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.

My heart slammed against my ribs. A sickening wave of panic washed over me.

I sprinted past Kayden, ignoring the destruction in the living room, and threw myself into my bedroom. The cheap mattress was ripped to shreds. A few plain t-shirts and a pair of jeans—clothes Josef had picked up from a thrift store yesterday at Kayden's instruction—were scattered across the floor.

I dropped to my knees, frantically digging through the debris. I clawed at the broken floorboards where I had hidden it. A sharp splinter of wood drove deep under my fingernail. Bright red blood welled up, but I didn't stop.

It wasn't there. My mother's diary—the thin leather book I had kept hidden inside the lining of my bra throughout my entire prison sentence, the only physical proof I had that she ever loved me, the only thing that kept me sane in a concrete cell—was gone.

A raw, agonizing sob tore out of my throat. I collapsed onto the ruined mattress, pulling my knees to my chest, my vision blurring with hot tears.

In the living room, Kayden was inspecting the lock on the apartment door—a fresh set of scratches around the keycard reader, different from the damage to the building's outer door weeks ago. His jaw was clenched tight. "Tactical entry. Professional. This isn't the same crew that hit the building entrance. Someone else is tracking us."

Josef dropped down from the fire escape outside, landing lightly on the windowsill. He was grinning, tossing a small, heavy object in his hand. He flicked it toward Kayden.

Kayden caught it. It was a solid gold cufflink, engraved with a distinctive crest.

"Well, well. Look what we have here," Josef cackled, pointing at the gold in Kayden's hand. "A Schroeder family crest. Looks like your dear family is sending their regards. Or someone wants us to think they are."

The name hit me like a physical blow to the stomach. My breath stuttered. The trauma of my past coiled around my throat, choking me.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out with shaking, bloody fingers. An encrypted text message flashed on the screen: Upper East Side. The Carlyle Cafe. Come alone.

Kayden crossed the room in two strides and snatched the phone from my hand. He read the text, his eyes narrowing. "It's a trap. You aren't going."

I stood up, my chest heaving. I grabbed the phone back, my fingers brushing harshly against his. "They have my diary! It's the only thing I have left! I have to go."

"You'll get yourself killed!" Kayden roared, the sudden volume of his voice shaking the thin walls.

"It's my life!" I screamed back, my throat raw.

We glared at each other, the air crackling with tension. Finally, Kayden's jaw ticked. He stepped back. "Fine. But Josef and I are shadowing you. If things go south, I'm pulling you out."

An hour later, I pushed open the heavy glass doors of the upscale cafe. The scent of roasted espresso beans and expensive perfume filled the air. A string quartet played softly in the corner.

My borrowed clothes—a black turtleneck and dark jeans—drew immediate, disgusted stares from the wealthy women sipping champagne. I kept my eyes fixed straight ahead.

In the darkest corner booth sat Javon Schroeder, my adoptive third brother. He wore a bespoke Italian suit. He was swirling a glass of scotch, his posture radiating lazy arrogance, but I noticed the tight grip of his fingers on the crystal glass.

I marched up to the table and slammed the side of my fist—the uninjured one—down onto the marble surface. The impact sent a dull shock up my arm, but it was nothing compared to the fire in my chest.

"Where is it?" I hissed, my voice trembling with suppressed rage.

Javon didn't look at my face. He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a thick piece of paper, and slid it across the table.

It was a cashier's check. The number written on it had six zeros.

"Take the money and get out of New York," Javon said, his voice flat and cruel. "You're an embarrassment to the Schroeder name. Don't ever come back."

I stared at the check. The sheer, unadulterated insult of it made bile rise in the back of my throat. He thought he could buy my absence. He thought my mother's memory was worth a payout.

My vision went red. I snatched the check off the table. With a violent, jerky motion, I ripped it in half. Then into quarters. I shredded the heavy paper until my fingers cramped.

I threw the handful of confetti directly into Javon's handsome face.

"You cold-blooded, hypocritical bastards," I spat, my voice cracking.

Javon squeezed his eyes shut as the paper rained down on him. His jaw muscles jumped, and for a split second, a look of profound agony crossed his face. But he forced it down, maintaining his mask of indifference.

I grabbed the crystal glass of ice water from the table and threw the freezing contents directly onto his chest. The water soaked his expensive silk tie.

I turned on my heel and ran.

I burst through the revolving doors, hitting the cold Manhattan air. The adrenaline crashed. My knees buckled. I stumbled into a dark, narrow alley beside the cafe, pressing my back against a filthy dumpster.

I slid down to the wet pavement, buried my face in my hands, and sobbed. The sound was ugly, broken, and completely out of my control.

Suddenly, a large, warm hand reached out from the shadows. Strong fingers wrapped around my upper arm and hauled me upward, pulling me directly into a broad, solid chest.

The scent of expensive cigars and rain washed over me. Kayden didn't say a word. He just opened his heavy wool trench coat and wrapped it around my violently shivering shoulders, pulling me tight against his body.

He pulled a clean black handkerchief from his pocket. With agonizing slowness, he wiped the wet tears from my cheeks. His rough thumb brushed against my lower lip.

I rested my forehead against his chest. The steady, powerful thud of his heartbeat vibrated through my skull, grounding me.

Above my head, Kayden stared out of the alley, his eyes locked on the cafe window. He watched Javon wipe the water from his suit. Kayden's eyes were pitch black, filled with a terrifying, absolute promise of murder.