The white keycard Kayden had given me was slick with rain. I turned it over in my fingers. On the back, someone had scrawled an address in permanent marker. Brooklyn.

I took a bus and walked five blocks, my wet shoes squeaking with every step. The Brooklyn apartment building looked like it was held together by graffiti and black mold.

I stood in front of the battered metal security door. I swiped the keycard through the reader. A green light blinked, and the lock clicked open.

I climbed three flights of stairs. The hallway smelled of mold and stale cigarettes. I found the apartment number and pressed the faulty doorbell with my numb, bleeding fingers.

The door was yanked open. A man stood there with wild hair sticking up in every direction. He looked me up and down, his eyes wide and unblinking, before letting out a high-pitched, mocking snort.

"Josef," a low voice called from inside the apartment. Kayden. "Let her in."

So that was his name. Josef.

I ignored him. I pushed my shoulder past his chest and forced my way inside.

The heavy stench of cheap cigars and stale coffee hit the back of my throat. I coughed, my lungs protesting the thick air.

Through the dim lighting of the cramped living room, I saw Kayden. He was standing in front of a massive whiteboard covered in complex financial algorithms. His broad back was to me, his posture radiating a lethal, coiled focus.

He turned around. His dark eyes swept over my shivering, dripping frame. He grabbed a clean towel from the back of a chair and threw it directly at my face. The heavy cotton hit me with a soft thud. It was a rough gesture, but the fabric was dry.

I pulled the towel off my face, scrubbed my wet hair, and dropped onto the sagging, torn sofa.

"What are the terms?" I demanded, looking straight into his eyes.

Kayden walked over. He towered over me, the sheer physical mass of him making the small room feel suffocating.

"You play my gold-digging fiancée," he said, his voice flat. "You keep the media off my back and block the arranged marriages my family is trying to force on me."

I let out a harsh, bitter laugh. "And what exactly do I get? Because I don't work for IOUs."

Kayden leaned down. He planted both hands on the back of the sofa, trapping me between his arms. His face was inches from mine. He smelled like expensive scotch and raw danger.

"I will find out exactly who framed you for the corporate fraud," he whispered, his breath hot against my cold cheek.

My heart physically skipped a beat. A jolt of adrenaline shot straight to my fingertips. I forced my face to remain entirely blank.

"I want a hundred thousand dollars. Cash. Upfront," I said, my voice steady despite the hammering in my chest.

Kayden raised a single, dark eyebrow. He looked mildly surprised by my audacity, but he didn't argue. He pulled a sleek black phone from his pocket, tapped the screen a few times, and routed the money through a hidden offshore account.

My cheap phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out. A bank notification flashed across the cracked screen. The phone was ancient, but the prepaid balance hadn't run out yet. The money was there. The tension in my neck muscles finally released.

"We need ground rules," I said, sitting up straighter.

In the cramped kitchen, Josef started violently slamming pots and pans into the sink. The deafening crash of metal on metal made my skull throb.

I snapped. I grabbed a green apple from the coffee table and hurled it with terrifying precision. It smashed directly into the wooden doorframe, inches from Josef's head, exploding into chunks.

"Shut up!" I screamed, my vocal cords tearing.

Josef blinked, looked at the smashed apple, and went completely silent.

Kayden's eyes darkened with a flash of genuine approval. He picked up a printed Non-Disclosure Agreement from the table and handed it to me along with a heavy metal pen.

The pen scratched loudly against the thick paper as I signed my name.

Before I could hand it back, a deafening crash shook the entire apartment. Someone was kicking the front door with enough force to make the plaster rain down from the ceiling in a fine white dust.

Kayden's eyes turned to ice. He grabbed my upper arm and shoved me hard behind his back.

Josef let out a gleeful chirp and slid a solid aluminum baseball bat from under the sofa.

The deadbolt splintered. The door flew open, slamming into the wall.

Three massive men stepped into the room. They wore cheap suits, but the Washington family security pins on their lapels gleamed in the dim light.

The lead thug sneered, revealing a gold tooth. "Look at the stray dog in his little pound. Benji sent us to clear out this property."

