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."

Time seemed to stop. Alena stared at the flawless face inches from hers, the air completely vanishing from her lungs. She thought her hearing had failed her.

For five agonizing seconds, neither of them moved.

Then, survival instinct kicked in. Alena shoved her hands against his solid chest and pushed him away with every ounce of strength she had. She stumbled sideways, almost tripping over the rug.

She looked at him like he was a monster. Her chest heaved, and her voice cracked as she yelled, "Are you out of your mind? We met twelve hours ago in a dirty alley!"

Andrew took a smooth step back. He casually adjusted the cuff of his suit jacket. His face was a mask of terrifying, calculated calm.

He walked over to the bar and picked up a thick, gold-stamped manila folder. He tossed it onto the glass coffee table. It landed with a heavy thud.

"My family's trust fund has a very specific, very archaic clause," Andrew said, his voice devoid of any emotion. "I must be married before my thirtieth birthday to gain full control of my shares."

He turned his head and let his eyes slowly drag up and down her body, assessing her like a piece of real estate.

"You have a clean background. You are desperate to escape your family's control. And most importantly..."

He let the sentence hang in the air for a second. A dark, mocking gleam flashed in his eyes.

"You are smart, you have guts, and you are entirely out of options. You are backed into a corner by the very people who should protect you. That makes you the perfect, predictable candidate for a strictly transactional arrangement."

The clinical, transactional way he spoke made Alena's blood boil. She felt like she had just crawled out of one cage only to have a psychopath try to lock her in another.

She didn't even glance at the folder. She grabbed the mug of coffee from the table and hurled the dark liquid straight at the documents.

The hot coffee splashed across the table, soaking into the thick paper of the folder.

Andrew's jaw tightened. A muscle ticked in his cheek, but he didn't raise his voice. He just watched her, his eyes narrowing slightly.

Alena pointed a shaking finger toward the front door. Even though she was standing in his penthouse, wearing his coat, she refused to back down.

"Keep your disgusting trust fund clauses away from me," she spat, her voice ringing with absolute finality. "My marriage will never be a bargaining chip for anyone's business deal!"

Andrew looked at the fierce, unbroken fire in her eyes. A deep, hidden thrill of admiration flared in his chest. He loved that she fought back. It made the hunt so much better.

He didn't push her. Instead, he reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a heavy, matte-black business card. He held it out between his index and middle fingers.

Alena crossed her arms tightly over her chest. She glued her feet to the floor, refusing to take it.

Andrew let out a low, soft laugh. He stepped forward, closed the distance, and smoothly slid the card into the pocket of the trench coat she was wearing. As he pulled his hand back, his knuckles intentionally brushed against the curve of her waist.

A violent shiver ripped down Alena's spine.

"Don't be so quick to say no, Alena," he murmured, his voice laced with absolute certainty. "When you realize you can't fight the Payne family on your own... you will come to me."

The sheer arrogance in his voice felt like a knife twisting in her gut. She spun on her heel and practically ran toward the entryway. She didn't care that she was still wearing last night's ruined dress underneath the coat. She just needed to breathe real air.

She yanked the heavy front door open and sprinted down the hallway, her bare feet sinking into the carpet.

Andrew stood in the doorway, watching her run. He didn't chase her. He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed Sam.

"Have a team follow her. Make sure she gets to her apartment safely," Andrew ordered, his voice turning to ice. "And initiate a stress test on Payne Real Estate's supply chain. Cut their credit lines."

Alena slammed her hand against the elevator button. The doors opened, and she threw herself inside.

The moment the doors slid shut, the adrenaline crashed. The rapid descent of the elevator made her stomach drop. She leaned her back against the cold metal wall, sliding down until she was crouching on the floor.

She shoved her hand into the pocket of the coat. Her fingers brushed against the sharp edge of the business card. It felt like it was burning her skin.

She pulled it out, ready to leave it on the floor of the elevator.

But her eyes caught the gold lettering. There was no company name. No title. Just two words written in elegant, sharp script.

Andrew Spencer.

The name hit her brain like a freight train. Spencer. Could he be a part of the same massive financial empire? Was it just a bizarre coincidence, or was this man somehow connected to the very family that Darrin's branch worshipped from the bottom of the ladder?

The elevator chimed and the doors opened to the lobby. The blast of cold air conditioning hit her face, snapping her out of her shock.

She gripped the card so hard it bent. She walked fast out of the hotel, her heart pounding with a new, terrifying realization. She hadn't just met a rich man. She had just crossed paths with a monster.