The ballroom was a sea of diamonds and tuxedos. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and the murmur of polite, meaningless conversation.

When Jeanine stepped out of the elevator, the murmur stopped.

She wore a midnight-blue gown that clung to her curves like water. It was backless, revealing the smooth line of her spine. She had spent three hours in a salon, paid for with the black card. Her hair was swept up, her makeup flawless.

Conrad, waiting by the entrance, actually stopped checking his watch. His gaze traveled from her heels to her eyes. His throat moved as he swallowed.

He stepped forward, offering his arm. "Don't trip," he muttered, but there was no bite in his voice. "Those heels are ridiculous."

"You paid for them," Jeanine whispered back.

They moved onto the dance floor. Conrad placed his hand on her bare back. His palm was hot, burning through the cool air of the room. Jeanine stiffened.

"Relax," he murmured near her ear. "Everyone is watching."

A group of women approached. Leading them was a woman in a red dress that cost more than Jeanine's entire education. Tiffany Yang.

Tiffany's eyes narrowed as she scanned Jeanine. She smiled, a sharp, venomous expression. As she passed, she "stumbled," her wine glass tipping forward.

Red wine splashed across the hem of Jeanine's blue dress.

"Oh my god!" Tiffany gasped, her hand flying to her mouth in mock horror. "I am so sorry! I thought you were a waitress. I didn't see you there."

The women behind her giggled.

Conrad's grip on Jeanine's waist tightened. He opened his mouth to eviscerate Tiffany, but Jeanine placed a hand on his chest.

She stepped forward. She looked Tiffany dead in the eye.

"Your sclera is yellowing," Jeanine said calmly.

Tiffany blinked. "Excuse me?"

"The whites of your eyes," Jeanine clarified. "They have a yellow tint. And I noticed when you laughed, you have distinct palmar erythema-red palms."

The giggling stopped.

"You've probably been experiencing right upper quadrant abdominal pain," Jeanine continued, her voice clinical and projecting clearly. "And that perfume is trying to cover up fetor hepaticus. It's a specific breath smell associated with liver failure."

Tiffany went pale. Her hand instinctively went to her stomach.

"You're... you're cursing me!" she shrieked, but her voice cracked with fear.

"I'm diagnosing you," Jeanine said. "Go to a hospital. Now."

People were staring. Tiffany looked around, humiliated and terrified, and ran toward the exit.

Conrad looked down at Jeanine. The corner of his mouth quirked up. "Remind me never to piss you off."

Before Jeanine could answer, a loud thud echoed from the other side of the room. Screams erupted.

"He's not breathing!" someone yelled.

An elderly man-Senator Miller-had collapsed near the buffet.

Conrad instinctively stepped in front of Jeanine, shielding her from the chaos. But she shoved him aside. She gathered her heavy skirt in her hands and sprinted in her heels.

She slid to her knees beside the Senator. "Call 911! Get the AED!" she shouted.

She checked for a pulse. Nothing. No breath.

"Cardiac arrest," she announced.

She positioned her hands over his sternum and began compressions. One, two, three, four.

Her expensive dress was soaking up the spilled wine on the floor. Her hair was coming loose. Sweat pricked at her hairline. But her rhythm was perfect.

Conrad stood at the edge of the circle, watching. He saw the focus in her eyes. The absolute command she had over the situation. She wasn't the stuttering girl in the locker room. She was a force of nature.

Minutes dragged like hours. Her arms burned.

"Come on," she grunted, pushing harder.

Suddenly, the Senator gasped. His body arched, and he sucked in a ragged breath.

The room erupted in applause.

Jeanine sat back on her heels, gasping for air. Her hands were shaking now.

Conrad pushed through the crowd. He took off his tuxedo jacket and draped it over her shoulders, covering her bare back.

"You okay?" he asked quietly.

Jeanine looked up at him, wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. "I got him back."

Conrad pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and gently dabbed her temple. "Yeah. You did."

He helped her stand. "Let's go. The show's over."

As they walked out, a camera flashed from behind a pillar. Neither of them noticed.

In the car, silence stretched between them, but it wasn't uncomfortable anymore.

"I'll call the hospital," Conrad said, breaking the quiet. "Your evaluation with Thorne... consider it an 'A'."

Jeanine turned to him. A real smile, small and tired, broke across her face. "Thank you, boss."

Conrad looked away, out the window. "Don't get used to it."

Two Weeks Later

The cardboard box was heavy. Jeanine taped it shut, sealing away four years of medical school memories.

She had graduated.

Thanks to a "generous donation" to the hospital board from an anonymous benefactor, she had secured a residency at Mount Sinai. It was the best program in the city.

She hadn't seen Conrad since the gala. He had been a ghost, a signature on a check, a name on a contract.

The monthly checks arrived on time. The NDA was still in effect. But the man himself had vanished. Jeanine told herself she was relieved. It was just a business deal. She had fulfilled her part; he was fulfilling his.

She dragged her suitcase onto the sidewalk outside the dormitory. She was moving into a shared apartment in Queens-cheaper rent meant more money for her mother's facility. The black card sat in her wallet, untouched, burning a hole in her conscience. She wouldn't use it for rent. She wouldn't be bought.

A screech of tires made her jump.

A massive black SUV swerved across two lanes and slammed on its brakes right in front of her, blocking her path. The tinted window rolled down.

Conrad sat in the driver's seat. He was wearing dark sunglasses and a t-shirt that stretched tight across his chest.

"Get in," he said.

Jeanine blinked. "What? I'm moving. I have a U-Haul coming in an hour."

