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.

The yellow taxi pulled up to the curb outside Falon's private Upper East Side apartment building.

She handed the driver a fifty-dollar bill and stepped out. She ignored the doorman's wide-eyed stare at her bare legs and aggressive black suit.

She took the elevator up to her floor. She unlocked the door and stepped inside.

The apartment was quiet. It was decorated in soft pastels and delicate fabrics-everything Jerod liked. It made her sick.

Falon kicked off her heels. She walked straight to the velvet jewelry box on her dresser.

She opened it and pulled out the massive, five-carat diamond engagement ring Jerod had given her.

She did not look at it with sadness. She grabbed it and yanked it off her finger. The metal scraped her skin.

She walked into the kitchen and pulled a heavy-duty black trash bag from under the sink.

She marched through the apartment. She threw in the silk ties Jerod left on her chair. She threw in his expensive Tom Ford cologne. She threw in the matching cashmere sweaters he made her wear.

She walked to her desk. She opened the top drawer and pulled out the black American Express Centurion card Jerod had given her.

She grabbed a heavy metal letter opener from the desk.

She placed the thick titanium card on the hardwood floor, knelt, and drove the sharp point of the opener directly into the card's chip. She scraped and twisted until the chip was a mangled mess. Then she flipped it and viciously scored the magnetic strip until it was unreadable.

Falon carried the heavy trash bag out into the hallway. She opened the metal chute.

She dumped the bag inside. She dropped the mangled remains of the black card on top of it.

She listened to the heavy thud as her past crashed down into the basement incinerator.

She walked back inside and locked the door.

She went to the bar cart and poured herself two fingers of neat whiskey.

Before the glass touched her lips, the apartment's landline phone buzzed on the counter.

The caller ID flashed: Mother.

Falon took a deep breath. She pressed accept.

"Where the hell are you?" Corinne Dunn's shrill voice blasted through the speaker.

Falon pulled the phone away from her ear.

"You missed the charity tea party this morning!" Corinne screamed. "Do you have any idea how humiliating it was for me to make excuses for you to the Rockefellers?"

Falon's grip on the glass tightened. Her knuckles turned white.

"I was missing for twenty-four hours, Mother," Falon said. Her voice was dead. "And your first question is about a tea party?"

Corinne scoffed. "Oh, stop being so dramatic, Falon. You are always playing the victim. It is exhausting."

Falon closed her eyes. The familiar sting of rejection hit her chest.

"You should learn from your sister," Corinne continued. "Charlee was an absolute angel today. She even charmed Mr. Roth into a minor distribution deal for the company."

Charlee Dale. The fake, adopted sister who spent her life stealing Falon's oxygen.

Falon opened her eyes. The sadness vanished, replaced by cold fury. She lifted the glass and downed the whiskey. The alcohol burned a path down her throat.

"I am calling off the engagement with Jerod," Falon said flatly.

The line went dead silent.

Then, Corinne exploded. "Are you out of your mind?!"

"It is done," Falon said.

"You listen to me, you ungrateful brat," Corinne hissed. "Massey Holdings' stock is barely staying afloat. The only thing keeping the board happy is your marriage to the Mercer family. You will not ruin this!"

"I am not a corporate asset," Falon snapped.

"You are whatever I say you are!" Corinne yelled. "If you break this engagement, I will call Page Six. I will tell them all about the filthy foster home we pulled you out of. I will tell them how damaged you really are."

The threat hit Falon like a physical punch to the gut.

Her breath hitched. Memories of the dark, damp basement in the foster home flashed behind her eyes. The hunger. The bruises.

Corinne knew exactly where to twist the knife.

Falon stood frozen for one second. Two seconds.

Then, she looked at her reflection in the mirror above the bar cart. She saw the black Tom Ford suit. She saw the sharp, unyielding woman Bell Farrell had dressed her to be.

"Do it," Falon said. Her voice was made of ice. "Call them. I do not care anymore."

Corinne gasped. She had never heard Falon speak like this.

Corinne panicked. She changed tactics. "Falon, be reasonable. Tonight is the annual Massey Foundation Gala. You must bring Jerod. You have to show a united front."

"No."

"If you do not show up with him tonight," Corinne threatened, her voice shaking with rage, "your father will freeze your trust fund. You will have nothing."

Falon stared at her reflection. A slow, dangerous smile spread across her red lips.

"I will be at the gala," Falon said.

She hung up before Corinne could say another word.

Falon tossed the phone onto the sofa. Her chest heaved with adrenaline.

She walked into her massive walk-in closet. She bypassed the rows of soft pinks and elegant whites.

She looked down at the black suit she was wearing. It was a suit built for war.

She walked over to the hidden wall safe behind her shoe rack. She punched in the code.

She pulled out a thick manila folder. Inside were copies of the Massey Holdings internal ledgers. They detailed millions of dollars in embezzled funds by her father and Charlee. This was her leverage, her private weapon to force her father's hand and reclaim her inheritance. Exposing it publicly was a last resort.

Falon shoved the folder into her black leather clutch.

She grabbed her car keys. She walked out of the apartment without looking back.

Across the city, in the penthouse office of Farrell Enterprises, Bell sat behind his massive mahogany desk.

He stared at a live security feed on his monitor. It showed Falon walking out of her apartment building, her spine perfectly straight.

Bell's lips curved into a slow, predatory smile.