Bell pushed the bedroom door open.

The only light came from the dim amber glow of the wall sconces. Falon was thrashing under the black silk sheet. Sweat beaded on her forehead. She was losing the battle against the drug.

Bell tossed the silver medical case onto a leather armchair in the corner of the room. It landed with a heavy thud.

He was not going to use the counteragent. He was going to be the cure.

He walked to the edge of the bed. He placed one knee on the mattress. The bed dipped under his weight.

Falon felt the movement. She rolled toward him instinctively.

Her slender arms reached out from under the covers. She wrapped them around his waist. She pressed her hot, flushed cheek against the cold metal of his belt buckle. She let out a long, desperate sigh.

That sound shattered the last wall of Bell's restraint.

He let out a low growl. He grabbed the black silk sheet and ripped it away, throwing it onto the floor.

He grabbed both of her wrists with his large hands. He pulled her arms up and pinned them flat against the mattress above her head.

Falon's chest arched upward. The drug made her skin hypersensitive. The cool air of the room felt like ice, but his hands felt like branding irons.

Tears of sheer physical frustration leaked from the corners of her eyes.

Bell leaned down. He brushed his lips against her cheek, catching a salty tear.

His touch was surprisingly gentle, but his voice was a dark, dangerous whisper.

"Are you sure this is what you want?" Bell asked.

Falon squeezed her eyes shut. Jerod's voice echoed in her skull again. Do whatever you want with her.

Her heart cramped with a sickening pain. She opened her eyes. She looked at the man hovering over her. She did not know him, but right now, he was her only anchor.

She clenched her jaw and nodded. Once. Hard.

Bell did not hold back anymore.

He lowered his head. His mouth traced a burning path down her jawline, down her neck, to the hollow of her throat. Everywhere his lips touched, a fire ignited beneath her skin.

Falon felt her old life peeling away. The perfect, obedient fiancée died in that warehouse. The woman on this bed was someone else.

She twisted her wrists, breaking free from his grip.

She reached up and grabbed his face with both hands. She pulled his mouth down to hers. She kissed him with a violent, reckless desperation. It was a kiss meant to destroy.

Bell responded with equal ferocity. He grabbed the ruined fabric of her gown and tore it down the middle. The expensive silk ripped with a loud, satisfying sound.

There was nothing left between them.

A sudden flash of lightning illuminated the dark bedroom. A second later, a massive crack of thunder shook the windows.

In that exact moment, Bell pushed forward, burying himself inside her.

Falon let out a sharp, breathless scream. Her fingernails dug deep into the muscles of his back. She dragged her nails downward, leaving four bloody scratches across his skin.

The pain was sharp, tearing through her body, but it was instantly swallowed by a massive wave of heat.

Bell froze. He rested his forehead against hers. His chest heaved, his hot breath hitting her face. He held himself perfectly still, giving her body time to adjust to the invasion.

Falon was panting. Sweat dripped down her neck. She looked up into his eyes. They were pitch black, filled with a terrifying, absolute power. It was a dominance she had never felt with Jerod.

She took a deep, shuddering breath. She tilted her hips upward, taking him deeper.

"Do not stop," Falon whispered. Her voice was raw and broken.

The command broke the invisible chain holding him back.

Bell began to move. His thrusts were hard, relentless, and punishing. The heavy wooden bed frame groaned against the wall with every impact.

The only sounds in the room were the harsh slaps of skin against skin and their ragged breathing.

Falon felt like she was being ripped apart and put back together. Every time he drove into her, the memories of Jerod fractured. The fake smiles, the cold dismissals, the betrayal-they were all pulverized under the weight of Bell's body.

She was a small boat caught in a violent hurricane, and Bell was the only thing keeping her from drowning.

The tension in her lower stomach coiled tighter and tighter. It became unbearable.

Suddenly, the coil snapped.

A blinding white light exploded behind her eyes. Her entire body locked up in a violent spasm. Wave after wave of intense pleasure crashed through her.

