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.

The old Chevrolet tore down the Long Island Expressway. The sky above was a bruised, heavy gray, and the trees blurred into a dark wall outside the window.

Alena's knuckles were bone-white as she gripped the steering wheel.

For two hours, her brain spun in circles. She practiced what she was going to say. She had to find a way to tell her grandfather that the engagement was off without mentioning Katrina, without mentioning the betrayal. She had to protect his heart.

The car finally exited the highway and drove into the ultra-wealthy enclaves of the Hamptons. She turned down a long, private driveway lined with towering oak trees.

At the end of the gravel path sat the Payne family's historic stone estate.

Alena slammed the car into park. She pushed the door open. The salty, freezing air blowing off the Atlantic Ocean hit her face, clearing the fog in her head.

She grabbed her duffel bag and ran up the stone steps. Before she could knock, the heavy oak door swung open.

Beatrice, the family's longtime housekeeper, stood in the doorway. When she saw Alena's pale face and red eyes, her expression softened with worry.

"Miss Alena," Beatrice said gently, reaching for her bag. "Let me take that. Shall I make you some hot tea?"

Alena forced a tight smile and shook her head. She leaned in, keeping her voice low. "Beatrice, is my dad here? Did Devontae arrive yet?"

Beatrice shook her head. "No, Miss. Your father hasn't been here all week. The master has been in his study all morning with a very important guest."

Alena let out a massive exhale. The tension draining from her shoulders made her dizzy. She had beaten her father here. Her grandfather was safe.

"Where is he?" Alena asked.

"In the second-floor study," Beatrice replied, pointing up the grand staircase.

Alena nodded. She walked up the sweeping, carpeted stairs. The portraits of her ancestors stared down at her from the walls, making the air feel thick and oppressive.

She walked down the long hallway and stopped in front of the heavy, carved mahogany door of the study.

She raised her hand to knock.

Suddenly, a loud, booming laugh echoed from inside the room. It was her grandfather. He sounded happier than she had heard him in years.

Then, another voice spoke.

It was a man's voice. Low, magnetic, with a very distinct, lazy arrogance.

The sound of that voice hit Alena's ears, and her blood instantly turned to ice. Her heart stopped beating for a full second.

No, she thought, her stomach dropping into a bottomless pit. It can't be. It's just someone who sounds like him.

Her palms began to sweat. She curled her hand into a fist and knocked twice on the wood.

The conversation inside stopped immediately.

"Come in, it's open," Jerald called out warmly.

Alena grabbed the cold brass handle. She pushed the heavy door open and stepped inside.

The study smelled of expensive cigar smoke and old paper. The gray light from the massive windows illuminated the center of the room.

Her grandfather was sitting in his wheelchair next to an antique chess table. He was holding a wooden knight, smiling brightly at her.

Sitting in the leather armchair directly across from him was the guest.

The man slowly turned his head. His dark, predatory eyes locked onto Alena with terrifying precision.

He was wearing a flawless, navy-blue bespoke suit. He sat with the relaxed, dominant posture of a king holding court.

It was Andrew Spencer.

The air vanished from the room. Alena's pupils dilated in pure shock. A loud ringing started in her ears.

Andrew watched her freeze. The corner of his mouth curved up into a microscopic, wicked smirk. He looked like a hunter watching a deer walk directly into a steel trap.

He stood up slowly, buttoning the center button of his suit jacket with one hand. The sheer physical size of him dominated the room.

Jerald didn't notice the silent warfare happening in front of him. He waved Alena over with a proud smile.

"Come here, my little firebird," Jerald said. He gestured to the towering man standing next to the chess board.

"I want you to meet someone very special. This is my brightest student from my days teaching at the Ivy League. He is now the head of the Spencer Syndicate."

Jerald beamed. "Alena, meet Andrew Spencer."