"Wait."

Taryn's voice cracked like a whip.

Erika stopped. She didn't turn around.

Footsteps clicked rapidly down the hallway. Alex, the receptionist, came jogging out of the private elevator, clutching an iPad to his chest. He was out of breath.

"Ms. Slattery," Alex panted, shoving the screen toward Taryn. "You asked me to dig up the old files on the ex-wife. Look."

Taryn ripped the iPad from his hands.

Erika turned slowly. Her heart slammed against her ribs, a cold sweat breaking out on the back of her neck.

Taryn stared at the screen. It was a five-year-old gossip column about the Morgan family scandal, explicitly detailing the disgraced former designer, Erika Stanton, who had married into the dynasty. There was a blurry photo of Erika.

Taryn looked at the screen, then at the engraved 'E.S.' on the back of the brooch, and finally at Erika's face.

The color drained from Taryn's face, instantly replaced by a dark, ugly red.

"You," Taryn breathed, her voice shaking with rage. She hurled the iPad at Erika's feet. The glass screen shattered across the marble floor. "Erika Morgan."

Erika didn't look at the broken glass. She met Taryn's furious gaze head-on. "It's Erika Stanton now. Do you need something else?"

The calm indifference in Erika's voice snapped the last thread of Taryn's sanity. She realized she had just bragged about Doyle's love to the woman who actually designed the jewelry.

Taryn spun around, grabbed a mug of steaming black coffee from the entryway console, and hurled the liquid straight at Erika's face.

Erika's instincts kicked in. She twisted her body violently to the right.

The scalding coffee missed her face but splashed heavily across her left forearm.

The cheap polyester of her sleeve instantly melted against her skin. A searing, blistering agony shot up Erika's arm. She sucked in a sharp breath through her teeth, her knees buckling for a fraction of a second.

Alex gasped, his hand flying to his mouth, but his eyes danced with cruel amusement.

Taryn stepped forward, her face twisted in hatred. "You cheap, cheating whore. How dare you come here and mock me?"

Erika clutched her burning arm, her breathing shallow.

"You think you're so special?" Taryn shrieked. "You're trash! And that bastard child you birthed is going to end up in the gutter just like you!"

The pain in Erika's arm vanished, replaced by a rush of adrenaline so pure it made her vision blur.

Ice flooded her veins.

Erika lunged forward.

Before Taryn could blink, Erika grabbed the lapel of the expensive silk robe. With one violent yank, she ripped the sapphire brooch free.

The sound of tearing silk echoed loudly in the hallway.

Taryn screamed, stumbling backward, throwing her hands up to protect her face.

Erika stood over her. She squeezed the brooch in her fist. The sharp metal pin sliced into her palm, but she didn't feel it.

"Listen to me very carefully," Erika said. Her voice wasn't loud, but it was deadly quiet. "If you ever mention my son again, I will make sure the press finds out exactly how you got your last three movie roles. Do you understand me?"

Taryn's mouth opened and closed. She was trembling, terrified by the absolute murder in Erika's eyes.

Erika looked down at the brooch in her bloody hand. "I designed this. You don't deserve to wear it."

She turned on her heel and slammed her hand against the elevator button.

The doors slid open instantly. Erika stepped inside, her spine rigid.

Taryn finally found her voice as the doors began to close. "I'll have Doyle fire you! You'll be on the streets!"

Erika let a cold, mocking smile touch her lips just as the metal doors sealed shut.

The moment she was alone, her legs gave out. She slid down the wall of the elevator, hitting the floor hard.

She ripped her sleeve up. The skin on her forearm was bright red, and angry blisters were already bubbling to the surface.

She squeezed her eyes shut, clutching the bloody brooch to her chest. She had to get Connor out of this city. She had to survive.

The subway ride back to Brooklyn was a blur of agonizing pain.

Every time the train jolted, the raw skin on Erika's arm screamed. The cold wind outside the station felt like sandpaper against her burns.

She dragged her feet up the three flights of stairs to her apartment. Her hand shook violently as she dug her keys out of her tote bag.

She slid the key into the rusted lock. She noticed faint, fresh scratch marks around the metal cylinder, a sudden cold dread filling her stomach before the door even swung open. It clicked.

Erika pushed the door open, ready to collapse.

But the moment she stepped inside, her lungs froze.

The familiar scent of mold and cheap cleaning supplies was gone. Instead, the heavy, expensive aroma of cedarwood and dark tobacco filled the cramped space.

Erika's eyes darted to the center of the room.

Sitting on her sagging thrift-store sofa was a man in a bespoke charcoal suit. His long legs were stretched out, taking up the entire space.

Doyle Morgan.

Erika's heart stopped beating.

But what made her blood run entirely cold was what he held in his arms.

Connor was fast asleep, his small head resting against Doyle's broad chest.

Panic, raw and blinding, exploded in Erika's brain.

"Put him down!" she screamed, launching herself across the room.

She threw herself at the sofa, her hands clawing at his suit jacket, trying to rip her son away from him.

Doyle didn't flinch. He secured Connor against his chest with his left arm. His right hand shot out, his long fingers wrapping around Erika's wrist like a steel vice.

With a sharp pull, he dragged her down, forcing her to crash onto the sofa cushion right beside him. He carefully angled his body so she wouldn't hit the child.

Connor stirred, letting out a soft whimper.

Doyle's chest stopped moving. He held his breath, his large hand instinctively coming up to cup the back of Connor's head, soothing him back to sleep.

The sight of Doyle-the monster who destroyed her life-comforting her son made Erika feel physically sick. She thrashed against his grip.

