The freezing rain soaked through Alena's trench coat in seconds. The heavy, wet fabric dragged against her calves as she stumbled blindly across the Manhattan asphalt.

She didn't know where she was going. She just kept walking.

She stepped off the curb at a crosswalk, her eyes blank.

Suddenly, a blinding pair of high beams flashed from her left. The intense light seared her eyes. She threw her arms up over her face.

The violent screech of tires tearing against wet pavement ripped through the air.

A massive, black extended Maybach jerked to a halt. The front bumper stopped less than four inches from her knees. The sharp smell of burnt rubber mixed with the rain.

Alena lost her balance. She fell backward, her palms scraping hard against the rough, wet asphalt. Blood immediately welled up in the scratches.

Her heart hammered wildly against her ribs. She gasped for air.

Inside the Maybach, the tinted rear window rolled down exactly halfway.

The interior was dark, but a pair of eyes, sharp and predatory like a hawk's, locked onto her through the heavy rain.

Andrew Spencer sat in the back seat. He looked at the bruised, soaked woman on the ground. The fingers of his right hand, holding a lit cigar, paused in mid-air. A dark, unreadable emotion flashed in his eyes.

The driver panicked. He reached for his door handle, ready to jump out.

"Drive," Andrew commanded. His voice was a low, freezing rumble that instantly stopped the driver's hand. He narrowed his dark eyes, watching her struggle in the rain. "But keep her in sight. Follow her at a distance. Let me know exactly where she ends up."

Alena couldn't see the man in the back seat. She gritted her teeth and pushed herself off the ground. A pedestrian reached out to help her, but she flinched and pulled away.

She limped toward the shadows on the other side of the street.

The Maybach's engine roared. The tires spun, splashing a wave of dirty puddle water over Alena's shins as it drove past her.

Alena kept walking until the towering buildings gave way to the grittier streets of Hell's Kitchen.

She looked up and saw a flickering, blood-red neon sign for a rundown, dimly lit dive bar on the corner. It wasn't the kind of place she would ever usually step foot in, but she needed to hide from the rain and the crushing weight of her reality. She didn't care about the grime or the shadows. She pushed the heavy metal door open and walked inside.

The heavy bass of the music vibrated through the floorboards, rattling her teeth. She ignored the bouncer's scanning eyes and walked straight to the darkest corner of the bar.

She sat on a stool and looked at the bartender. "Whiskey. Neat. The strongest you have."

The bartender slid a glass across the wood. Alena threw it back. The liquid burned a fiery trail down her throat, settling hot in her stomach. It briefly numbed the tearing pain in her chest.

She ordered another. Then another.

By the third glass, the alcohol hit her bloodstream. Her vision blurred at the edges. She rested her forehead against the sticky wood of the bar and let out a single, broken whimper.

Three men in cheap leather jackets were standing a few feet away. They watched the beautiful, soaked woman drinking alone. They exchanged a look.

The leader of the group walked over and slid onto the stool right next to her. The overwhelming smell of cheap cologne and stale beer hit Alena's nose.

The man reached out. His rough, dirty fingers stroked her cold cheek.

"Rough night, sweetheart?" he slurred.

Alena's stomach churned violently. She slapped his hand away with a sharp smack. She grabbed her empty whiskey glass and slammed it down on the bar right in front of him.

"Get away from me," she spat.

The glass shattered. Shards flew across the counter. A few people looked over, but this was Hell's Kitchen. No one moved to help a stranger.

The man's face flushed red with anger. He grabbed Alena's wrist, his thick fingers digging into her skin so hard she felt her bones grind together.

His two friends stepped up behind him. Their large bodies formed a solid wall, blocking her from the rest of the room.

Panic spiked in Alena's chest. She thrashed against his grip. She lifted her heel and stomped her stiletto straight down onto the leader's foot.

The man yelled and let go.

Alena shoved him hard in the chest and bolted for the back exit.

The alcohol made her legs heavy. She burst through the metal door into a dark, narrow alleyway. The cold air hit her face, but before she could take three steps, a heavy hand grabbed a fistful of her wet hair.

Pain exploded across her scalp. Her head was yanked backward.

The man cursed at her, his voice bouncing off the brick walls. Pure terror wrapped around Alena's heart like a snake.

He shoved her violently. Her back slammed against the wet, mossy brick wall. The impact knocked the wind out of her. The man pressed his body against hers and grabbed the lapels of her trench coat, trying to rip it open.

Alena's hand dropped to the ground. Her fingers brushed against a loose, heavy brick.

She grabbed it, swung her arm up, and smashed it directly into the side of the man's head.

He screamed. Blood instantly poured down the side of his face, blinding him.

The other two men rushed into the alley. One of them swung his arm and backhanded Alena across the face.

The force threw her to the ground next to a rusted dumpster. Black spots danced across her vision.

The men moved in, raising their boots to kick her.

Suddenly, the heavy, rhythmic sound of expensive leather shoes stepping onto the wet pavement echoed from the mouth of the alley.

The footsteps stopped.

A blinding beam from a tactical flashlight cut through the darkness, hitting the three men straight in the eyes. They threw their hands up, squinting against the glare.

