The scalding water from the rainfall showerhead beat down on Joanna's back.

She stood in the massive marble enclosure, letting the heat thaw the ice in her veins. Her brain was working in overdrive. She had just negotiated with the devil and survived, but the physical memory of Carlton's thumb brushing her cheek made her stomach knot with anxiety.

She turned off the water.

Stepping out of the shower, she looked at the marble vanity. Her ruined silk dress lay in a pathetic, chlorine-soaked heap. The delicate fabric was torn at the seam. It was completely unwearable.

She wrapped a thick white towel around her body and cracked the bathroom door open.

The penthouse living room was empty.

Joanna stepped out barefoot. The thick carpet muffled her footsteps as she moved quickly toward the half-open door of the walk-in closet. She needed clothes. Anything to cover herself so she could leave.

She pushed the closet door open. It was a massive space, filled entirely with rows of dark, custom-tailored suits and crisp dress shirts. There wasn't a single item of women's clothing. It was a stark reminder of the cold, solitary life the patriarch led.

She had no choice.

She reached for the first thing she saw-a black, French-cuff dress shirt hanging on the end of the rack. She dropped her towel and quickly slipped her arms into the sleeves.

The shirt was massive on her. The hem barely covered the top of her thighs, and the fabric swallowed her small frame. She began rolling up the excessively long sleeves as she walked out of the closet.

She stepped into the living room and froze.

Carlton had just walked in from the balcony, a phone in his hand. He stopped dead in his tracks.

His dark, piercing gaze dropped instantly to her bare legs, then traveled slowly up the length of his black shirt draped over her body. The air in the room suddenly felt too thick to breathe.

Joanna swallowed hard. She instinctively reached down and tugged at the hem of the shirt, her cheeks burning under his intense scrutiny.

Carlton's Adam's apple bobbed once. "Who gave you permission to touch my clothes?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave, sounding rougher than before.

"I'll have the dry-cleaning fee wired to your account," Joanna said, forcing her voice to stay level. "I need to leave now."

She walked over to the coffee table and picked up her phone. The screen lit up with thirty-two missed calls from Freddie. In her panicked rush, she completely failed to notice a microscopic, unfamiliar grey icon flashing briefly in the top corner of her screen-a silent digital tether he had swiftly installed while she was in the shower. She felt a surge of disgust and immediately switched the phone to silent.

She looked up at Carlton. "I need your security to escort me out through the service elevator."

Carlton walked over to the wet bar. He set his phone down, his broad back facing her. The temperature in the room seemed to drop.

"You had the nerve to stage a scandal in front of three hundred people," Carlton sneered, turning around to face her. "And now you're too much of a coward to walk out the front door?"

"It's called damage control," Joanna fired back, refusing to be intimidated. "Keeping the media from getting a photo of me leaving your private suite is part of our deal."

Carlton's eyes darkened. He closed the distance between them in three long strides.

Joanna backed up instinctively until her shoulder blades hit the cold wall. Carlton stopped right in front of her. He was so close she could feel the heat radiating from his chest. He looked down at her, his presence completely suffocating.

He raised his hand.

Joanna stopped breathing. She braced herself, unsure of what he was going to do.

Instead of grabbing her, Carlton's rough fingers brushed against her collarbone. He grabbed the fabric of the shirt and slowly fastened the top button, which she had left undone.

His knuckles grazed the sensitive skin of her neck. A violent jolt of electricity shot through her nervous system. Her stomach flipped, and she pressed herself harder against the wall, trying to escape the burning sensation of his touch.

Carlton dropped his hand. "Remember who cleaned up your mess today," he whispered, his voice dangerously low.

He turned away and pressed a button on the wall intercom. "Leo. Bring a coat and a pair of flats to the suite. Have two men wait at the service elevator."

Five minutes later, the doorbell rang. Leo handed over a long trench coat and a pair of simple black flats.

Joanna practically ripped the coat from Leo's hands. She put it on, tying the belt tightly around her waist, completely hiding the black shirt and her bare legs. She needed to get out of this predator's territory immediately.

"Thank you," she said stiffly, walking toward the door.

"Joanna," Carlton's voice stopped her as her hand touched the doorknob. "What about your dress?"

"Throw it in the trash," she said without looking back, pulling the door open and rushing out into the hallway.

The heavy door clicked shut. The penthouse fell dead silent again.

Carlton stood in the middle of the living room. He walked slowly toward the bathroom. He looked down at the trash can, where the ruined, wet silk dress lay crumpled.

He didn't call housekeeping.

He bent down, his large hand grasping the wet fabric. He picked it up. The faint scent of her perfume-vanilla and chlorine-hit his senses.

Carlton walked over to his private storage cabinet, opened it, and tossed the dress inside. The lock clicked shut, sealing away a dark possessiveness he no longer tried to suppress. The scent of her lingered in his domain, and he stood there in the deafening silence, fully accepting the twisted, consuming hunger that was rapidly taking root in his mind.

