Alena burst through the heavy glass doors of the hotel. The sharp morning air hit her face, making her shiver violently. She flagged down a yellow cab, throwing her Brooklyn address at the driver before slamming the door shut.

She sank into the cracked leather seat and immediately plugged her dead phone into her portable charger.

The second the Apple logo disappeared, the screen exploded with notifications. Thirty missed calls. Fifty text messages. All from her mother, her father, and Darrin.

She ignored every single one of them. Her fingers shook as she opened the Safari browser and typed Andrew Spencer into the search bar.

The page loaded. There were no gossip columns. No Instagram accounts. In fact, there was almost nothing concrete at all. For a man who exuded such overwhelming wealth and power, his digital footprint was practically nonexistent. There were only a few vague, buried mentions in old financial forums, referring to an elusive, high-level investor operating behind the scenes of the main Spencer family.

Alena frowned, scrolling frantically through dead-end links and empty corporate directories. She couldn't find a single clear photograph or a definitive title. But then, a chilling memory surfaced. Darrin used to brag, drunk on his own ambition, about a mysterious, untouchable uncle in the main branch of the Spencer family-a ruthless predator who operated entirely in the shadows, the true "Ghost of Wall Street." Darrin had spent his entire life trying to earn just a five-minute meeting with him.

A wave of pure nausea washed over her. Could this be him? The man who had picked her up out of the mud, the man who had just demanded she marry him... could he be the very apex predator Darrin was terrified of? The sheer possibility made her head spin.

She dropped the phone onto the seat. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.

Why? she thought, panic tightening her throat. Is he using me to punish Darrin's side of the family? Am I just a pawn in some billionaire's sick corporate war?

"Miss, we're here," the driver grunted.

Alena jumped. She looked out the window at her familiar Brooklyn apartment building. She handed the driver a twenty, pulled Andrew's coat tight around her chest, and practically ran to the entrance.

The doorman gave her a concerned look as she hurried past, but she just kept her head down.

She stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the 15th floor. As the numbers ticked up, she tried to force her breathing to slow down. This apartment was the only thing she owned. It was her safe place.

The doors opened. Alena pulled her keys from her purse and walked down the quiet hallway.

She turned the final corner and stopped dead in her tracks.

The motion-sensor lights flickered on, illuminating the two people standing directly in front of her door.

Darrin and Katrina.

Darrin was still wearing his tailored suit from the engagement party, his tie ripped open, his hair a mess. Katrina stood next to him, wrapped in a cashmere shawl, tapping her foot impatiently.

The sight of them made Alena's blood boil. The fear from the cab vanished, replaced by a surge of pure, white-hot rage. She gripped her keys so tight the metal bit into her palm.

Darrin heard her footsteps and snapped his head up. His eyes immediately dropped to the oversized, expensive men's coat draped over her shoulders.

His face contorted with ugly, possessive jealousy. He closed the distance between them in three massive strides and grabbed her wrist.

"Where the hell have you been?" Darrin snarled, his grip bruising her skin. "Whose bed did you crawl out of?"

Alena stared at him. The sheer audacity of his words actually made her laugh.

She ripped her arm out of his grasp. Without a second of hesitation, she swung her hand and slapped him across the face with everything she had.

The crack echoed loudly down the empty hallway. Darrin's head snapped to the side. He stumbled back, his hand flying to his red cheek, his eyes wide with shock.

Katrina shrieked. She rushed forward and grabbed Darrin's arm, glaring at Alena.

"You psycho!" Katrina screamed. "You disappear all night to sleep with some random trash, and you have the nerve to hit him?"

Alena looked at them. They looked like two pathetic, disgusting bugs.

"You fucked my fiancé at my engagement party," Alena said, her voice dropping to a deadly, quiet register. "Do not ever speak to me about morals."

She stepped around them, shoved her key into the lock, and turned it.

"Get away from my door," Alena ordered, not looking back. "Or I will call the police and have you arrested for trespassing."

Darrin lunged forward. He slammed his hand flat against the wood of the door, forcing it shut just as she pushed it open.

His face changed. The anger vanished, replaced by the sickeningly sweet, manipulative mask he had worn for three years.

"Alena, please," he begged, his voice soft. "Let us in. We need to talk. It's not what you think. I had no choice."

Alena stared at his hand on her door. The veins in her neck throbbed. She slowly turned her head and looked him dead in the eye.

"Fine," she whispered, her voice like ice. "Come inside. Let's hear your excuse."

Alena pushed the door open and walked straight into the living room. She didn't bother flipping the light switch. The gray morning light filtering through the windows was enough as she turned to face the two people trailing behind her.

