Keira woke up gasping.

For a second, she didn't know where she was.

The ceiling was cracked, a map of spiderwebs in the plaster. The light filtering through the window was gray and gritty.

There were no curtains. Just a sheet of newspaper taped over the bottom half of the glass.

Memory crashed into her like a physical blow.

The Bronx. The apartment. Dock.

She sat up, her heart doing a frantic rhythm in her chest until she saw the door.

Still locked.

She let out a breath she didn't know she was holding.

She looked down at herself. She was still in the wedding dress. The tulle was crushed, the silk wrinkled and sad.

She felt ridiculous.

She scrambled off the bare mattress. She needed to get out of this thing.

She opened her small duffel bag-the only thing she had brought with her.

Jeans. A white t-shirt. Sneakers.

She stripped off the dress, her fingers fumbling with the tiny buttons at the back. When the heavy fabric finally pooled at her feet, she felt lighter.

She dressed quickly, pulling her hair back into a severe ponytail.

She needed to face him.

She unlocked the door slowly, wincing as the bolt clicked.

The living room was empty.

The blanket he had thrown at her was folded neatly on the sofa. The air smelled of stale smoke and coffee.

On the small wooden table, there was a piece of paper.

She walked over to it.

It was a note, scrawled in black ink. The handwriting was jagged, aggressive.

Don't touch my shit.

Keira looked around the room.

In the corner, near the window, there was a stack of metal boxes. They looked like computer parts, or maybe radio equipment. Wires spilled out of them like black spaghetti.

Her stomach tightened.

Was it stolen? Was he fencing stolen goods?

She took a step back. She didn't want to know. Plausible deniability. That was what the lawyers always said.

But the rest of the room...

It was clean, but it was messy. Dust motes danced in the light.

She couldn't help herself. It was a nervous tic. When she was anxious, she cleaned.

She found a broom in the narrow closet by the kitchen.

She started sweeping.

The rhythmic swish-swish of the bristles against the wood calmed her nerves. She organized the few magazines on the table. She straightened the cushions on the sofa.

Keira was just bending down to pick up a stray piece of lint when the front door opened.

She froze.

Dock stood there.

He was wearing a black hoodie with the sleeves pushed up and basketball shorts. He was sweating.

He had been running.

In this neighborhood? Alone?

He looked at her. Then he looked at the broom in her hand. Then at the tidy room.

One of his dark eyebrows shot up.

"I didn't hire a maid," he said.

He walked in, kicking the door shut with his heel. He was carrying two brown paper bags and a cardboard tray with two coffees.

He walked to the table and dropped the bags.

"Catch."

He tossed something at her.

Keira dropped the broom and caught it against her chest.

It was a bagel wrapped in foil. It was warm.

"Eat," he said. He picked up one of the coffees-black, no sugar, she could tell by the smell-and took a long sip.

"You're not like your sister."

The mention of Janie made Keira's spine stiffen.

"What?"

"Janie," he said, his voice flat. "She wouldn't know which end of a broom to hold. Did Daddy cut off the allowance?"

He was mocking her.

Keira gripped the warm bagel tighter, the foil crinkling.

"I like things clean," she said quietly.

He studied her over the rim of his cup. His eyes were too sharp. Too intelligent for a thug.

He took a step toward her.

The air in the room seemed to compress.

"Let's get the rules straight, Princess," he said.

He held up three fingers.

"One. I don't support dead weight. You pay half the rent. You pay for your own food."

Keira blinked. She had expected him to demand access to her trust fund (which didn't exist) or ask for cash.

"Okay," she said. "That's fair."

He looked surprised for a nanosecond, then his expression hardened again.

"Two. You do the chores. I don't cook, I don't clean."

"Fine."

"Three," he stepped closer. She could smell the sweat on him, and the coffee. It wasn't unpleasant. It was... human.

"We don't ask questions. You don't ask about my past. I don't ask about your family. We stay out of each other's way."

"Deal," Keira said immediately.

She didn't want to know about his past. She didn't want to know who he had hurt to end up in prison.

"Good."

He set his coffee down and pulled his hoodie over his head.

Keira looked away, but not fast enough.

She saw the ripple of his abs, the V-line disappearing into his shorts.

"I'm hitting the shower," he said. "Don't steal the silverware while I'm gone. Oh wait, I don't have any."

He disappeared into the bathroom.

A moment later, the pipes groaned, and the shower turned on.

The sound of the water was loud in the small apartment. Intimate.

Keira stared at the bathroom door.

She needed money.

She looked at the bedroom door where the Vera Wang dress lay in a heap.

The deposit.

If she returned it today, she could get the two-thousand-dollar deposit back. That would cover her share of the rent for months.

Keira ran into the bedroom.

She shoved the dress into the garment bag. It was heavy, awkward.

She dragged it out into the living room just as the bathroom door opened.

Steam billowed out.

Dock stepped out.

He had a towel wrapped low around his hips. And that was it.

Water droplets clung to his chest hair, sliding down over those jagged scars.