A second later, Bell let out a deep, animalistic roar. He drove into her one last time and emptied himself inside her.

He collapsed on top of her, burying his face in the crook of her neck.

Their chests heaved together. Their skin was slick with sweat.

Falon turned her head to the side. She gasped for air. Her face was flushed crimson.

Bell rolled off her, but he did not let her go. He pulled her flush against his side. He wrapped a heavy arm around her waist and tucked her head against his chest.

Falon listened to the steady, powerful thud of his heart.

The drug was finally burning out of her system. A crushing wave of exhaustion hit her. Her eyelids felt like they were made of lead.

Just before the darkness took her, she felt a soft, warm pressure against her forehead. A kiss. It felt incredibly tender. It felt like a promise.

Bell lay awake in the dark. He stared at the ceiling.

He gently brushed a damp strand of hair away from Falon's sleeping face. His eyes softened, revealing a deep, obsessive love that he had hidden for years.

He carefully reached over to the nightstand and grabbed his phone.

He opened an encrypted messaging app. He typed a quick command to his head of security.

Wipe all surveillance footage in the Brooklyn warehouse district for the last three hours. Erase her trail. Find the man with the bleeding leg. Make him disappear permanently.

He hit send. He put the phone down and pulled Falon closer to his chest. She was finally his.

The bright midday sun pierced through the floor-to-ceiling windows. It hit Falon directly in the eyes.

She groaned and squeezed her eyes shut. Her head pounded with a vicious, throbbing ache, like a massive hangover. Her entire body felt bruised and sore.

She opened her eyes slowly.

She was lying in a massive bed with black sheets. She was alone.

The air in the room smelled like expensive cedar cologne and the heavy, musky scent of sex.

The memories of last night crashed into her brain like a freight train. The warehouse. Jerod's voice. The needle. The rain. The car. The violent, desperate things she had done in this bed.

Falon sat up abruptly. The sheet fell away from her chest.

She looked down at her skin. Her collarbone, her breasts, her stomach-they were covered in dark purple bruises and red fingerprints.

She sucked in a sharp breath. The physical evidence of her complete loss of control made her stomach churn.

She had to get out of here.

She swung her bare feet over the edge of the bed. They sank into the thick wool rug. She stood up, her legs trembling slightly, and walked into the attached master bathroom.

She stared at herself in the mirror. Her hair was a tangled mess. Her makeup was smeared down her cheeks. She looked like a ghost.

She turned on the shower. She stood under the freezing cold water for ten minutes. She scrubbed her skin until it was bright red. She tried to wash away the smell of the stranger. She tried to wash away the lingering humiliation of Jerod leaving her to die.

When she stepped out of the shower, she walked back into the bedroom.

Her ruined Oscar de la Renta gown was gone. It was stuffed into a trash can in the corner.

Sitting neatly at the foot of the bed was a crisp, white men's dress shirt.

Falon had no other choice. She picked it up and put it on. She buttoned it up to her collarbone. The hem barely reached the middle of her thighs.

She took a deep breath, lifted her chin, and walked barefoot out of the bedroom.

The living room was flooded with sunlight.

A man stood at the kitchen island. He wore tailored dark gray trousers and a black dress shirt. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing thick, muscular forearms. He was pouring hot water over a coffee filter.

His back was to her, but his posture radiated cold, arrogant authority.

He heard her footsteps. He turned around.

Bell Farrell's dark eyes locked onto her. He slowly dragged his gaze from her wet hair, down the oversized shirt, to her bare legs. A dark, dangerous heat flared in his pupils.

Falon felt a sudden spike of anxiety. She crossed her arms over her chest, trying to pull the shirt down lower.

She walked to the opposite side of the marble island.

She saw a new, unopened black leather clutch sitting on the counter. Beside it lay a checkbook and a Montblanc pen, identical to her own brands. She opened the clutch purse. She pulled out the checkbook and the Montblanc pen.

Bell stopped pouring the coffee. He set the kettle down. He crossed his arms and watched her. He looked amused, like he was watching a kitten try to roar.