Darrin stepped into the apartment, his eyes scanning the familiar furniture. He opened his mouth to speak, trying to use that soft, intimate tone he always used to control her.

Katrina pushed past him. She looked around the modest apartment with obvious disgust and dropped onto the Italian leather sofa, crossing her legs like she owned the place.

Alena didn't take off Andrew's coat. She stood behind the kitchen island, crossing her arms over her chest, creating a physical barrier between herself and them.

"You have three minutes," Alena said, staring at the clock on the wall. "Start lying."

Darrin took a deep breath. He put on his best tortured expression. "Alena, Payne Real Estate is drowning. The supply chain credit just got cut this morning. The only way the Spencer family will inject capital is if Katrina and I get married."

He took a step toward the island, reaching his hand out as if to touch her. "I did this to protect you. To protect your family's legacy. You know I love you."

Alena's stomach violently heaved. She snatched a Clorox wipe from the counter and aggressively wiped her hands, staring right at him.

"You fucked my sister to save my family?" Alena's voice dripped with pure acid. "Wow, Darrin. You're a real hero."

Katrina slammed her hand against the armrest of the sofa. She stood up, her face twisting with spite.

"He loves me!" Katrina shrieked. "You were just a boring, frigid placeholder! You don't even make a sound in bed!"

Darrin's face flushed dark red. "Katrina, shut up!" he snapped, his deep-in-love act shattering instantly.

Alena looked at them. She felt completely numb. She couldn't believe she had wasted three years of her life on this pathetic, social-climbing coward.

She walked over to her small desk, pulled open the bottom drawer, and grabbed a thick stack of bound paper. She walked back to the island and threw the stack directly at Darrin's chest.

The heavy papers hit him hard and scattered across the floor.

"That is the venture capital pitch I stayed up for three weeks writing for you," Alena said, her voice rising. "The one you used to beg the Spencer executives for a meeting. Don't stand in my house and tell me you did this for me."

Darrin looked down at the papers. His mask completely fell off. His eyes darkened with a vicious, humiliated rage.

Katrina rolled her eyes. She reached into her Birkin bag, pulled out a stapled legal document, and slammed it onto the glass coffee table.

"Enough of this," Katrina sneered. "Sign the NDA. You admit that you and Darrin broke up mutually six months ago, and that your little stunt at the party was a mental breakdown."

Alena glanced at the paper. It also demanded she leave New York and surrender her minor shares in Payne Real Estate.

She let out a dry, hollow laugh. She picked up the document, ripped it cleanly in half, and dropped the pieces into the trash can.

"I'm going to send the photos of you two to every media outlet in the city," Alena said, staring Katrina down.

Darrin snapped. He lunged across the kitchen island. He didn't hit her, but his large hand shot out, clamping around her wrist with a bruising, vicious grip.

He shoved her backward. Her spine slammed against the refrigerator door. The impact knocked the breath out of her. He stepped into her space, using his larger frame to pin her against the cold steel, his forearm pressing dangerously close to her collarbone, trapping her completely.

"You will shut your mouth!" Darrin hissed, his voice dropping to a terrifying, calculated whisper. "Do you have any idea what is at stake here? If you ruin my career, if you breathe a word of this to the press, I will systematically destroy everything you have left. I will make sure you never work in this city again."

His grip tightened on her wrist, grinding her bones together. Alena's heart hammered against her ribs, but she refused to look away.

She didn't panic. Her hand blindly felt along the counter behind her. Her fingers wrapped around the heavy, cold handle of a paring knife.

She brought her arm up and pressed the sharp steel tip directly against Darrin's stomach, right below his ribs.

"Press harder," Alena choked out, her eyes wide and completely insane. "I swear to God I will push this into your spleen."

Darrin looked down at the blade. The color drained from his face. He ripped his hands away from her and stumbled backward, tripping over his own feet.

Alena sucked in a massive breath of air, coughing violently. She threw the knife onto the floor. It clattered loudly against the tiles.

"Get out!" she screamed, pointing at the door.

Katrina was pale and shaking. She grabbed Darrin's arm and dragged him toward the exit. But right before she stepped out, Katrina stopped.

She turned around, a wicked, triumphant smile spreading across her face.

"Don't want to sign?" Katrina mocked. "That's fine. Dad already took a copy of the NDA to the Hamptons."

Alena froze.

"Let's see if Grandpa's heart, with its three shiny new stents, can handle the news of your little scandal," Katrina whispered.

She slammed the door shut.