Behind the halo of light stood a towering figure in a tailored black overcoat. The red cherry of a cigar glowed in the dark, pulsing with a terrifying, quiet rage.

Andrew took a slow drag of his cigar. He exhaled the smoke into the freezing rain.

"Let her go," Andrew said. His voice was a low, vibrating threat that seemed to shake the walls of the alley.

The lead thug pressed a hand to his bleeding head. He squinted into the blinding light, his chest puffing up with liquid courage.

"Mind your own business, rich boy!" he yelled, his voice cracking slightly as he tried to mask his fear.

Andrew didn't blink. He raised his hand and slowly crushed the cherry of his cigar against the wet brick wall. The movement was elegant, but it radiated pure, suffocating violence.

He tilted his head a fraction of an inch.

From the shadows behind him, his executive assistant, Sam, stepped forward. Two massive men in tailored suits flanked him.

Sam didn't wait for an order. He moved with terrifying speed. He grabbed the lead thug's arm, twisted it behind his back, and shoved upward.

A loud, sickening pop echoed in the alley as the man's shoulder dislocated.

The thug dropped to his knees, screaming in agony.

The other two men sobered up instantly. They turned to run, but the bodyguards lunged. They grabbed the men by their cheap leather collars and slammed them face-first into the muddy pavement, pinning them down with their knees.

Andrew ignored the groans of pain. He stepped over the puddles, his expensive leather shoes making no sound. He stopped right in front of Alena.

Alena was curled into a tight ball next to the dumpster. She was shivering violently, her clothes soaked with freezing rain and mud. She slowly lifted her head.

Through her blurred vision, her eyes focused on the razor-sharp line of his jaw.

Andrew crouched down. He didn't care that the muddy water was soaking into the knees of his custom trousers. His dark, piercing eyes locked onto her trembling pupils.

He reached up and unbuttoned his black overcoat. He pulled it off his shoulders and wrapped it tightly around Alena's shivering body.

The coat was heavy. It was warm from his body heat and smelled faintly of cedar and expensive tobacco.

The sudden rush of warmth, combined with the heavy crash of the alcohol, made Alena's brain short-circuit. Her survival instincts finally shut down.

She reached out with a freezing, shaking hand and grabbed the cuff of his white dress shirt. Her fingers dug into the fabric.

"Take me away," she whispered. Her voice was so fragile it barely carried over the rain.

Her eyes rolled back, and her body went completely limp.

Andrew caught her before she hit the ground. A dark, dangerous storm brewed in his eyes. He scooped her up into his arms, holding her tight against his chest.

He walked out of the alley. Sam was already standing on the curb, holding a massive black umbrella over the open rear door of the Maybach.

Andrew ducked inside, settling Alena onto the leather seat next to him. The heavy door slammed shut, instantly cutting off the sound of the rain and the city.

The car was warm. Andrew pulled a thick cashmere blanket from the compartment and draped it over her legs.

He sat back and stared at her. Her face was pale, except for the angry red handprint swelling on her cheek. Her breathing was shallow.

He reached out. His long, rough fingers gently brushed against the corner of her mouth, wiping away a fresh drop of blood. His eyes darkened to pitch black.

From the front seat, Sam looked in the rearview mirror. "Hospital, sir?"

"The hotel," Andrew said. His voice was absolute ice.

The Maybach glided smoothly through the streets, pulling into the private underground garage of a hyper-luxury hotel overlooking Central Park.

They took the private VIP elevator straight to the top floor.

The doors opened directly into the penthouse. Andrew carried Alena down a long hallway lined with Persian rugs. He pressed his thumb to the biometric scanner on the master bedroom door.

He walked to the center of the room and gently laid her down on the massive king-size bed. He moved with a careful precision, as if she were made of thin glass.

Alena whimpered in her sleep. Her brow furrowed in distress. Her hands were locked in a death grip on the lapels of his black overcoat. Her knuckles were white.

Andrew reached down, trying to loosen her fingers so he could take the wet coat off her.

The second he pulled on the fabric, Alena thrashed her head side to side, letting out a panicked noise in the back of her throat.

Andrew stopped. He let out a slow breath. He sat on the edge of the mattress and let her hold onto his coat. He sat there in the dark, watching her chest rise and fall, for thirty full minutes.

When her breathing finally deepened into a real sleep, Andrew stood up.

He walked out to the living room and went straight to the wet bar. He poured two fingers of scotch and drank it in one swallow, letting the burn settle the violent rage in his blood.

He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed Sam.

"Break both of their hands," Andrew said to the empty room. "Then throw them out of New York."

He ended the call and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows. He stared down at the glittering lights of Manhattan, his eyes burning with a possessive, calculated hunger.

Hours passed. The sun began to rise.

A sliver of morning light slipped through the smart blinds and hit the bed. Alena groaned. A massive headache pounded behind her eyes.

She slowly forced her eyelids open.

She stared at a vaulted ceiling she didn't recognize. The room smelled intensely of masculine cedar and clean linen. Her brain completely stalled.

She shot up into a sitting position. She looked down at herself. She was still wearing her dirty dress, wrapped tightly in the black overcoat. She let out a breath she didn't know she was holding.

