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."

Three days later, Scarlett collapsed.

She had been running on caffeine and adrenaline, preparing documents for the public defender by night and teaching piano lessons in a run-down community center in Queens by day. She had used a fake name, "Ms. Rose," hoping to avoid the press.

She was walking out of the center when a flash went off in her face.

"Scarlett! Scarlett Miller! Is it true your father stole from orphans?"

A paparazzo had found her. He shoved a camera in her face.

Scarlett stumbled back, her vision blurring. The world tilted sideways. The sidewalk rushed up to meet her face.

When she opened her eyes, she wasn't on the concrete. She was in a bed with sheets that felt like clouds. The air smelled of antiseptic and lilies.

"Oh, good. You're awake."

Scarlett turned her head. Sitting in a wingback chair by the window was a woman who looked like royalty. Silver hair coiffed to perfection, pearls the size of grapes.

"Mrs. Sterling?" Scarlett croaked. She recognized her from society pages. Harrison's mother. Eleanor Sterling.

"Please, call me Eleanor," the woman smiled warmly. "My family doctor, Dr. Aris, has a clinic nearby. My driver saw the commotion with the photographer. We brought you here. You were severely dehydrated, dear."

Scarlett tried to sit up. "I... I can't pay for a private clinic."

"Hush. It's taken care of." Eleanor stood up and walked to the bed. She peered closely at Scarlett's face. Her expression shifted from polite concern to something sharper. A flicker of recognition.

"It's strange," Eleanor murmured, tilting her head. "You have such a familiar look. You remind me of an old friend I haven't seen in decades. The eyes, mostly."

Scarlett froze. "My mother passed away when I was young."

"I see." Eleanor didn't press. But her gaze lingered, thoughtful and calculating.

The door flew open.

Harrison burst in. He looked like he had run all the way from midtown. His tie was askew.

"Scarlett!" He rushed to the bed, ignoring his mother. "Are you okay? The doctor said-"

He stopped. He realized his mother was watching him with a knowing smirk.

"Harry," Eleanor said, arching a brow. "Is this the 'acquaintance' you were so worried about?"

Harrison straightened up, smoothing his suit. The mask slammed back into place. "Mother. Thank you for helping her. She is... a former client."

"A client you sprinted across the city for?" Eleanor chuckled. She patted Scarlett's hand. "He hasn't run since prep school track."

"Mother, please," Harrison warned.

Eleanor picked up her purse. "I'll leave you two. Scarlett, dear, take this." She pressed a small velvet pouch into Scarlett's hand. "It's a St. Christopher medal. For safe travels. You seem to have a bumpy road ahead."

She looked at Harrison, then at Scarlett. "Take care of her, Harry."

With that, she swept out of the room.

Silence descended.

"I'm sorry," Scarlett said. "I didn't mean to drag your mother into this."

"You didn't. She loves stray puppies," Harrison grumbled. He pulled a chair up to the bed. He looked angry, but his hands were gentle as he poured her a glass of water. "Drink."

"I'm fine."

"You fainted on a sidewalk in Queens. You are not fine."

He saw a bowl of fruit on the bedside table. He picked up an apple and a small paring knife. He started peeling the apple. He was terrible at it, hacking away chunks of fruit.

Scarlett watched him. The great Harrison Sterling, struggling with a Granny Smith. A weak giggle bubbled up in her throat.

Harrison glared at her. "Shut up."

"You're butchering it."

"It's a tough apple."

He finally managed to cut a jagged slice. He held it out to her. "Eat."

Scarlett took it. "Thank you."

Harrison didn't leave. He stayed as the sun went down. He stayed as she drifted off to sleep.

The last thing Scarlett felt was a large, warm hand covering hers.

"I won't let you fall," a voice whispered in the dark.