Falon quickly wrote down a number, her hand stinging as the pen pressed against the bruised, half-healed skin of her palm. She signed her name with a sharp flick of her wrist.

She ripped the check out and slid it across the smooth marble counter.

"One hundred thousand dollars," Falon said. Her voice was cold and professional. "That should cover the damage to your suit, the ride, and your services last night."

Bell stared at the piece of paper.

A low, dark laugh rumbled in his chest.

He reached out with his long fingers. He picked up the check.

He looked Falon dead in the eyes and ripped the check in half.

Falon's eyes widened.

He let the pieces flutter down onto the black marble counter.

Bell placed his hands flat on the island. He leaned forward, closing the distance between them. His physical presence was suffocating.

"Everyone on Wall Street knows that the one thing Bell Farrell does not need is money," he said softly.

Falon stopped breathing.

Bell Farrell.

The name hit her like a physical blow. Bell Farrell was the ruthless CEO of Farrell Enterprises. He was Jerod's biggest rival. He was the man Jerod hated and feared more than anyone else in the world.

She took a step back. Her spine hit the cold stainless steel of the refrigerator.

"What do you want?" Falon asked. Her voice shook.

Bell walked around the island. He moved with the silent grace of a predator.

He stepped into her personal space. He placed one hand on the fridge beside her head, trapping her.

He leaned down. His warm breath brushed against her ear.

"Since you cannot pay with money," Bell whispered, his tone dripping with dark promise, "you will just have to keep paying me with your body."

A hot wave of humiliation and rage exploded in Falon's chest.

She raised her hand and swung it hard, aiming for his arrogant face.

Bell did not even flinch. He caught her wrist in mid-air.

He twisted her arm smoothly behind her back. He pulled her forward until her chest crashed against his hard torso.

He lowered his head and bit down gently on her earlobe.

"Do not play the innocent victim with me," Bell murmured against her skin. "You were not acting so pure when you were begging me to ruin you last night."

The words were a brutal, precise strike to her pride.

Falon's eyes filled with hot tears. Her body began to tremble.

Bell felt her shaking. He saw the tears pooling in her eyes.

A flash of regret crossed his dark features. He had pushed too hard.

He immediately released her arm and stepped back. His face returned to a cold, unreadable mask.

He walked over to the leather sofa. He picked up a sleek black shopping bag and tossed it onto the glass coffee table.

"Get dressed and get out," Bell ordered. He turned his back to her.

Falon clenched her jaw. She grabbed the bag, spun around, and ran into the guest bedroom. She slammed the door shut behind her.

She leaned against the wood, gasping for air.

In the living room, Bell stood frozen. He raised his hand and violently yanked his collar open. His chest heaved. He stared at his hand, the one that had held her, and clenched it into a fist, angry at himself for the cruel words he'd used to try and chain her to him. His eyes were dark with a violent, consuming obsession.

Falon opened the black shopping bag on the guest bed.

Inside was a black Tom Ford haute couture skirt suit. It was tailored to perfection. Beneath it lay a matching set of black La Perla lingerie. At the bottom of the bag, nestled in tissue paper, were a pair of sharp, black stiletto heels.

She picked up the bra and checked the tag.

The size was exact. Down to the millimeter.

A flush of deep humiliation burned her cheeks. The accuracy proved how meticulously Bell Farrell had mapped her body with his hands last night.

She stripped off the oversized shirt and put on the lingerie. The silk and lace hugged her skin tightly. She stepped into the skirt and buttoned the jacket. The fabric was incredibly restrictive. It forced her to stand perfectly straight. It felt like a beautiful, expensive cage. It carried his scent.

Falon looked at herself in the full-length mirror.

The terrified, heartbroken girl from the warehouse was gone. The woman staring back at her looked cold, sharp, and dangerous.

She pulled her dark hair back into a tight, sleek bun. She applied a bold red lipstick she found in her clutch. She armed herself.