"Let me go!" she hissed.

Doyle's dark eyes snapped to hers. "Shut up," he growled, his voice a dangerous rumble. "You're going to wake him."

Erika froze, terrified of scaring Connor. She glared at Doyle, her chest heaving, her eyes burning with pure hatred.

Doyle's gaze slowly dropped from her face.

His eyes landed on her left arm.

The blisters were massive now, the skin peeling away in angry red patches.

Doyle's pupils dilated. The temperature in the room plummeted. The grip on her wrist tightened so hard Erika felt her bones grind together.

"Who did this?" Doyle demanded. His voice was deathly quiet, but the muscle in his jaw ticked furiously.

Erika let out a bitter, breathless laugh. "Why don't you ask your girlfriend? It was a lovely tip for my delivery service."

Doyle's face turned to stone. A flash of violent, unrestrained fury crossed his eyes.

But just as quickly, the mask slammed back into place. He sneered, his lip curling. "Who gave you permission to go to her penthouse? Trying to beg for your old life back?"

Erika's mouth fell open in shock. "HR assigned me the delivery! You think I wanted to see her?"

Doyle leaned in, his face inches from hers. His breath ghosted over her lips. "Nothing happens in my company without my approval, Erika. You went because I allowed it."

The realization hit her like a physical blow to the stomach.

He had orchestrated the entire thing. He wanted her humiliated. He wanted her broken.

A wave of pure, unfiltered rage washed over her.

Erika ripped her free hand back and slapped him across the face with everything she had.

The sharp crack echoed in the small room.

Doyle's head snapped to the side.

Before Erika could pull her hand back, Doyle dropped Connor onto the sofa cushions, grabbed both of Erika's wrists, and twisted them behind her back.

He pressed his hard chest against hers, trapping her completely.

He looked down at Connor, who was still sleeping soundly. A dark, ugly jealousy twisted Doyle's features.

He leaned down, his mouth brushing her ear. "Is this what you reduced yourself to? Letting yourself get burned to feed another man's bastard?"

Erika saw red. She opened her mouth and sank her teeth into the thick muscle of his shoulder, biting down until she tasted his blood.

Doyle didn't pull away. He didn't even flinch.

Instead, a low, dark chuckle vibrated in his chest.

He released one of her wrists, grabbed her by the waist, and hauled her off the sofa.

Erika stumbled, her bare feet dragging on the floorboards as Doyle pulled her into the tiny bedroom.

He walked to the small toddler bed in the corner. With a rough but strangely calculated movement, he tossed the sleeping Connor onto the mattress.

Connor rolled over, clutching his blanket, and stayed asleep.

Erika's heart leaped into her throat. She tried to run to the bed, but Doyle caught her by the hips and slammed her back against the cold plaster wall.

His massive frame caged her in.

He brought his hand up, his thumb and forefinger gripping her chin, forcing her to look up at him. His grip was bruising.

"Who is he?" Doyle gritted out, his eyes bloodshot with a jealousy he refused to name. "Who is the father? Was he worth losing everything?"

Erika stared back at him, her eyes shining with defiant tears. "He is ten times the man you will ever be."

The words acted like a match to gasoline.

The last thread of Doyle's control snapped.

He let out a guttural sound and crashed his mouth down onto hers.

It wasn't a kiss. It was a punishment. It was a violent, desperate claiming. His teeth scraped against her bottom lip, forcing her mouth open. He tasted like mint and the blood she had drawn from his shoulder.

Erika gagged. She brought her fists up, hammering them against his solid chest, but it was like hitting a brick wall.

Doyle's large hands slid down her spine, gripping her hips and pulling her flush against his rigid body.

The heat radiating from him, the overwhelming scent of his cologne-it all triggered a violent flashback to that dark hotel room five years ago.

Panic seized her lungs. She couldn't breathe.

Erika brought her knee up, aiming straight for his groin.

Doyle anticipated the strike. He shifted his weight, blocking her knee with his thigh, and kicked her legs apart, stepping into her space until they were pressed together seamlessly.

His mouth softened for a fraction of a second, his tongue sweeping along her lower lip in a sick, twisted imitation of passion.

Erika squeezed her eyes shut. A single, hot tear escaped, tracking down her cheek and dropping onto the back of Doyle's hand.

Doyle froze.

He pulled his head back, his chest heaving. He looked at the tear on his skin as if it burned him.

But the hesitation only lasted a second. His eyes darkened again. He reached down and gripped the collar of her cheap blazer.

With one violent pull, he ripped the fabric open, the plastic buttons popping off and scattering across the wooden floor. His cold fingers slid under the hem of her shirt, touching her bare stomach.

Erika stopped fighting. Her body went completely limp.

She looked up at him and let out a cold, hollow laugh.

Doyle's hand stopped moving. He frowned, looking down at her.

"Is this it?" Erika mocked, her voice trembling but laced with venom. "The great CEO of Morgan Group, forcing himself on his ex-wife in a slum? Go ahead. Do it. I'll make sure Taryn gets the photos tomorrow."

At the mention of Taryn, Doyle's face contorted.

He pulled his hand out from under her shirt. His fingers moved up, wrapping loosely around her slender throat. His thumb pressed dangerously close to her pulse point.

"You flatter yourself," Doyle sneered, his voice dripping with disgust. "At least Taryn is honest about what she wants. You hide behind a mask of innocence while sleeping with my brother."

The words sliced through Erika's chest like a scalpel, but she kept her chin high, refusing to let him see the bleeding.