Kayden stared at them. There was no fear in his eyes. Only the cold, empty look of a man staring at corpses.

The thug took a step forward, reaching out to shove Kayden's chest.

I didn't think. The prison instincts took over. I darted out from behind Kayden, grabbed the heavy glass ashtray off the table, and smashed it down onto the edge of the coffee table.

The glass shattered with a violent crack. I gripped the jagged base, the sharp edges biting into my palm, and pointed the bloody, broken glass directly at the thug's throat.

"Get the hell out of my house," I snarled, my eyes wide and feral.

The thugs froze. They looked at the crazy woman bleeding onto the floor, genuinely unnerved.

That second of hesitation was all Josef needed. He lunged like a rabid dog, swinging the bat in a brutal arc. The sickening crack of breaking ribs echoed through the room as the lead thug collapsed, screaming.

Kayden moved with terrifying speed. He snatched a telescopic baton from the second thug's belt, flipped it open with a flick of his wrist, and drove the steel tip directly into the side of the man's neck. The thug's eyes rolled back, and he dropped like a stone.

The third man looked at his bleeding partners, turned, and sprinted down the hallway.

Kayden tossed the baton onto the floor. He turned slowly, his chest heaving slightly, and looked at me.

I was still holding the broken glass. My hands were shaking so violently I could barely keep my grip. I dropped the glass. It shattered into smaller pieces on the rug. I took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing oxygen back into my brain.

I looked up at Kayden. "I want hazard pay added to the contract."

The corner of Kayden's mouth twitched upward in a dark, almost imperceptible smirk. He took the signed NDA from my trembling hand.

"Pleasure doing business with you," he murmured.

He pointed a long finger toward the only bedroom down the narrow hall. "That one has a lock. It's yours."

The battered Range Rover pulled up to the curb in front of the towering glass facade of the Washington Group headquarters.

I looked down at my hand. The cuts from the broken glass were shallow but raw. Back at the apartment, before we left, I had rinsed them under cold tap water and wrapped a strip of torn bedsheet around my palm. The makeshift bandage was hidden inside the sleeve of the dark sweater Kayden had silently handed me—his, by the smell of cedar and smoke, but clean. It hung loose on my frame, but it was better than my ruined dress.

I flexed my fingers. A dull ache shot through the wound, but the bleeding had stopped. I tucked my injured hand into my pocket, keeping it out of sight.

The moment the tires stopped, the media descended. They swarmed the car like sharks smelling blood in the water.

I pushed my door open. A wall of blinding white camera flashes exploded in my face. The intense light seared my retinas, forcing me to squeeze my eyes shut.

Microphones were shoved aggressively toward my face. The reporters screamed questions, their voices blending into a deafening, malicious roar.

Kayden stepped out of the driver's side. He moved around the hood with long, predatory strides. Without a word, his large hand clamped firmly around my waist. He pulled me flush against his side, using his own body to shield me from the crushing weight of the crowd.

Even through the fabric of my dress, his palm felt branding-iron hot. My spine went rigid.

A female gossip reporter shoved her recorder inches from my mouth. "Christa! How does it feel to go from a Schroeder heiress to a convicted fraudster sleeping with a disgraced billionaire? Are you just desperate for cash?"

The words hit exactly where they were meant to. All the blood drained from my face. My stomach plummeted. My fingers curled inward, grabbing a fistful of Kayden's suit jacket, holding on like it was a lifeline. The motion pulled at the cut on my palm, sending a sharp sting up my arm, but I ignored it.

Kayden stopped walking. The temperature in the air seemed to drop ten degrees. He turned his head and pinned the reporter with a stare so lethally cold that the shouting around us instantly died down.

I took a sharp breath. The humiliation burned, but the anger burned hotter. I lifted my chin, forcing a mask of absolute, aristocratic arrogance onto my face.

I looked the reporter dead in the eye. "Your network's desperation is palpable. I can smell it from here. Perhaps you should focus on your plummeting ratings and the cheap, off-the-rack suit you're wearing instead of harassing people who are clearly out of your league. Learn some basic journalistic integrity before you bark at me like a stray dog."

