapped on the partition glass. "Thomas, take us to Bushwick."

Ivana leaned back against the headrest. The sugar was helping. The dizziness was receding.

"Why?" she asked softly. "Why did you pick me up?"

Gannon didn't look at her. "Because you were making a scene. And it reflects poorly on the company if my former... whatever you were... dies on the street."

Whatever you were.

The words stung, but she accepted them.

Her phone rang.

It was loud in the silence.

She looked at the screen. Mrs. Higgins.

Panic surged. If she didn't answer, Mrs. Higgins might leave. But if she answered...

She pressed the green button, intending to put it to her ear quickly.

But her thumb slipped. She hit the speaker button.

"Mommy?"

Cohen's voice filled the car.

Ivana scrambled to fumble with the phone, her fingers slipping on the sleek glass.

"Mommy, are you okay?" Cohen asked again. His voice was small, worried.

Gannon froze. His entire body went rigid.

He turned his head slowly. His eyes were like lasers, burning into the phone in Ivana's hand.

Ivana finally managed to hit the button to turn off the speaker, jamming the phone against her ear.

"I'm here," she whispered, turning her body away from Gannon, curling into the door. "I'm fine. I'll be there soon."

She hung up without waiting for a response.

Silence. Heavy, suffocating silence.

Gannon was staring at her. His expression had shifted from disdain to something dangerous.

"Who was that?" he asked. His voice was dangerously soft.

Ivana's heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.

"Wrong number," she said.

Gannon laughed. A dry, humorless sound. "A wrong number that calls you Mommy?"

Ivana licked her dry lips. "It's... the kid I nanny for. He's very attached. He gets confused sometimes."

It was a terrible lie. She knew it. He knew it.

Gannon studied her face. He was looking for the tell. He was looking for the truth.

But his mind slammed on the brakes. The reports from the private investigator were clear: Ivana had been spotted at galas in Paris, casinos in Monaco. There was no child. Breann had shown him the photos herself. If there was a child, it couldn't be his. And if it wasn't his, then she had moved on. She had started a family with someone else while he was still bleeding.

The thought was so agonizing he physically recoiled from it. He chose to believe the lie because the truth-or his version of it-was too painful to entertain.

"You're a nanny?" he asked, his voice dripping with skepticism. "You threw away a life with me to wipe some other kid's nose?"

"It pays the bills," Ivana said, staring at her knees.

Gannon felt a surge of irrational fury. He hated that she was struggling. He hated that she was serving someone else. He hated that hearing that child's voice had made his own heart stop for a second.

He looked at the chocolate box in her lap.

"That's fifty dollars," he said.

Ivana blinked. "What?"

"The chocolates. You ate half the box. Fifty dollars."

Ivana stared at him. "You gave them to me."

"Nothing is free, Ivana. You taught me that."

She felt the blood rush to her face. She dug into her pocket. She pulled out the crumpled twenty dollar bill and a handful of quarters.

It was all she had left after the transfer.

"I... I only have twenty-two dollars," she whispered.

She held it out to him.

Gannon looked at the pathetic pile of money in her shaking hand.

He felt like a monster. He wanted to take the money and throw it out the window. He wanted to pull her into his arms.

He swatted her hand away. The bills and coins scattered onto the floor of the car.

"Get out," he said.

Ivana looked out the window. "We're not there yet. We're blocks away."

"I said get out!" Gannon shouted.

He slammed his hand against the partition. "Stop the car!"

The Maybach lurched to a halt.

Outside, the sky had opened up. A summer thunderstorm was raging. Rain lashed against the windows.

Ivana looked at him, her eyes wide with shock.

"Gannon, please. It's pouring."

"Get out, Ivana. Before I do something I regret."

He couldn't be near her. He couldn't smell her scent-rain and cheap soap-and not want to destroy everything he had built to forget her.

Ivana grabbed her bag. She opened the door.

The wind caught it, ripping it from her hand. Rain soaked her instantly.

She stepped out into the deluge.

The door slammed shut behind her.

The lock clicked.

Ivana stood on the sidewalk, the rain plastering her hair to her face. She clutched the chocolate box-he hadn't taken it back-to her chest.

The Maybach sped away, tires spraying a wave of dirty puddle water over her legs.

She watched the taillights disappear into the gray mist.

She was alone. She was broke. She was wet. And her money was still scattered on the floor of his car.

She started to walk.

The rain was cold, but Ivana was numb.

She walked with her head down, shielding her face with the tote bag.

Every step was a reminder of four years ago.

Flashback.

The Sharpe Estate study. The smell of old leather and cigar smoke.

Hampton Sharpe, Gannon's grandfather, sat behind the mahogany desk. He looked like a vulture.

He slid two papers across the desk.

"Sign the NDA, Ivana. Leave him. And I will authorize the experimental treatment for your brother."

Ivana was crying. "I can't leave him. He needs me. He's still in the ICU."

"Hampton sneered. "He is in the ICU because of you. Because of your reckless driving. You are poison to this family."

It wasn't true. She had swerved to avoid a deer. She had pulled Gannon out of the wreckage. She had cut her arm to the bone saving him.

But Hampton controlled the narrative. And he controlled the hospital board.

"Sign, or Leo dies."

She signed. She signed away her life to save Leo. And it hadn't mattered. Leo had died six months later, his body rejecting the treatment. The money Hampton sent had evaporated into medical bills and funeral costs. Now, Elena was all she had left. She couldn't fail her too.

End Flashback.

Ivana stepped into a puddle, the water soaking through her canvas sneaker.

She shivered.

A car slowed down beside her.

She didn't look up. She kept walking.

The car honked. A short, polite beep.

She turned. It was a generic black sedan. Not a Maybach. A Toyota.

The passenger window rolled down. An older woman with gray hair looked out.

"Miss?" she called out.

Ivana stopped. "Yes?"

The woman held out a large black umbrella.

"Here," she said. "Take this."

Ivana hesitated. "Why?"

The woman shrugged. "You looked like you needed it."

Ivana took the umbrella. It was heavy. Expensive. The handle was solid wood.

"Thank you," she said.

The woman nodded and the window rolled up. The car drove away.

Ivana opened the umbrella. It was huge, creating a dry sanctuary around her.

She looked at the handle. There was no logo. But near the release button, there was a small, intentional groove carved into the dark wood. It was shaped like a crescent moon.

Ivana's breath hitched. She ran her thumb over it. She had carved this herself, four years ago, while they sat on a park bench in Central Park. It was his umbrella. The one he kept in the foyer of the penthouse.

She looked down the street. The black sedan turned a corner.

He had sent someone.

He had kicked her out into the rain, screamed at her, and then sent a stranger to give her his umbrella.

She didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

She gripped the handle tighter.

He still cared.

And that was the most dangerous thing of all.