The twenty-four hours Hardin had given her to vacate the penthouse had evaporated in a blur of sheer panic. Stripped of her credit cards, her phone, and her dignity, Alaina had wandered the freezing Manhattan streets until she finally tracked down the emergency address her mother had texted her from a burner phone. Every step away from the Upper East Side had felt like a descent into an alien, terrifying world. The dead silence of her old life was violently replaced by the stench of cheap alcohol as Alaina pushed open the door to the cramped rental apartment.

The smell made her stomach churn.

Her father, Arthur Gay, sat slumped on a stained fabric sofa. His hands shook as he held a crumpled letter from the IRS.

"If I do not get a bridge loan by next week, Alaina," Arthur croaked, his voice raw. "I am going to federal prison."

The bedroom door flew open. Her mother, Eleanor, rushed out and grabbed Alaina's arms.

Eleanor's nails dug painfully into Alaina's skin. She shook her daughter violently.

"You have to go to Hardin! He is the only one on Wall Street with fifty million dollars in liquid cash!"

Alaina tried to pull away. The mere thought of standing before Hardin again sent a violent, icy shudder down her spine. He was no longer the quiet boy in the basement; he was a ruthless, predatory titan of Wall Street who had systematically annihilated her family's century-old legacy without breaking a sweat. To go to him now was to walk willingly into the jaws of a beast that wanted her completely destroyed. "I cannot. I signed the divorce papers yesterday. He left me with nothing. He hates us, Mom. He will only humiliate me more."

Arthur suddenly reached under the sofa cushion. He pulled out a heavy silver revolver and slammed it onto the coffee table.

"Then I will blow my brains out right now!" Arthur screamed, spit flying from his lips. "I will not die in a federal cell!"

Alaina's face drained of all color. Her lungs stopped working.

She lunged forward and snatched the heavy, cold metal gun off the table, her hands shaking uncontrollably.

Eleanor snatched a black garment bag from the chair and unzipped it. She pulled out a black, backless silk evening gown with a plunging neckline.

She threw the dress onto the small dining table.

"Put it on," Eleanor commanded. Her eyes were wide and frantic. "Use whatever you have left to make him give us that money."

Alaina stared at the thin, provocative fabric. A wave of nauseating shame washed over her.

She looked at her father, who was crying into his hands.

Alaina grabbed the dress. She walked into the tiny, moldy bathroom and locked the door.

Three hours later, Alaina stood in the massive, glass-walled lobby of Dyer Capital on Wall Street.

The air conditioning was freezing. The thin silk of her dress offered no warmth, and she shivered constantly.

Men and women in sharp business suits walked past her, their eyes raking over her exposed skin with obvious disgust.

"You cannot go up without an appointment," the blonde receptionist said, her tone dripping with fake pity. "You are no longer Mrs. Dyer."

Alaina swallowed the massive lump in her throat. "I will wait."

She stood in the waiting area for three solid hours. The straps of her high heels dug into her ankles, rubbing the skin raw until warm blood trickled down her heels.

Finally, the private elevator chimed. Damon Doyle, Hardin's executive assistant, stepped out.

He looked at her bleeding feet with zero emotion. "Follow me."

Alaina limped into the elevator. When the doors opened on the top floor, the massive Manhattan skyline blinded her for a second.

She walked into the corner office. Hardin was standing with his back to her, looking out the window with a phone pressed to his ear.

He hung up and turned around.

His dark eyes instantly locked onto the deep plunge of her neckline and the exposed skin of her shoulders.

A dark, heavy emotion flashed in his eyes, but it vanished in a millisecond, replaced by a thick layer of ice.

Alaina forced her bleeding feet to move forward. "I need a bridge loan. Fifty million dollars. To save my father."

Hardin walked over to the black leather sofa. He sat down, crossed his long legs, and pointed at the floor in front of him.

"Come closer."

Every step felt like walking on broken glass. Alaina stopped exactly three feet away from his knees.

Hardin leaned forward. His eyes slowly dragged up and down her body.