The words hit Alena like a bullet to the chest. Her legs gave out, and she collapsed onto the kitchen floor.

The heavy thud of the front door closing echoed in the silent apartment. The sound severed the last string holding Alena upright.

She slid down the cold steel of the refrigerator door until she hit the floor. She pulled her knees to her chest and buried her face in her hands.

Her shoulders shook violently. A raw, agonizing sob tore from her throat. The tears she had been fighting back finally broke free, soaking her fingers.

Katrina's words played on a loop in her brain. Grandpa's heart.

Fear, thick and suffocating, wrapped around her lungs. Her grandfather was the only person in the Payne family who had ever looked at her with love. If her father followed through on Katrina's threat and showed him the truth, the shock would kill him.

Alena scrambled across the floor on her hands and knees. She grabbed her phone from the sofa, her fingers trembling so badly she dropped it twice.

She dialed her father's number.

It rang four times before Devontae picked up. In the background, the roar of a high-end engine and the rhythmic thrum of tires against asphalt filtered through the line. He wasn't in the boardroom; he was already on the move.

"Dad," Alena gasped, her voice cracking. "Dad, please tell me you’re not already there. Please don't tell Grandpa. It will kill him."

Devontae’s voice was cold, punctuated by the occasional blinker click. "I am two towns away from the estate, Alena. I spent the morning trying to contain the media blackout, but the board is breathing down my neck. If you don't want to be the reason your grandfather has a heart attack, then sign the damn NDA before I pull into his driveway. Stop being so selfish."

The line went dead.

Alena stared at the black screen. Her own father was using her grandfather's life as a weapon to protect his company, racing toward the Hamptons with the lethal truth in his briefcase. The betrayal was so absolute it felt like ice water in her veins.

She threw the phone onto the couch. She paced the living room, her chest heaving as she tried to pull air into her lungs.

She couldn't call the police. She couldn't go to the press. She was completely trapped.

Her eyes fell to the floor. The heavy black overcoat she had dropped during the fight lay in a heap on the rug. Sticking out of the pocket was the bent, matte-black business card.

Andrew Spencer.

The man who controlled Darrin's life. The man who could crush the Payne family with a single phone call.

His deep, arrogant voice echoed in her mind: When you realize you can't fight them on your own... you will come to me.

Alena slowly walked over and picked up the card. She rubbed her thumb over the gold foil lettering. Her stomach twisted into a painful knot.

If she called him, she was selling herself to a monster. But if she didn't, her grandfather would die, and her family would win.

She closed her eyes. A single tear slipped down her cheek. She picked up her phone and started typing the number on the card.

Right before her thumb hit the green call button, her phone vibrated violently in her hand.

A custom ringtone filled the quiet room. The screen flashed: Grandpa Jerald.

Alena's heart stopped. She stared at the screen in pure terror. Had her father already arrived? Was he calling from a hospital bed?

She wiped her face aggressively, cleared her throat, and pressed answer. She forced the brightest, most stable voice she could manage.

"Hi, Grandpa!"

"Alena, my little firebird," Jerald's voice came through, but it lacked its usual booming vitality. He sounded tired, his breath hitching slightly. "I’ve been isolated out here all morning... my staff keeps trying to hide the morning papers from me. They think I’m too frail to see what the tabloids are saying about you and the Spencers."

Alena’s heart hammered against her ribs. He knew about the scandal, or at least enough of it to be distressed. "Grandpa, don't listen to the papers, they—"

"I don't care about the gossip, Alena. I care about the truth," Jerald interrupted, his tone shifting to a faint, sharp authority. "Your father is on his way here. He sounded frantic on the phone, muttering about 'fixing things' and some papers you need to sign. I want to hear the story from you before he gets here."

Alena slapped a hand over her mouth to muffle a sob. He hadn't seen the NDA yet, but the clock was ticking.

"I'm coming, Grandpa. I'll explain everything," Alena said, her voice trembling.

"Pack a bag. If you drive like a Payne, you can beat him to the front gate. I want to see you today," Jerald commanded.

She hung up the phone. Her father was close, but the staff’s intervention and the traffic had bought her a narrow window. She still had a chance to intercept the confrontation at the estate.

She ran into her bedroom, grabbed a duffel bag, and shoved three days' worth of clothes inside. She ran to the bathroom and splashed freezing water on her face, trying to wash away the redness around her eyes.

Ten minutes later, she was running through the underground parking garage. She threw her bag into the passenger seat of her beat-up Chevrolet, jammed the key into the ignition, and sped toward the Long Island Expressway.

A storm was coming, and she had to beat it.