At that exact moment, the frosted glass door of the master bathroom clicked open.

A cloud of steam rolled into the bedroom. Andrew stepped out. Water dripped from his wet hair down his chest. He was wearing nothing but a white towel slung low on his hips.

Alena sucked in a sharp breath. Her lungs burned as she instinctively grabbed a plush pillow and held it tight against her chest. She scrambled backward until her spine hit the solid headboard.

Andrew stopped drying his hair. A drop of water slid down the hard, defined ridges of his abs. His dark eyes locked onto her, completely unapologetic as he watched her panic.

He tossed the towel onto a velvet armchair. He turned around, giving her a full view of his broad, heavily muscled back as he walked toward the walk-in closet.

"There are clean women's clothes in the closet," he said over his shoulder.

The second he disappeared behind the closet door, Alena threw the covers off. She jumped out of bed, her bare feet hitting the thick carpet. She spun in a circle, her eyes darting around the massive room for her purse and phone.

She spotted her phone sitting on the nightstand. The screen had been wiped clean of mud. She grabbed it and pressed the power button.

The screen flashed a dead battery symbol before going black. Her only connection to the outside world was severed.

She clutched the phone to her chest and walked out of the bedroom, stepping into the sprawling living room.

Andrew was already there. He was fully dressed in a perfectly tailored, charcoal-gray suit. He stood behind the marble island of the open kitchen, calmly grinding coffee beans.

Alena pulled the oversized black overcoat tighter around her body. She stopped ten feet away from him, keeping a safe distance. She cleared her throat, trying to force the tremor out of her voice.

"Where am I?" she asked, her tone stiff. "Thank you for what you did last night. But I need to leave right now."

Andrew didn't turn around. His long fingers expertly worked the espresso machine. The rich smell of coffee filled the air.

"Haven't had enough of the drama at The Plaza Hotel?" his deep voice floated over the counter.

The words hit Alena like a physical blow to the chest. Her eyes widened in shock. Her heart slammed against her ribs, and the blood drained completely from her face.

Andrew picked up two mugs of black coffee. He turned around and walked toward her. His long legs closed the distance between them in seconds.

He stopped right in front of her. He grabbed her freezing hand and forced her fingers to wrap around the hot ceramic mug.

Alena's hands were shaking so badly the coffee rippled. The heat of the mug did nothing to warm her skin.

"Who are you?" she demanded, her voice rising. "How do you know about last night?"

Andrew took a slow sip from his mug. His eyes were dark and amused.

"Every tabloid in New York is running the same headline this morning," he said, his voice flat. "The engagement of the Payne family's golden child to the Spencer family's rising star."

He took a slow half-step forward. His massive frame completely blocked her view of the room.

"And, of course, the mention of the pathetic younger sister who was thrown out of the ballroom like a stray dog. Alena Payne."

The words "stray dog" stabbed directly into her open wound.

Alena sucked in a harsh breath. Her fear vanished, replaced instantly by a burning, defensive rage. She glared at him, her eyes turning sharp and hostile.

She let out a bitter laugh and slammed the coffee mug down onto the glass coffee table.

"Are you a reporter?" she snapped. "Or did Darrin send you to spy on me? Is this some kind of corporate espionage?"

Andrew didn't look insulted. He looked entertained. He liked the fire in her eyes. He reached down and picked up a newspaper from the table, tossing it onto the glass right next to her mug.

Alena looked down. The front page featured a massive, glossy photo of Darrin kissing Katrina. The headline was brutal. Her stomach violently cramped again.

She dug her nails into her palms to keep from tearing the paper to shreds. She forced her chin up and stared straight into his eyes.

"If you think you can blackmail me with this, you picked the wrong target. I don't have a dime to my name."

Andrew set his mug down. He slipped both hands into his trouser pockets. He looked down at her with the absolute arrogance of a man who owned the world.

He slowly pulled his right hand from his pocket and reached out. His rough thumb gently brushed against her swollen, bruised cheek. The touch was intimate, but the strength behind it was terrifying.

Alena flinched violently. She jerked her head away from his hand.

"Don't touch me," she warned, her entire body rigid with defense.

Andrew's hand hovered in the air for a second before he casually dropped it to his side. The corner of his mouth twitched upward.

He turned and walked toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out at the morning traffic. His voice shifted, dropping the amusement and taking on the cold, hard edge of a boardroom negotiation.

"Darrin Spencer is a piece of trash not worth your tears. Your family treats you like a disposable pawn. Are you just going to roll over and let them win?"

Alena's chest heaved. "What does that have to do with you? What do you want?"

Andrew turned around. The sunlight was behind him, casting his face in shadow. The oppressive weight of his presence filled the room.

He walked toward her. He didn't stop.

Alena took a step back, but her knees hit the edge of the sofa. She was trapped.

Andrew placed both hands on the back of the sofa, caging her completely between his arms. He leaned down, his face inches from hers. She could feel the heat radiating off his chest.

He stared deep into her panicked eyes. His voice was a low, hypnotic rumble.

"Because, Alena. I need a wife."