"Your mother dressed you up like a high-end escort," he sneered. "Did she think this would work?"

Alaina's face turned paper-white. She dug her nails into her palms until the skin broke. She wanted to turn and run, but the image of the gun on the coffee table kept her glued to the floor.

"Please," she whispered, stripping away the last piece of her pride. "Look at the past three years. Just help my family."

Hardin let out a dry, humorless laugh.

He reached into the drawer of the glass table and pulled out a thick stack of papers.

He slid the file across the table until it stopped right at the edge.

"Here is the price for your fifty million."

Alaina reached out. Her fingers trembled so badly she could barely grip the edge of the file.

She flipped open the heavy cover.

The bold black letters at the top of the page burned her eyes: Non-Disclosure Agreement & Personal Services Contract.

Her eyes darted down the page. The words jumped out at her like physical slaps.

On-call at all times. Absolute obedience. Prohibition of public relationship disclosure.

Alaina's head spun. A wave of dizziness hit her so hard she had to grab the edge of the glass table to stay upright.

She snapped her head up and stared at Hardin. He was leaning back on the sofa, casually twirling a silver pen between his fingers.

"You want to buy me?" she gasped, her chest heaving. "You want me to be your secret whore for fifty million dollars?"

Hardin stopped twirling the pen. He stood up.

He closed the distance between them in two long strides, forcing Alaina to stumble backward until her bare back hit the freezing glass of the floor-to-ceiling window.

Hardin slammed his hand against the glass right next to her ear.

His chest was inches from hers. She could feel the intense heat radiating from his body, a sharp contrast to the freezing glass against her spine.

"Do not act so offended," Hardin whispered. His breath brushed against her neck, making her skin break out in goosebumps. "Three years ago, at that frat party, you looked at me like I was a stray dog begging for scraps."

The mention of the frat party sent a violent shudder through Alaina's entire body.

Her breathing hitched. "You took advantage of me!" she yelled, her voice cracking. "I was drunk, and you forced yourself on me! You are a monster!"

Hardin's jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. His eyes turned pitch black, swirling with a violent, dangerous storm.

He did not deny it. He never denied it.

He let out a cold, cruel laugh. "Yes. I am Wall Street trash. And right now, trash is the only thing keeping your father out of a cage."

Hardin's large hand dropped to her waist. His fingers gripped her hip through the thin silk.

Alaina stiffened instantly, her muscles locking up in pure panic.

"You have nothing left to trade, Alaina," he mocked, his thumb pressing into her hip bone. "Except this body."

A hot tear escaped Alaina's eye. It rolled down her cheek and dropped directly onto the back of Hardin's hand.

The tear was boiling hot. Hardin's fingers flinched, pulling away from her skin for a fraction of a second.

Alaina shoved both her hands against his hard chest, pushing him back with all her remaining strength.

"I would rather die than sign this!" she screamed.

She grabbed the NDA from the table. She gripped the thick stack of paper and ripped it down the middle.

She tore it again, and again, until her hands ached.

She threw the shredded pieces into the air. The white confetti rained down onto the expensive Persian rug.

The room fell into a dead, suffocating silence.

Hardin did not yell. He did not move. He just stared at her, his chest rising and falling slowly.

He reached over and pressed a button on his desk phone. "Security. Remove her."

Alaina grabbed her small clutch. She turned and ran toward the heavy double doors.

She pushed them open just as two massive security guards arrived. They grabbed her arms roughly and dragged her into the elevator.

As the metal doors slid shut, Alaina saw Hardin standing in the shadows of his office, watching her like a predator waiting for its prey to bleed out.

Alaina was thrown out of the front doors of the building.

A freezing Manhattan rainstorm instantly soaked her to the bone. The thin silk dress clung to her shivering body.

She kicked off her bloody high heels. She walked barefoot onto the freezing, rough asphalt of the street.

Her tears mixed with the cold rain.

Suddenly, her phone buzzed in her clutch.

