The car hummed over the asphalt, the suspension so smooth it felt like they were floating. Harper's sobbing had quieted to wet, hiccuping gasps. She sniffled loudly, digging into her small clutch for a tissue, but found only a lipstick and a breath mint.

A hand extended from the shadows.

It held a square of dark gray silk.

Harper took it instinctively. "Thanks," she croaked, wiping her eyes. "This Uber service is amazing. Usually, I just get a bottle of water."

She blew her nose into the fabric. It was soft. Too soft.

She paused. Her fingers rubbed the material. This wasn't a tissue. It was heavy silk. She looked down. Embroidered in the corner with silver thread was a stylized letter M.

Harper froze. She slowly lowered the hand. She ran her other hand along the seat beneath her. It wasn't the sticky vinyl of a standard ride-share. It was buttery, perforated Nappa leather.

The realization hit her like a bucket of ice water.

She snapped her head up, squinting into the dim corner of the spacious cabin.

The man was watching her. He wore a black turtleneck that swallowed the light. A cashmere blanket was draped over his legs. His face was pale, angular, and devastatingly handsome, but his eyes were cold-flat and lifeless, like the surface of a frozen lake.

Harper scrambled backward, pressing herself against the door handle. "You... Who are you? I'm calling the police!"

Before she could unlock her screen, her phone blasted a pop song. The screen lit up with the name Chloe.

Harper answered it, her hands shaking. "Chloe?"

"Babe!" Chloe's voice was loud enough to be heard without speakerphone. "Brunch is booked! Mimosas are on ice! We are celebrating you shedding that dead weight!"

Harper kept her eyes glued to the man in the corner. "Chloe," she whispered, "I didn't just shed him. I was dumped. And... I think I just carjacked someone. Or I'm being kidnapped."

The man in the corner raised an eyebrow. The corner of his mouth twitched, a microscopic crack in his stoic mask.

He reached forward and pressed a button on the console. "Velvet Room," he said.

His voice was deep, resonant, and terrifyingly calm. It vibrated in Harper's chest.

"I'm not going to a club!" Harper yelled, panic rising. She slapped the window. "Let me out!"

The man turned his head fully toward her. "Miss, you jumped into my car. And you have effectively ruined my handkerchief."

Harper looked down at the snot-filled ball of silk in her hand. Her face burned.

"Velvet Room?" Chloe shrieked on the phone. "Harper! That's members only! Who are you with?"

"A... a good Samaritan?" Harper said weakly. "Or a serial killer. It's 50/50 right now."

The man closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the headrest. "Get out when we stop," he said, dismissing her entirely.

The car fell silent. Harper shrank into her corner. The adrenaline was fading, leaving room for the misery to return. She thought about the look on Bradford's face. The way Victoria had looked at her like she was trash. And now, here she was, humiliating herself in front of a stranger who clearly cost more per hour than she would make in a lifetime.

Screw it.

"Chloe," Harper said into the phone, her voice hardening. "Meet me at the Velvet Room. Since life is screwing me, I might as well get drunk on the most expensive liquor in the city."

The car slowed to a halt in a narrow, brick-walled alleyway. It wasn't the main entrance.

The driver opened the rear door on the right side. He didn't offer a hand. Instead, he walked to the trunk and retrieved a sleek, carbon-fiber wheelchair.

Harper watched, her mouth slightly open, as the driver positioned the chair. The man in the turtleneck used his arms-powerful, corded with muscle-to lift himself from the seat and into the chair with practiced, fluid efficiency.

He settled into the seat and adjusted his cuffs. He didn't look back at her.

Harper stared at the wheelchair, her fear suddenly replaced by a confusing wave of curiosity and guilt.

The bass of the house music thumped against Harper's ribcage. She slammed the shot glass onto the marble bar. The burn of the tequila was the only thing that felt real.

"Easy, tiger!" Chloe grabbed Harper's wrist before she could signal the bartender again. "That shot was fifty dollars. Fifty. Dollars."

Harper slumped onto the bar, resting her chin on her folded arms. Her eyes were glassy. "Bradford said I was a negative asset, Chlo. A negative asset."

Chloe sighed, wrapping an arm around Harper's shoulders. "You have me. And you have your... you know. Your skills."

Harper waved a finger in the air. "Shh. Zero is offline. Tonight, it's just pathetic Harper."

She spun around on the barstool, leaning her back against the counter to survey the room. The Velvet Room was dark, sexy, and filled with people who looked like they were allergic to carbohydrates.

Her gaze drifted upward to the second floor. A glass-walled balcony overlooked the dance floor. The VIP area.

The lighting up there was dim, but she recognized the silhouette immediately. The wheelchair.

He was sitting alone in the corner of the box. There were people around-men in suits, women in dresses that defied physics-but he was isolated. He held a tumbler of amber liquid, staring out at the writhing crowd below with that same detached, cold expression he'd had in the car.

"Chloe," Harper slurred, pointing a finger upward. "Look at him."