Keira froze, clutching the garment bag like a shield.

Her face went hot. Blazing hot.

He didn't even blink. He didn't cover up. He didn't apologize.

He just looked at her, then at the massive bag in her arms.

"Going somewhere?"

"I... I have to return this," Keira stammered. "To get the deposit back."

His eyes dropped to the bag. He knew what was inside. A dress that cost more than he probably made in five years.

And she was desperate to return it for cash.

Something flickered in his eyes. Calculation.

"Right," he said. "Don't let me keep you."

Keira turned and fled the apartment, her heart pounding in her throat.

As the door clicked shut, Jonah dropped the towel.

He walked to the table and picked up his phone.

He dialed a number.

"Chad," he said, his voice dropping into the commanding tone of a CEO. "Pull the financials on the Jacobson family. Specifically their liquidity."

"Jonah?" Chad's voice was crackly. "Why? Are they a target?"

"Something doesn't add up," Jonah said, looking at the door where Keira had just run out. "She's pawning a dress for rent money. Find out why."

The subway ride was a nightmare.

The garment bag was too big. It took up two seats.

People glared at Keira. A man in a dirty windbreaker actually spit on the floor near her shoe.

By the time she got to 5th Avenue, she was sweating.

She stepped out of the subway station and into the heat of Manhattan.

The city was different here. The sidewalks were clean. The people smelled like expensive perfume and old money.

Keira felt like an imposter.

She dragged the bag down the street to Lumière Bridal.

The window display was breathtaking. Mannequins with no heads modeled dresses that looked like clouds.

She looked down at her sneakers. They were scuffed.

Chin up, Keira.

She pushed through the heavy glass revolving door.

The air conditioning hit her instantly. It was freezing inside. And it smelled of lilies.

Three clerks were standing behind the marble counter, gossiping.

They looked up as Keira approached. Their eyes did a collective sweep of her jeans, her t-shirt, her messy ponytail.

They dismissed her instantly.

"Can I help you?" one of them asked. Her nametag said Brenda. She was chewing gum.

"I'm here to return this," Keira said, heaving the bag onto the counter. "It was a rental."

Brenda sighed, like Keira had asked her to donate a kidney.

She unzipped the bag. She grabbed the silk with rough, manicured fingers, pulling it out.

"Careful," Keira said automatically. "It's silk."

Brenda snorted. "If you can't afford to rent it, don't rent it."

She inspected the hem.

"Stain," she announced loudly.

"What?" Keira leaned over. "Where?"

She pointed to a microscopic gray smudge near the bottom. "Dirt. Dust. Whatever."

"That's just from the bag," Keira said, panic rising. "It wipes off. Look."

She reached out to brush it away.

Brenda slapped her hand away.

"Don't touch the merchandise."

"It's my deposit," Keira said, her voice trembling. "I need that deposit back. It was two thousand dollars."

"No refund on damaged goods," Brenda said, zipping the bag back up. "Read the contract."

"That's not damage! You're stealing from me!"

"Lower your voice," she snapped. "Or I'll call security."

"Oh, look who it is."

The voice came from the entrance. High-pitched. Mocking.

Keira's blood ran cold.

She turned around.

Janie was standing there. And her stepmother, Geraldine.

They looked perfect. Blow-dried hair. Chanel suits.

Janie walked over, her heels clicking on the marble.

"I thought I smelled something cheap," Janie said, wrinkling her nose. "How's the honeymoon, Keira? Did your convict husband beat you yet?"

The shop went silent. The other customers-women in pearls and silk-turned to stare.

Brenda's eyes widened. She looked from Janie to Keira.

"You know her, Miss Jacobson?"

"Unfortunately," Janie laughed. "She's the family charity case. And apparently, she's causing a scene."

"I just want my money," Keira whispered. She felt tears pricking her eyes. She hated herself for it.

"Get her out of here," Geraldine said. She sounded bored. "She's disturbing the atmosphere."

Brenda nodded. She pressed a button under the counter.

Two seconds later, a security guard appeared. He was big. Beefy.

"Miss, you need to leave," he said, grabbing Keira's arm.

"My dress!" Keira cried, reaching for the bag.

"We'll keep it as collateral for the cleaning fee," Brenda sneered.

The guard pulled her. Hard.

She stumbled. Her sneaker sque squeaked on the polished floor.

"Get your hands off me!"

He didn't listen. He dragged her toward the revolving door.

Janie was laughing.

Keira was being thrown out like trash.

The guard shoved her toward the glass.

"And don't come back," he grunted.

She braced herself for the impact of the door.

But the door didn't move.

It stopped dead.

A hand-a large, tanned hand with scarred knuckles-was pressed against the glass from the outside.

The guard frowned and pushed harder.

The door didn't budge. It was like pushing against a mountain.

Through the glass, Keira saw him.

Dock.

He was wearing a black canvas jacket and a baseball cap pulled low.

But she saw his eyes.

They were terrifying.

He pushed the door. The mechanism groaned in protest.

The guard stumbled back, surprised by the force.

Dock stepped inside.

