The Royal Dunes Golf Club smelled of money. It was a scent composed of freshly cut grass, ocean salt, and old leather.

Scarlett tugged at the hem of her uniform. The skirt was too short, the polo shirt too tight. She wore thick-rimmed glasses and a short brunette wig that scratched her neck.

"Champagne tray to the VIP tee," the floor manager barked, shoving a heavy silver platter into her hands. "And don't make eye contact."

Scarlett walked onto the grass. The sun was beating down, but the breeze off the Atlantic was cool. Every step sent a jolt of pain up her leg. Her ankle, twisted on the terrace and aggravated by the run from Vance's office, was throbbing in the cheap sneakers she had borrowed.

She saw them immediately.

Sebastian Vance was wearing plaid trousers that cost more than her car. He was laughing loudly, holding a driver, surrounded by a group of sycophants.

And leaning against a golf cart, looking utterly bored, was Harrison.

He was wearing all white. It should have looked ridiculous. On him, it looked like the uniform of a god. He was smoking a cigar, his eyes hidden behind aviator sunglasses.

Vance saw Harrison and immediately abandoned his game. "Harrison! Harry! Look at this swing, tell me what you think!"

Harrison didn't move. "I think you slice to the right, Sebastian. Consistently."

Scarlett took a deep breath. She walked straight toward them.

"Champagne, gentlemen?" she asked, pitching her voice lower.

Vance didn't even look at her face. He reached for a glass. "Thanks, sweethea-"

Scarlett pivoted. She pretended to trip on a sprinkler head.

The tray tipped. Five flutes of sticky, expensive champagne cascaded forward.

Not onto Vance. Onto Harrison.

The liquid splashed over his pristine white shoes and the hem of his trousers.

"You idiot!" Vance screamed. "Look what you did! Do you know who this is?"

Scarlett looked up. In the commotion, her glasses slipped down her nose.

Harrison slowly took off his sunglasses. He looked at his ruined shoes. Then he looked at Scarlett. His eyes widened imperceptibly. He recognized her instantly, wig or not.

"Let her go, Sebastian," Harrison said quietly, cutting off Vance's tirade.

"She did this on purpose! She's clumsy trash!"

"I said, enough." Harrison stepped forward. He looked down at Scarlett. "You have terrible aim. If you wanted to ruin my shoes, you could have just asked."

"I was aiming for him," Scarlett muttered, barely audible.

Harrison's lips twitched. "Well," he said, unbuttoning his glove. "Since you ruined my concentration, you can make it up to me." He pointed to his golf bag. "You're my caddie for the rest of the round. My caddie is... indisposed."

"What?" Vance shrieked. "Harry, you can't be serious. She's a waitress!"

"She's my caddie," Harrison corrected. He looked at Scarlett, a challenge in his eyes. "Unless the bag is too heavy?"

Scarlett looked at the heavy leather bag. Her ankle screamed in protest just standing there. But this was her chance to be near them, to hear something.

"I can handle it," she said.

She hefted the bag onto her shoulder. It weighed a ton. She gritted her teeth against the pain. "Lead the way, Mr. Sterling."

For the next two hours, it was torture. The bag dug into her shoulder. The uneven terrain was a nightmare for her swollen ankle. She was limping visibly by the fourth hole, sweat stinging her eyes under the wig.

Harrison noticed. She saw his eyes flick to her ankle, then to her face, tight with pain. He didn't offer to help. He didn't slow down. He just watched her struggle with a cold, detached curiosity.

On the 9th hole, he called her over. "7 iron."

She handed him the club. He stood close to her.

"You're limping," he stated flatly.

"I'm fine."

"You're stubborn. It's an annoying quality."

"It's a survival trait."

Harrison looked at her, his eyes dark behind the shades. Then he stepped up to the ball and swung.

Thwack.

The ball soared, arcing perfectly against the blue sky. It landed on the green and rolled, tracking straight toward the pin. It dropped into the cup.

"Hole in one!" Vance shouted, clapping politely but looking annoyed.

"A birdie, technically," Harrison murmured, handing the club back to Scarlett. "But effective."

Suddenly, the sky turned dark. Thunder rumbled in the distance. A summer storm was rolling in fast.

"Course is closed!" the marshal shouted. "Clear the greens!"

Vance grabbed his gear and ran for the clubhouse.

Harrison looked at Scarlett. She was swaying slightly, the weight of the bag threatening to topple her.

"Go to the staff locker room," he ordered. "Dry off. Wait there."

"Why?"

"Because Sebastian recognized your voice. He's slow, but he's not comatose. He'll corner you the second you're alone."

"I can handle him."

"Look at you," Harrison scoffed. "You can barely stand. Go. My driver will meet you at the service entrance."

The staff locker room was a concrete box in the basement of the clubhouse. It smelled of damp towels and chlorine. The lights flickered with every clap of thunder outside.

Scarlett sat on a bench, peeling off the wig. Her ankle was the size of a grapefruit. She prodded it and hissed in pain.

The door banged open.

She spun around, expecting the driver.

It was Sebastian.

He was soaked, his hair plastered to his skull. He looked deranged. He slammed the door shut and twisted the lock.

"I knew it," he hissed, walking toward her. "The wig didn't fool me for long. What are you doing here, Scarlett? Stalking me? Trying to get to Harrison?"