She pulled it out with shaking, wet fingers. It was the hospital.

"Miss Gay," the nurse's voice was rushed. "Your father suffered a massive heart attack. He is in the ICU. We need a fifty thousand dollar deposit immediately to continue treatment."

Alaina's knees gave out. She dropped to the wet pavement, the rough asphalt scraping her skin.

She was completely, utterly trapped.

Alaina stared at her reflection in the dirty mirror of the underground club's locker room.

She barely recognized herself. Heavy, dark smoky eyeshadow covered her eyelids, masking the redness from her crying.

She pulled the tight, black lace bodysuit up over her hips. The fabric was so restrictive she could barely take a full breath.

Last night, she had pawned her last diamond watch to pay the ICU deposit. It wasn't enough. She needed cash tonight, or they would pull her father's life support.

Roxy, the floor manager, walked into the locker room. She threw a cheap plastic nametag onto the makeup counter.

"Put it on," Roxy ordered.

Alaina looked at the tag. It read: Lexi.

"The guys out there are Wall Street animals," Roxy warned, crossing her arms. "They tip big, but they have sick requests. Do not cause a scene."

Alaina nodded numbly. She pinned the tag to the deep neckline of the lace bodysuit.

She strapped on a pair of seven-inch platform heels. Her raw, blistered ankles screamed in pain, but she forced herself to stand up straight.

She followed Roxy out of the locker room.

The heavy bass of the electronic music hit her chest like a physical punch. The air was thick with the smell of cheap perfume, sweat, and expensive cigars.

Alaina was handed a heavy silver tray loaded with glasses. She walked out into the main floor.

Within ten minutes, a drunk trader in a wrinkled suit reached out and tried to grab the lace edge of her bodysuit.

Alaina twisted her hips, dodging his sweaty hand.

The trader's face turned red. He grabbed a full martini glass and threw it straight at her chest.

The freezing alcohol soaked into the lace, chilling her skin. "Stupid bitch!" he slurred.

Alaina locked her jaw. She did not say a word. She grabbed a bar towel and wiped the sticky liquid off her chest.

Roxy watched from the bar. She walked over and shoved a crumpled hundred-dollar bill into Alaina's hand. "Good girl. You kept your mouth shut."

Alaina gripped the bill so tightly it almost tore. She needed more.

At midnight, the club manager sprinted into the back hallway. He was sweating profusely.

"The Viper Room just arrived!" he yelled. "Where is Chloe? They want the best girl!"

"Chloe passed out in the bathroom from bad powder," Roxy yelled back.

The manager's panicked eyes scanned the hallway. His gaze locked onto Alaina.

"You," he pointed a fat finger at her. "Get on the cart. The tip in the Viper Room is ten thousand minimum."

Ten thousand dollars.

Alaina's heart slammed against her ribs. That was enough to keep her father alive for another week.

"I will do it," Alaina said instantly.

Roxy loaded three bottles of Louis XIII onto a heavy brass cart. The bottles clinked together, sounding like alarm bells.

Alaina gripped the handle of the cart. She pushed it down the dark, narrow hallway toward the heavy black doors at the very end.

Two massive bodyguards stood outside. One of them patted her down roughly, checking her waist and thighs for recording devices.

He nodded and pushed the heavy doors open.

A dim, blood-red light spilled out into the hallway.

Alaina pushed the heavy cart inside. The thick smell of Cuban cigars immediately burned her throat, making her cough quietly.

The room was completely soundproofed. The deafening music from outside was gone. The only sound was the clinking of ice cubes in crystal glasses.

"Well, look at this," a sleazy, familiar voice echoed from the leather sofas. "A new toy for the night."

Alaina's blood ran cold. Her spine stiffened into a rigid line.

She knew that voice.

She slowly lifted her head. She squinted through the red haze, looking toward the center of the room.

When her eyes finally focused on the faces in the shadows, her hands jerked.

The heavy brass cart slammed violently into the edge of the glass table. The three bottles of Louis XIII wobbled dangerously.