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.