The armored Maybach pulled up to the curb outside Joanna's Upper East Side apartment.

She stepped out, flanked by two of Carlton's massive security guards. She kept her head down, rushing through the lobby and into her private elevator. When the doors finally closed, she leaned against the mirrored wall and let out a long, shaky exhale.

She walked into her apartment and threw her keys onto the console table. She pulled out her phone.

Freddie had sent forty text messages.

Are you crazy?

You humiliated Jessie on purpose!

Answer the phone, you psycho!

Joanna stared at the screen, her stomach churning with absolute disgust. She didn't reply. She deleted the entire thread with a single swipe of her thumb.

She walked into her study and opened the wall safe. She pulled out a thick, leather-bound folder-the Madden family trust fund prenuptial agreement. She dropped it onto the mahogany desk and began reading the clauses.

If she broke the engagement without cause, she would lose her shares and be hit with a massive penalty fee. She needed Freddie to be the one to break it, or she needed him to commit a public, undeniable breach of contract.

The sharp buzz of the intercom interrupted her thoughts.

Her personal assistant, Clara, burst through the front door a moment later. Clara's face was pale, her hands shaking as she held up a thick, gold-embossed envelope.

"Joanna," Clara gasped. "Eleanor Madden sent a car. It's waiting downstairs. She wants you at the Long Island estate. Right now."

Joanna's eyes narrowed. The matriarch. The true power behind the family name. The pool incident had reached the top of the food chain.

"Give me ten minutes," Joanna said coldly.

She walked into her bedroom. She stripped off Carlton's black shirt, her skin still tingling where the fabric had touched her. She put on a conservative, tailored beige suit. She sat at her vanity and applied a layer of pale foundation, deliberately making herself look exhausted and fragile.

Several hours later, after navigating the grueling, bumper-to-bumper nightmare of late-afternoon Manhattan traffic, the car passed through the heavy iron gates of the Madden estate on Long Island.

The butler escorted her in silence through the sprawling mansion, leading her to Eleanor's private study. The heavy oak doors swung open.

Eleanor Madden sat behind a massive desk. Her silver hair was pulled back perfectly. Her eyes, sharp as a hawk's, were locked onto a stack of glossy photographs on her desk.

Joanna stepped forward. She lowered her head slightly, letting her shoulders slump just enough to look defeated.

"Grandmother," Joanna said, her voice perfectly pitched with a slight, raspy tremor.

Eleanor picked up the photos and threw them across the desk. They scattered over the wood. They were high-definition shots of Freddie holding Jessie in the pool, completely ignoring Joanna.

"Explain this disaster," Eleanor demanded, her voice like cracking ice.

Joanna didn't defend herself. She bit down hard on her lower lip until she tasted a faint hint of metallic blood. She let a single tear well up in her eye, making sure it caught the light before she blinked it away.

"It was an accident," Joanna whispered, her voice breaking. "I slipped. I pulled Miss Beck down with me. Freddie was just... he was just trying to save her because she couldn't swim. I understand."

Eleanor scoffed loudly. "Don't play the fool with me, Joanna. I know exactly what that little actress is. She's a parasite."

Joanna looked down at her hands, twisting her engagement ring nervously. "I am willing to issue a public apology, Grandmother. I will take full responsibility for the fall. We cannot let this affect the Madden Group's stock prices."

The room went silent.

Eleanor stared at her. The matriarch didn't care about love or fidelity. She cared about loyalty to the empire. Joanna's willingness to swallow her pride and take the blame for the sake of the stock price was exactly what Eleanor wanted in a future granddaughter-in-law.

The harsh lines around Eleanor's mouth softened slightly. She gestured to the leather chair opposite the desk. "Sit."

Joanna sat, keeping her posture rigid but respectful.

"The Madden family does not need a punching bag," Eleanor said coldly. "But we do need a woman who understands the bigger picture."

"I will never let this family down," Joanna said, looking Eleanor straight in the eye, replacing her fragility with steel.

Eleanor nodded in approval. She pressed the intercom button on her desk. "Ms. Doyle. Come in here."

The chief executive secretary entered immediately.

"Freeze all of Freddie's black cards," Eleanor ordered without blinking. "And call our contacts at the studios. Cut Jessie Beck from every audition list in Hollywood. Put her on a private jet to Europe by midnight. If she comes back to New York, ruin her."

Joanna's heart leaped with triumph, but she forced her eyes to widen in fake shock. "Grandmother, please, Freddie will be furious-"

"Let him be," Eleanor snapped, raising a hand to silence her. "He needs to learn that his actions have consequences. You will say nothing to him."

Eleanor opened a drawer and pulled out a long velvet box. She slid it across the desk.

"For your trouble today," Eleanor said.

