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.

The glass door to the box flew open.

Four NYPD officers in tactical gear stormed in, weapons drawn.

"Hands! Let me see hands!"

Officer Miller, a man with a face like a bulldog, lowered his weapon when he saw the wheelchair. He paused, a smirk spreading across his face.

"Jefferson Montgomery," Miller said, holstering his gun. "Well, well. You're supposed to be under house arrest in the Hamptons."

Flashbulbs popped from the hallway. The press had tailed the police.

Jefferson's mind raced. He calculated the fallout. Violation of curfew. Presence at a suspected money-laundering front.

He looked down at Harper, who was still frozen in his lap, looking like a deer in headlights.

He made a decision.

Jefferson didn't push her away. Instead, his hand moved to the back of her head, pressing her face into his chest, shielding her from the cameras.

"Officer Miller," Jefferson said, his voice smooth as silk. "I'm celebrating my engagement. Surely love isn't a crime?"

Miller narrowed his eyes. "Engagement? You're single, Montgomery."

Harper tried to pull back, to speak. "I-"

Jefferson pinched her side. Hard. He leaned his mouth to her ear. "Play along," he hissed, "or I sue you for sexual harassment and assault."

Harper went limp. "Okay," she squeaked into his sweater.

"We just decided tonight," Jefferson lied effortlessly. "It's... an elopement."

Miller laughed. It was a dry, ugly sound. "An elopement? In a club being raided for narcotics?" He stepped closer. "Unless you have a marriage license on you right now, this is a parole violation. You're coming downtown."

"We were on our way to City Hall," Jefferson countered. "You interrupted us."

Miller checked his watch. "It's 11:20. City Hall is closed."

Jefferson stared at him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. The room went silent.

He dialed a number. "Get me my attorney. Now."

He waited three seconds. "Patterson. I need an emergency judicial waiver for a marriage license. Immediate issuance. Yes, authorize the maximum expedited processing fee. And make a donation to the Policeman's Benevolent Fund. Triple the usual amount. Get it done."

He hung up. He looked at Miller. "The clerk is opening the emergency window. Care to escort us? If it's fake, you can arrest me there."

Miller's jaw worked. He knew he was beaten by money and influence, but he wasn't letting go yet. "Fine. I'll drive you myself. If that paper isn't signed in an hour, you're sleeping in a cell."

Jefferson looked down at Harper. "Darling," he said loud enough for the press to hear. "Looks like we get a police escort."

Harper looked up at him. The alcohol was fading, replaced by sheer terror. She looked at this stranger, this powerful, manipulative man who had just claimed her.

"Let's go," Jefferson commanded.

His driver pushed the wheelchair forward. Harper, shoeless and shaking, had no choice but to walk beside him, Jefferson's hand gripping hers like a vice.

Outside, the sirens wailed. This time, they were clearing the road for them.