The brutal, razor-sharp takedown left the reporter standing there with her mouth hanging open. The entire press pack fell into a stunned, dead silence.

Kayden looked down at me. A flash of dark amusement and genuine surprise sparked in his eyes. His grip on my waist tightened, and he used the silence to carve a path straight through the crowd and into the revolving glass doors of the lobby.

The blast of corporate air conditioning hit my flushed skin.

The lobby manager, a woman in a tight pencil skirt, saw us approaching. Her face immediately twisted into a sneer. She crossed her arms and stepped in front of the executive elevator bank.

"Mr. Washington, your access has been revoked," she said, her voice dripping with fake pity.

Two massive security guards stepped up behind her. Their hands rested heavily on the batons at their belts. They widened their stances, ready for a physical altercation.

I didn't step back. I stepped forward.

I reached out with my left hand—the uninjured one—and ripped the walkie-talkie straight off the shoulder strap of the lead guard. He was so shocked he didn't even react.

I pressed the transmit button. My voice was ice. "I have a recorded line to my attorney. Illegally detaining a citizen—even a former Schroeder—is a very, very expensive mistake. You have exactly three seconds to decide if your security firm can afford the kind of lawsuit that will bankrupt your entire operation by noon."

It was a bluff. I didn't have an attorney on retainer. But my voice carried the weight of someone who did.

The guard stared at me. The sheer, unyielding authority in my voice-the authority drilled into me from twenty-one years of living as a Schroeder-made him sweat. A bead of moisture rolled down his temple.

The manager swallowed hard. Her hands shook as she pulled her master keycard from her lanyard and swiped it against the scanner.

The elevator chimed a crisp, clear note. The stainless steel doors slid open.

We stepped inside. The doors closed, instantly cutting off the hostile stares of the lobby.

As the elevator shot upward, the sudden shift in gravity made my stomach swoop. Kayden dropped his hand from my waist. The sudden absence of his heat left a cold patch on my skin. I took a step to the side, re-establishing a safe physical distance.

Kayden leaned his broad shoulders against the mirrored wall. "Flawless acting back there. Your hand?"

I smoothed down the front of my dress, keeping my eyes fixed on the changing floor numbers.

"It's fine. Just a scratch." I flexed my fingers inside my pocket. The bandage was still dry. "It's called professional courtesy. You paid for a shield. Don't read into it."

The elevator chimed again. Floor 80.

We stepped out onto the plush carpet of the executive corridor. We walked to the massive double doors of Kayden's old corner office. The digital keypad lock was glowing red.

Through the thick mahogany, the unmistakable sound of a woman's breathy laughter and a man's low moan drifted into the hallway.

Kayden stopped dead. The muscles in his jaw feathered. His eyes turned into black, bottomless pits of rage. The air around him practically vibrated with violence.

I felt the shift in his energy. I stepped closer, closing the distance between us, and slid my arm through his.

I leaned in, my lips brushing against the collar of his shirt. "Ready for war, fiancé?" I whispered, my warm breath hitting the skin of his neck.

Kayden turned his head. His eyes locked onto mine for a fraction of a second. He pulled his arm free, grabbed my hand, intertwining our fingers tightly. The pressure was firm but careful, avoiding the tender part of my palm.

Without breaking stride, he lifted his heavy leather boot and kicked the mahogany door directly beside the lock.

The deafening crack of splintering wood echoed like a gunshot. The heavy double doors flew open, the metal locking mechanism tearing out of the frame and bouncing across the expensive Persian rug.

Inside the sprawling office, Justina-Kayden's former fiancée-was sitting on the edge of the massive leather executive desk. Her silk blouse was unbuttoned halfway down her chest. Her face was a mask of sheer panic.

Standing right beside her, hastily adjusting the knot of his cheap tie, was Jerrad Haney. The quiet, pathetic executive assistant.

Justina's shock lasted exactly two seconds before it morphed into vicious, defensive arrogance. She slid off the desk, buttoning her shirt with shaking fingers.