Chloe squinted. "Whoa. That's the Owner's Box. You don't get in there unless you own a country."

"He looks..." Harper tilted her head. "Lonely."

"He looks rich," Chloe corrected.

"No," Harper insisted. The alcohol was making her sentimental. It was making her project her own broken heart onto the stranger. "He's like me. Discarded. Just watching everyone else live."

An idea formed in her tequila-soaked brain. It was a terrible idea.

She dug into her purse and pulled out her phone. She opened Venmo, then realized she didn't know his name. She shoved the phone back and pulled out a crumpled twenty-dollar bill.

"I'm going to buy him a drink," Harper announced. "Solidarity. Us broken toys need to stick together."

"Harper, no!" Chloe grabbed for her, but Harper was already moving.

She stumbled toward the stairs guarded by a man the size of a vending machine.

"Private area, Miss," the bouncer grunted, stepping in her path.

Harper blinked, her hacker brain suddenly firing through the fog of alcohol. She subtly tapped her phone against the edge of the bar's POS terminal, then looked at the bouncer's earpiece. "Your comms frequency is jamming," she said confidently, pointing to a spot behind him. "The captain on the left is trying to reach you. Sounds urgent."

The bouncer frowned, instinctively touching his ear as a burst of static hissed through it. He turned his head to check his colleague.

In that split second, Harper slipped past him like a ghost.

She wobbled up the stairs and pushed open the heavy glass door to the VIP box.

The sound of the music instantly dampened to a dull thrum. The air inside was cool. Every head in the room turned to look at her.

Jefferson looked up. He saw the girl from the car-disheveled, holding a twenty-dollar bill like a weapon. His brow furrowed.

Harper marched right up to him. She stood over his wheelchair, swaying slightly.

She slapped the wrinkled twenty dollars onto the small table beside his drink.

"Hey, handsome," she said, her words running together. "Don't be sad. Legs can be fixed. Hearts... hearts are harder."

A collective gasp went through the room. Two men in suits started to reach inside their jackets.

Jefferson raised a hand, stopping them. He looked at the bill, then up at Harper. His eyes glittered with something dangerous.

"Is this..." he said slowly, "a tip?"

Jefferson reached out, his long, pale fingers pinching the corner of the dirty bill. He lifted it as if it were contaminated.

"Twenty dollars," he murmured. "My appearance fee is usually higher."

Harper tilted her head, trying to focus on his face. He was even better looking up close. "Okay, then. Venmo? Or WeChat?"

She plopped down onto the leather sofa opposite him, crossing her legs. She leaned forward, invading his personal space.

"What's your name?" she asked. "I'm... Negative Asset." She let out a short, bitter laugh.

Jefferson stared at her. "Jefferson."

"Jeff? Nice. Sounds like a good guy." Harper pulled her phone out and waved it aimlessly.

She leaned closer. Her face was inches from his.

Jefferson could smell her. Beneath the sharp scent of cheap tequila, she smelled like citrus and rain. It was disarming.

He didn't pull back. He held her gaze, his dark eyes searching hers. "You aren't afraid of me?"

Harper blinked slowly, her lashes fluttering. She looked at his mouth. "Why? Are you going to bite?"

Jefferson's throat bobbed. A muscle in his jaw jumped.

Harper decided she needed a drink. She reached for the crystal decanter on the table between them.

Her heel caught the edge of the thick Persian rug.

"Whoa-"

She pitched forward.

Jefferson's hands shot out. It was instinct.

Harper landed hard. Not on the floor, but in his lap. She straddled his legs, her hands flying up to wrap around his neck to steady herself.

The wheelchair rolled back a few inches with a squeak of rubber on wood.

Harper froze. She was sitting on him. Her chest was pressed against his. She could feel the heat radiating from him through the black turtleneck.

The bodyguards surged forward. "Sir-!"

"Stand down," Jefferson barked, his voice rough. He didn't look at them. He was looking at Harper.

Harper looked down at her legs, draped over his. Then she looked at him, wide-eyed. "Wow. Your legs... they're actually really solid." She squeezed his thigh muscle. It was firm, yes, but with an unnatural, cold density that felt more like marble than living muscle.

Jefferson's entire body went rigid. His grip on her waist tightened, his fingers digging in. His ears turned a shade of pink.

"Get. Off." His voice was a low growl, dangerous and intimate.

Harper scrambled to move, but suddenly, the ambient lighting in the box vanished, replaced by harsh, blinding white overhead lights.

From the floor below, screams erupted.

"NYPD! Nobody move! Hands where we can see them!"

The voice boomed over a megaphone.

Jefferson's face went pale. Genuine fear flashed in his eyes for the first time. He looked at the door, then at his watch. It was 11:15 PM.

His parole conditions were strict. No presence in entertainment venues past 9:00 PM. If he was booked tonight, the DOJ would revoke his bail. Montgomery Holdings stock would tank by morning.

He was trapped.