Falon opened the door and walked back into the living room.

Bell was sitting on the sofa. He was scrolling through stock data on an iPad.

He heard the click of her new heels on the floor. He looked up.

His eyes swept over her. The suit clung to her curves exactly as he had envisioned. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. His gaze darkened.

Falon walked right up to him. She looked down at him with icy disdain.

"Last night was a mistake," Falon said. Her voice was steady. "I am not signing an NDA. I do not care enough to talk about you."

Bell set the iPad down. He stood up. He towered over her, casting a long shadow.

He let out a short, mocking laugh. "I never ask women to sign garbage paper."

He reached out. He adjusted the lapel of her jacket. His knuckles brushed against her collarbone. The touch was possessive.

"The game is just starting, Falon," he whispered.

Falon slapped his hand away.

She turned on her heel and walked to the front door. She pulled it open and walked out. The heavy door clicked shut behind her.

Bell walked to the floor-to-ceiling window. He stood with his hands in his pockets. He watched the street below until he saw her small figure get into a yellow taxi.

He pulled out his phone and dialed his assistant.

Miles away, in the VIP wing of a private Manhattan hospital, the air smelled of sterile alcohol and expensive white roses.

Abby Gould lay in the hospital bed. She wore a silk nightgown. Her face was powdered to look pale and sickly.

The door opened. Jerod Mercer walked in. He carried a bouquet of white roses. He looked exhausted. His eyes were slightly bloodshot.

Abby's eyes immediately filled with tears. She reached out her hand. The IV tube taped to her wrist pulled taut.

"Jerod," she whimpered. "You came to see me last night, but then you just disappeared. You left me all alone to deal with the merger fallout."

Jerod sat on the edge of the bed. He took her hand.

For a split second, the sound of Falon's desperate, screaming voice from the warehouse echoed in his head. A sharp prick of annoyance hit his chest.

He pushed the thought away.

"I am here now, Abby," Jerod said softly. "When the merger is done, I will take you to Paris."

Dr. George Chandler walked into the room. He held a tablet. George was on Abby's secret payroll.

"Mr. Mercer," George said, adjusting his glasses. "Miss Gould's heart palpitations are severe. She needs absolute peace and quiet."

Abby leaned forward and rested her head against Jerod's chest.

"I am such a burden to you," Abby whispered weakly.

Jerod stroked her hair. He gently pushed her back against the pillows. He checked his Patek Philippe watch.

"I have a board meeting," Jerod said, standing up.

Abby bit her lip. She looked up at him through her eyelashes.

"Is Falon still throwing a tantrum about the party?" Abby asked innocently.

Jerod's jaw tightened. The mention of Falon's name ignited his anger.

"She is just trying to get attention," Jerod sneered. "She will come crawling back."

He walked out of the room.

As soon as the door closed, Jerod pulled out his phone. He dialed Falon's number.

The number you have reached is turned off.

Jerod's grip on the phone tightened until his knuckles turned white. She was defying him.

He dialed his executive assistant, Leo.

"Cancel the custom bridal gown arriving from Paris today," Jerod barked into the phone. "And intercept the sapphire necklace Falon bid on at Sotheby's. Buy it under my name."

He hung up. He would starve her out.

Back in the hospital room, Abby's fragile expression vanished the second Jerod was gone.

Her eyes turned hard and calculating.

She reached under her pillow and pulled out a burner phone. She dialed a number.

"Did Dwayne finish the job?" Abby asked coldly.

"Dwayne is MIA," the voice on the other end grunted. "But there are no police reports."

Abby smiled. A wicked, satisfied smirk.

She hung up the burner phone. She opened the drawer next to her bed and pulled out a piece of paper.

It was a forged pregnancy test result. Positive.

She traced the word with her fingernail. Jerod was hers.

Meanwhile, Falon sat in the back of the taxi. She stared out the window at the passing skyscrapers. Her hands rested on her lap, curled into tight fists. The fire in her eyes was not from tears. It was the fire of a woman preparing for war.