"How the hell did you get in here, you beggar?" Justina shrieked, her voice echoing off the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Her eyes darted to my hand, still firmly encased in Kayden's. Her upper lip curled in profound disgust. "And I see your taste has plummeted along with your net worth. Picking up Schroeder family trash. A literal convict."

My blood ran cold, but I forced a razor-sharp smile onto my face.

"At least I'm getting paid to be here," I fired back, my voice smooth and lethal. "You're just giving it away to the help because you're too pathetic to handle a canceled wedding."

Justina's face turned violently red. She let out a wordless scream, lunged forward in her stiletto heels, and swung her hand in a wide arc, aiming a vicious slap at my face.

My reflexes, honed by years of surviving cell block fights, kicked in instantly.

I snapped my hand up, catching her wrist mid-air. My fingers dug brutally into her delicate bones. Using her own momentum against her, I shoved her backward with a sharp thrust of my arm.

Justina lost her balance on the stilettos. She stumbled backward, her arms flailing, and the small of her back slammed violently into the sharp corner of the mahogany desk. She let out a sharp cry of pain and crumpled to the floor.

Jerrad immediately rushed to her side. He knelt down, his hands hovering over her shoulders.

"Please, let's keep this civil," Jerrad said. His voice was soft, almost meek, but as he looked up at me, the light caught his glasses. For a split second, I felt a sudden, inexplicable chill run straight down my spine. Behind the meek expression, there was... nothing. A strange, unsettling emptiness that made my prison-honed instincts scream in silent warning.

Kayden hadn't even looked at Justina. He walked straight past the drama, heading directly for the oil painting on the far wall. He ripped the painting down, exposing a state-of-the-art wall safe.

He punched in a code. The keypad flashed red and let out a harsh, negative beep.

Justina laughed from the floor, clutching her back. "They changed the codes, Kayden! You have nothing!"

Kayden's face remained entirely blank. He reached into his inner suit pocket and pulled out a small, matte-black USB drive. He jammed it into a hidden diagnostic port beneath the keypad.

A green light on the drive began to blink furiously. Seven seconds later, the heavy steel bolts inside the door retracted with a loud clack. The safe swung open.

Justina's laughter choked off in her throat. She stared at the open safe in absolute horror.

Kayden reached inside. He bypassed the stacks of cash and pulled out a tarnished antique pocket watch and three unmarked manila folders.

Jerrad stood up. He took a step toward Kayden, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "Mr. Washington, those files are company property. I can't let you-"

Kayden turned his head. He didn't speak. He just looked at Jerrad. The sheer, suffocating weight of Kayden's killing intent filled the room.

Jerrad stopped mid-step. A visible bead of sweat formed on his forehead. He slowly lowered his hands and took a half-step backward.

Kayden shoved the files into his jacket. He walked back to me and took my hand again, his grip firm and possessive.

As we walked out, I deliberately dropped my shoulder and slammed it hard into Justina's arm as she tried to stand up. She let out a yelp and fell back onto the floor.

The sound of her screaming and throwing a glass paperweight at the wall followed us down the hall. I couldn't stop the small, victorious smile from touching my lips.

We stepped into the elevator. The doors slid shut.

The moment we were alone, the terrifying aura around Kayden vanished. He leaned his head back against the cold mirrored wall and closed his eyes. A sheen of cold sweat coated his forehead. He looked utterly exhausted.

I dug into my cheap purse, pulled out a folded tissue, and held it out to him.

Kayden didn't take the tissue. Instead, his large hand reached out and wrapped around my wrist. He pulled my hand toward his face, pressing my knuckles-and the tissue-against his damp forehead.

My breath hitched. The physical contact was jarringly intimate. I could feel the rapid, heavy thud of his pulse against my fingertips. The small elevator suddenly felt entirely devoid of oxygen.

We didn't speak the entire ride back to Brooklyn.

Kayden walked up to the apartment door. He pulled the white plastic keycard from his pocket and slid it through the electronic reader mounted on the frame. A soft beep confirmed the lock released.

He pushed it open.

A wave of destruction hit us. The sofa cushions were slashed open, white stuffing vomiting onto the floor. Every drawer had been ripped out and shattered. The apartment had been systematically, brutally ransacked.