The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

He didn't look at the dresses. He didn't look at Janie.

He looked at the guard's hand on Keira's arm.

"Let. Her. Go."

His voice was quiet. But it carried across the room like a crack of thunder.

The guard released her instantly. He looked at Dock, sensing the violence radiating off him.

Keira stood there, trembling, tears finally spilling over.

Dock looked at her. His jaw was clenched so tight a muscle feathered in his cheek.

He reached out and pulled her behind him.

His body was a wall. A shield.

He looked at the room full of wealthy women and sneering clerks.

"Which one of you made her cry?"

"Oh my God!" Janie shrieked. She pointed a manicured finger at Dock. "It's him! It's the rapist! Call the police!"

Dock didn't even flinch. He didn't look at her.

He walked to the counter.

Brenda, the clerk who had been so smug a minute ago, took a step back. She looked at Dock's scars, at the dangerous set of his shoulders, and she went pale.

"Don't... don't hurt me," she squeaked.

"The dress," Dock said.

He picked up the garment bag from the counter.

"You can't take that!" Brenda stammered. "She didn't pay the cleaning fee! It's damaged!"

Dock looked at the bag. Then he looked at Brenda.

"Damaged," he repeated.

"Yes! It's... it's ruined!"

Keira tugged on the back of Dock's jacket. "Dock, please. Let's just go. I don't want the money anymore. Please."

She was terrified. If the police came, they would arrest him. He was an ex-con. They wouldn't ask questions.

He turned to her. His eyes softened, just a fraction.

"Don't be afraid," he murmured.

He turned back to the counter.

A man in a suit came rushing out from the back office. The Manager.

"What is going on here?" he demanded. "I'm calling 911!"

Dock reached into his back pocket.

Keira's heart stopped. Was he reaching for a weapon? A knife?

He pulled out a card.

It was black. Metal.

He slapped it onto the glass counter. The sound was sharp, decisive.

Clack.

The Manager looked down.

He froze.

His eyes bulged. He looked from the card to Dock's face, trying to reconcile the scruffy, scarred man with the piece of titanium on the counter.

It was an American Express Centurion card. The Black Card.

But not just a normal one. It had a specific geometric pattern on the edge.

"Swipe it," Dock said.

"Sir... I..." The Manager was shaking.

"Buy the dress," Dock said. "And the one in the window. And that one." He pointed to a gown that probably cost ten thousand dollars.

"Is this... is this yours?" the Manager whispered.

Dock leaned over the counter. He got right in the Manager's face.

His voice dropped to a lethal whisper. "Does it matter?"

The Manager went white. He looked like he was going to vomit.

He started to stammer, "But Mr. P-"

Dock's eyes went dead cold. It was a look that promised consequences far worse than a 911 call. The Manager's mouth snapped shut so fast his teeth clicked.

"Swipe. The. Card."

"Yes! Yes, sir! Immediately!"

The Manager scrambled to the machine. His hands were shaking so badly he dropped the card twice.

"He stole it!" Janie yelled from the back. "He stole that card! Arrest him!"

"Quiet!" the Manager roared at Janie. "Not another word, Miss Jacobson!"

Janie's jaw dropped.

The machine beeped. Approved.

The receipt printed.

Dock took the card and shoved it back into his pocket like it was a gum wrapper.

"Pack them up," he said.

"Yes, sir. Right away. I'll have them delivered to..."

"We'll take them," Dock said.

He grabbed the garment bag.

He turned to Brenda. She was trembling.

"You," Dock said.

"Me?"

"I don't like your face. Or your attitude."

He looked at the Manager.

"Fire her."

"Done," the Manager said instantly. "Brenda, get your things. You're gone."

"But..." Brenda started to cry.

"Now!" the Manager screamed.

Dead silence filled the boutique.

Dock turned to Keira. He put his hand on the small of her back. His touch was warm, firm.

"Let's go."

He guided her out the door, past a stunned Janie and Geraldine.

They walked out onto 5th Avenue.

The wind hit Keira's face.

She stopped. She pulled away from him.

She stared at him, her eyes wide with horror.

"What did you do?" she whispered.

He looked at her, his face impassive.

"I bought the dresses."

"With a stolen card!" Keira hissed, looking around for police. "You stole a Black Card! Do you know how much trouble were in? That's grand larceny! That's... that's federal!"

Dock looked at her. He saw the genuine terror in her eyes.

He sighed. He rubbed the back of his neck.

"It's not stolen," he said.

"Don't lie to me! I saw the manager's face! He was terrified!"

"It's a clone," Dock said smoothly. The lie came easily. "I have a friend. From inside. He makes them. It's linked to a dummy corporate account in the Caymans."

Keira's knees went weak.

"A clone card? You're a hacker?"

"Something like that," he said. "The bill goes to a shell company. It's untraceable."

"Oh my God," Keira breathed. "We're criminals."

"Technically," he said, gesturing to the three massive dress bags now on the curb. "I'm the criminal. You're just the accessory."

He started walking.

"Come on. I'm hungry."