Joanna opened the box. A heavy, antique emerald necklace rested on the white silk. It was worth millions.

"Thank you, Grandmother," Joanna said softly.

She stood up, took the box, and walked out of the study. The moment the heavy oak doors clicked shut behind her, the fragile, victimized expression vanished from her face.

Her lips curled into a cold, ruthless smile. Phase one was complete. She had kept her hands perfectly clean, and the matriarch had just executed her enemies for her.

The crystal chandelier cast a cold, brilliant light over the long dining table in the Madden family's Manhattan townhouse.

Joanna sat perfectly straight near the center of the table. The heavy, antique emerald necklace Eleanor had given her rested against her collarbone. She calmly sliced her filet mignon, completely ignoring the murderous glare Freddie was shooting at her from across the table.

"That's a stunning piece, Joanna," Catherine, Freddie's mother, said loudly, her voice dripping with venom. "I suppose taking a little dip in the pool pays off quite well these days."

Joanna paused. She looked up, offering Catherine a flawless, polite smile. "Grandmother felt it was a fitting heirloom for the future lady of the house. I simply couldn't refuse her generosity."

Catherine's face tightened. She snapped her mouth shut, unable to argue against the matriarch's decision.

Freddie gripped his steak knife so hard his knuckles turned white. His phone had been blowing up all afternoon with declined card notifications, and Jessie's number was completely disconnected. He was a ticking time bomb.

He opened his mouth, ready to explode.

Before he could speak, the massive double doors of the dining room swung open.

A freezing gust of air seemed to follow Carlton Madden into the room. He strode in, wearing a dark, tailored suit that emphasized his massive frame. The low murmur of conversation around the table died instantly. Everyone put down their silverware. The sheer authority radiating from him demanded absolute submission.

Carlton walked to the empty chair at the head of the table, right next to Eleanor. Before sitting, his gray-blue eyes swept over the room.

His gaze stopped on Joanna for a fraction of a second.

Joanna stared down at her plate, but her stomach dropped. The invisible weight of his stare felt like a physical touch, making the fine hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

"Carlton," Eleanor said, breaking the silence. "How is the Silicon Valley acquisition proceeding?"

Carlton sat down. He didn't reach for his napkin. He looked directly at Freddie.

"It's delayed," Carlton said. His voice was flat, devoid of any emotion, but it echoed through the silent room like a death sentence.

Eleanor frowned deeply. "Delayed? Why?"

"Because the group's stock dropped three percent in the last forty-eight hours," Carlton replied. He gestured to his assistant, Leo, who stepped out from the shadows and began placing thick financial reports in front of every board member at the table.

Carlton leaned back in his chair. "Wall Street does not like instability. And unfortunately, one of our heirs decided to turn a Hampton pool party into a tabloid spectacle, and then used company PR resources to try and hide his mistress."

Freddie shot up from his chair. His face was purple with rage. "That's a lie! The media blew it out of proportion! And she pushed her!" He pointed a shaking finger at Joanna.

Carlton's eyes darkened. He didn't raise his voice, but the lethal warning in his tone made Freddie's knees buckle.

"If you cannot control your zipper, or your fiancée," Carlton said slowly, "you have absolutely no business managing the Hudson Project."

The dining room went dead silent. The Hudson Project was Freddie's only real source of power in the company.

Freddie looked desperately at Eleanor. "Grandma, you can't let him do this. I've worked on Hudson for two years!"

Eleanor looked down at the financial losses printed on the report. Her face turned to stone. "Carlton is right. You are a liability right now. You are suspended from the Hudson Project indefinitely. A management team will take over your duties."

Freddie collapsed back into his chair, looking like he had been physically struck. He had lost his money, his mistress, and now his power.

Joanna's heart soared with vicious satisfaction. But she knew her role.

She immediately stood up and walked around the table. she placed a gentle, comforting hand on Freddie's shoulder.

"Freddie, it's okay," Joanna said, her voice loud enough for the entire room to hear. "It's just temporary. I know you'll prove yourself to the board."

Freddie jerked away from her touch like she had burned him. "Get your hands off me!" he snarled, his eyes wild with hatred. "You did this!"

Joanna stumbled backward, letting out a soft gasp. She brought a hand to her chest, her eyes widening in perfect, wounded shock.

"Freddie!" Eleanor slammed her hand on the table. "Control yourself! Go to your room immediately!"

Humiliated and broken, Freddie kicked his chair back. It crashed to the floor. He stormed out of the dining room, slamming the doors behind him.

Joanna stood frozen, pressing a napkin to the corner of her eye as if wiping away a tear.

But as she lowered her head, she shifted her gaze toward the head of the table.

Carlton had picked up his wine glass. He was taking a slow sip of red wine, his eyes locked directly onto hers. Beneath the cold, ruthless exterior, she saw a dark, knowing gleam in his eyes. He was watching her perform, and he was enjoying it.