"I don't care about you, Sebastian," Scarlett said, standing up on one leg, backing away. "I want my father out of jail."

"He's never getting out!" Vance screamed. "And neither are you. You think Harrison likes you? He's playing you. He knows what you are. Damaged goods. He's just keeping you around to amuse himself."

"Better damaged than soulless," Scarlett spat.

Vance lunged. He grabbed her by the throat, slamming her against the metal lockers.

"You need to learn your place," Vance snarled. His grip tightened, cutting off her air. "You're nothing. You're dirt."

Scarlett clawed at his hands, black spots dancing in her vision.

BOOM.

The door didn't just open. It was kicked open. The lock shattered.

Harrison stood in the doorway. He wasn't wearing his golf whites anymore. He was in a dark suit, drenched from the rain. Behind him stood two large security guards.

Harrison didn't shout. He didn't run. He walked into the room with a terrifying, deadly calm.

He grabbed Vance by the back of his collar and the belt of his trousers.

With a grunt of effort, he threw Vance. Literally threw him.

Vance flew across the room and crashed into a bench, sliding to the floor in a heap.

"Get him out of here," Harrison said to the security guards. "If I see him again today, I will kill him."

The guards dragged a whimpering Vance out.

Harrison turned to Scarlett. The rage in his eyes was so intense it looked like pain. He scanned her neck, where red marks were already forming.

"Did he touch you anywhere else?"

Scarlett was shaking so hard her teeth chattered. "No. Just... choked me."

Harrison swore softly, a string of explicit curses. He took off his jacket and wrapped it around her. It was warm and smelled like him-cedar and safety.

"Can you walk?"

Scarlett took a step and cried out as her ankle gave way.

Harrison caught her. He didn't ask permission this time. He bent down and scooped her up into his arms.

"Harrison, people will see," she whispered.

"Let them look," he growled.

He carried her out of the locker room, through the service corridor, and out into the pouring rain. A black Maybach was waiting at the curb, engine running. The driver opened the rear door.

Harrison placed her gently on the leather seat. He got in beside her.

"Drive," he ordered.

The car pulled away, leaving the Royal Dunes Club behind in the storm. Scarlett huddled in his jacket, watching him. He was staring out the window, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek.

"Thank you," she said softly.

Harrison didn't look at her. "Don't thank me. I didn't do it for you."

"Then why?"

He turned to her. His eyes were dark, haunted. "Because he touched what is... he created a scene. It reflects poorly on my associates."

The correction was clumsy. The silence that followed was heavier than the storm.

The Maybach was a capsule of silence moving at eighty miles per hour. The rain drummed a frantic rhythm on the roof.

Harrison opened a small refrigerator console between the seats. He pulled out an ice pack, cracked it to activate the chemical chill, and handed it to her without a word.

Scarlett pressed it to her throbbing ankle. The cold was shocking, grounding her.

"Harrison," she said. "Please. You saw what he is. You saw what he did. Help me fight him. Be my lawyer."

Harrison stiffened. He kept his eyes on the road partition. "I told you, Scarlett. I can't."

"You can. You just won't."

"It's the same thing."

"I have nothing to trade," Scarlett said, her voice trembling. "But I have myself. If you take the case... I will be whatever you want. Mistress. Secret. I don't care."

Harrison slammed his hand against the leather armrest. "Stop offering yourself like a commodity! It's pathetic."

"It's all I have left!" Scarlett shouted back. "My father is going to die in prison! So yes, I'm offering myself. To you."

"Driver, pull over," Harrison barked.

The car swerved onto the shoulder of the highway. Harrison turned to face her. He loomed over her, trapping her in the corner of the seat.

"You think that's what I want?" he hissed. "You think I saved you back there because I want to sleep with you?"

"Don't you?" Scarlett challenged.

"If I wanted a mistress, I could have a thousand women who don't come with federal indictments attached." He reached out, gripping her chin, forcing her to look at him. "You are worth more than a transaction, Scarlett. Stop acting like you're cheap."

He let her go and sat back, running a hand through his hair. He looked defeated.

"I cannot represent your father. The conflict is absolute. If I took the case, the prosecution would claim bias because of my ties to Vance. It would hurt your father's defense."

Scarlett slumped. "So that's it. It's over."

"Get out," Harrison said quietly.

"What?"

"Get out of the car. My driver will take you the rest of the way. I need to make a call."

He opened the door and stepped out into the rain, flagging down a taxi that was miraculously passing. He shoved a wad of cash at the driver.

"Take her home," he ordered.

Scarlett stared at him from the backseat of the taxi as it pulled away. He was standing on the side of the highway, rain soaking his shirt, looking like a man at war with the world.

Back in the Maybach, Harrison slammed the door. He pulled out his phone and dialed a number he hadn't called in years.

"Mark," Harrison said when the line connected. "It's Harrison. I have a case for you. Robert Miller."

"The Ponzi guy? You won't touch that with a ten-foot pole," Mark Jensen's voice was crackly.

"I can't. You can. Take the case. Pro bono. Or rather, bill me. Blind trust."

"Why?"

"Because he's innocent. And because..." Harrison looked at the empty seat beside him. "Just do it. And Mark? She can never know it was me."