"Cancel it." Conrad drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "It's my grandmother's birthday. We're going to the Hamptons for the weekend."

"You can't just show up after two weeks of silence and-"

"Read the contract, Jeanine. Clause 9: Availability upon request."

Jeanine groaned. She threw her suitcase into the back seat, which was already piled high with Hermes and Tiffany boxes. She climbed into the passenger seat.

"Here," Conrad tossed an iPad into her lap. "Study this. It's the family tree. Don't mix up Aunt Clara with Aunt Sarah. Clara hates liberals; Sarah hates everyone."

Jeanine stared at the complex diagram. "This is a nightmare."

Conrad merged onto the highway, driving with aggressive precision. "So, I hear you're the star resident in the ER."

Jeanine looked at him sharply. "You're watching me?"

"I'm protecting my investment," he said, staring straight ahead. "I saw the photo of you with Dr. Patel. The flowers were a nice touch."

"It was a birthday gift," Jeanine said, confused. "Wait, are you... jealous?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

Suddenly, the car jerked violently to the left. Conrad swore.

"Hold on!"

A nondescript gray sedan had sideswiped them. It wasn't an accident. The sedan swerved again, trying to ram them into the concrete divider.

Jeanine screamed.

Conrad didn't panic. His face went stone cold. He downshifted, the engine roaring. He slammed on the brakes, letting the sedan shoot past them, then spun the wheel. The SUV drifted, tires screaming against the asphalt, and shot into the exit lane at eighty miles per hour.

They skidded to a halt on the shoulder of the exit ramp, dust billowing around them.

Jeanine was hyperventilating, her hands clutching the dashboard.

Conrad reached under his seat. There was a metallic click-clack.

He pulled out a handgun.

Jeanine's eyes widened to the size of saucers. "You have a gun?!"

Conrad looked at her, realizing she was there. The cold killer look in his eyes vanished, replaced by a mask of calm. He quickly shoved the gun back under the seat.

"Permitted," he said quickly. "My consulting firm handles sensitive government contracts. Sometimes competitors get... aggressive. It's standard risk management."

He pulled out his phone and dialed a number. "It's me. Gray sedan, New Jersey plates. Mile marker 45. Find them. Clean it up."

He hung up.

Jeanine was shaking. "Who... who was that?"

Conrad reached over. His hand, large and warm, covered her trembling hands on her lap.

"Road rage," he lied. "Just road rage. You're safe."

He squeezed her hands. "I won't let anything happen to you. Okay?"

Jeanine looked into his eyes. She saw the violence lurking there, but she also saw something else. Fierce, terrifying protection.

"Okay," she whispered.

Conrad put the car in gear. But the air in the cabin had changed.

This wasn't just a business trip anymore......

The adrenaline had faded into a dull thrum of anxiety by the time they hit the tree-lined avenues of the Hamptons. Here, the hedges were manicured with nail scissors and the driveways were longer than city blocks.

Conrad pulled the SUV over to the side of the road, a mile from the gates.

"Rehearsal," he said, turning off the engine.

He unbuckled his seatbelt and turned to face her. "From this moment on, you call me Conrad. Or Honey. Or Darling."

Jeanine grimaced. "I can't call you 'Honey'. It sounds fake."

"Try it."

"Conrad."

"Too stiff. You sound like you're reporting a tax audit."

"Honey," she tried. It came out like a question.

Conrad leaned in. The scent of leather and cedar filled her nose. He was close. Too close. "Look me in the eyes. Say it like you want to drag me into a closet."

Jeanine's breath hitched. She looked into his dark eyes. "Honey."

"Better."

Before she could pull back, Conrad leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers.

It wasn't a deep kiss, but it was firm, possessive. Jeanine froze. Her brain short-circuited.

He pulled back, his eyes searching hers. "Practice," he said, though his voice was slightly rougher than before. "We'll have to do that in front of them. Don't look like you're going to vomit next time."

Jeanine touched her lips. They tingled. "Right. Practice."

They drove through the iron gates of the Marks Estate. It wasn't a house; it was a limestone castle. A massive fountain in the driveway sprayed water into the air. A line of staff stood waiting.

Conrad grabbed her hand as they got out. He interlaced their fingers. "Squeeze if you need an out."

A woman in a Chanel suit burst from the front door. She bypassed Conrad completely and launched herself at Jeanine.

"Oh, you're real!" Eleanor Marks cried, wrapping Jeanine in a hug that smelled of expensive floral perfume. "You are even prettier than on the phone!"

Jeanine was being crushed. She looked at Conrad, eyes wide.

Conrad gently pried his mother off. "Mom, let her breathe. You're going to bruise her."

Eleanor wiped a tear from her eye. "I'm just so happy. I thought you were gay, or worse, asexual. I thought the family line was ending with you and your consulting reports."

"Nice to see you too, Mom," Conrad deadpanned.

From the top of the stairs, a voice dripped like acid. "So, this is the hired help?"

Aunt Clara stood there, holding a martini. She looked Jeanine up and down with a sneer.

Conrad's grip on Jeanine's hand tightened to the point of pain. "Clara. Watch your mouth."

Jeanine felt the tension radiating off him. He was ready to fight. But she didn't need him to fight this battle.

She straightened her spine, channeling the posture lessons she'd had as a child in the Singleton house, before everything went wrong.

She walked up the steps, extending a hand. "I'm Jeanine. Conrad's girlfriend. It's lovely to meet you, Clara. I love your dress. Is it vintage?"

Clara blinked, thrown off balance by the politeness. "It's... custom."

"Charming," Jeanine smiled.

Conrad watched her, a flicker of genuine respect in his eyes.