"You need to buy something or leave."

I looked up. The convenience store clerk stood over me, holding a push broom. He wore a stained yellow apron and a deep scowl.

"I just need a few more minutes," I rasped, my throat raw.

"You have been sitting on this curb since midnight. Scram." He nudged my suitcase with the broom bristles. "Before I call the cops."

The word 'cops' sent a violent jolt of panic through my chest. I couldn't deal with the police. Not after yesterday.

I grabbed the handle of my bag and forced myself up. Black spots danced across my vision. My knees buckled instantly.

I braced my hand against the cold brick wall, fighting a massive wave of nausea. Hunger twisted my stomach into tight, painful knots. I hadn't eaten since lunch yesterday, right before the federal agents swarmed my front lawn.

I stumbled forward, dragging the plastic wheels over the cracked pavement.

A horn blared.

Tires screeched against the wet asphalt. A sleek black Bentley Continental swerved into the parking lot, stopping mere inches from my toes.

The driver’s side door swung open.

Polished leather dress shoes stepped onto the pavement.

Bentley Mercer. Thirty-eight years old. My father’s most trusted business partner.

He buttoned his charcoal suit jacket, his icy blue eyes locking onto my shivering frame. He showed zero pity. No sympathetic frown. No comforting words.

"Get in," he commanded.

"Go to hell," I croaked, spitting on the asphalt near his shoe.

He didn't flinch. "Your father didn't kill himself."

My head snapped up. The dizziness instantly vanished. "What did you just say?"

"The police are lying. The federal agents are lying." Bentley stepped closer, invading my space. "Richard didn't pull that trigger."

"How do you know?" I lunged forward, grabbing his suit lapel.

"Because I have proof." He clamped his hand over my wrist, peeling my fingers off his expensive wool jacket. "The people who framed him are powerful. They cornered him. They forced his death."

"Who?" I yelled, ignoring the clerk watching us from the glass door. "Give me a name!"

"Get in the car, Ivy."

"I don't need a man's charity." I yanked my arm back, rubbing my wrist.

Bentley leaned down, his face inches from mine. "Then don't call it charity. Call it a deal."

"What kind of deal?"

"I keep you alive. You help me flush out the rats who murdered my partner." He opened the passenger door. "Decide right now. Stay here and starve, or get in and fight."

I stared at the leather interior. I looked back at the cold, empty street.

I tossed my suitcase into the backseat and climbed in.

The interior smelled of rich leather and dark roast coffee. Bentley slid behind the steering wheel and hit the gas.

"Where are we going?" I asked, gripping the door handle.

"My house."

"I don't even know where you live."

"You don't need to know." He kept his eyes on the road. "You just need to stay out of sight."

"Who are 'they', Bentley? The people who framed him."

"A syndicate. They use legitimate businesses to wash dirty money."

"And my dad found out?"

"Your dad refused to play ball." Bentley gripped the steering wheel tighter, his knuckles turning white. "They cornered him. Falsified bank records. Paid off the federal agents."

"So we go to the police," I urged. "We take your proof to the chief."

Bentley let out a harsh, humorless laugh. "The chief of police plays golf with the man who ordered the hit. You go to the cops, you end up floating in the river."

I shrank back into the passenger seat, the reality of the danger finally sinking in. "Then what do we do?"

"We wait. We gather more evidence. And then we strike."

Twenty minutes later, the massive iron gates of his hillside estate locked behind us.

A maid quickly ushered me into a sprawling guest room. Silk sheets covered a king-sized bed. A walk-in closet held rows of designer clothes in my exact size. A silver tray of roasted chicken, garlic potatoes, and steaming rolls waited on the glass coffee table.

I devoured the food. I scraped the plate clean, my hands shaking as I held the silver fork.

The heavy oak door swung open without a knock.

Bentley walked in, holding a digital tablet.

"You look less like a stray dog," he remarked, dropping the tablet onto an armchair.

"Did you buy these?" I asked, pointing toward the open closet.

"My assistant did. Throw away those rags you are wearing."

"They aren't rags. It's my cheer uniform."

"It smells like a dumpster, Ivy."

I flushed, crossing my arms over my chest. "Where is the proof? Show me what you have."

"Not yet." He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. "You live under my roof now. That means you follow my rules."

"I am not a child."

"You act like one." He crossed the room, towering over me. "Rule one. You are inside this house by eight o'clock every night. No exceptions."

"Fine."

"Rule two. You do not investigate your father's death on your own. You leave the digging entirely to me."

"It is my father!" I stood up, knocking my chair backward. "I have a right to know!"

"And you are a massive target," Bentley fired back, his voice dropping to a dangerous rumble. "If they know you are looking, they will eliminate you just like they did him."

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry.

"Rule three," he continued, his gaze darkening. "You do not contact that quarterback boy. Joseph."

"Joseph broke up with me," I muttered, looking at the floor.

"Good. Keep it that way. He is a liability." Bentley turned toward the exit.

"Why do you care who I talk to?" I challenged.

He paused at the doorway, glancing over his shoulder. "Because distractions get people killed. Rest. We start planning tomorrow."

***

Midnight.

I stared at the vaulted ceiling, the expensive silk sheets tangled around my legs. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the black body bag rolling down my front steps.

A soft knock broke the silence.

The door opened before I could answer.

Bentley stood in the doorway, holding a steaming ceramic mug. He wore a dark gray Henley shirt, the cotton stretching tightly across his broad chest.

"Drink this," he ordered, setting the mug on my nightstand.

I sat up, pulling the thick blanket to my chin. "What is it?"

"Warm milk. It helps with insomnia."

"I never said I couldn't sleep."

"You didn't have to."

He didn't leave. He stood by the edge of the bed, his imposing figure casting a long shadow over the mattress.

"Are you going to stand there and watch me drink it?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"If I have to."

"I'm not a prisoner, Bentley."

"You are a survivor. There is a difference."

I reached out and wrapped my hands around the warm ceramic. The heat seeped into my freezing palms, chasing away the chill that had settled in my bones since yesterday.

"Why are you really doing this?" I asked, staring at the white liquid.

"Richard was my partner," he replied flatly.

"That is a lie. You are hiding something."

He stepped closer. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight as he rested a hand on the bedpost. "Do not push me, Ivy."

"You never liked me. You always told my dad I was spoiled and reckless."

A muscle feathered in his jaw. "You were."

"And now?"

"Now you are my responsibility."

He turned and walked out, pulling the door shut with a soft click.

I took a sip. A strange, heavy sense of security settled over my chest. For the first time in two days, I didn't feel like I was drowning. Bentley was dangerous, strict, and entirely too controlling. But he was here. He hadn't abandoned me.

Down the hall, inside the master study, Bentley locked his oak double doors.

He walked to his mahogany desk and opened a hidden steel drawer. He pulled out a small, silver digital recorder.

He pressed play.

Static hissed through the quiet, dimly lit room.

Then, my father's voice, frantic and terrified, echoed from the tiny speaker.

"Bentley, they're outside the office. You have to protect Ivy. Promise me you will—"

A loud gunshot cut the recording off.

Bentley stopped the audio, his thumb tracing the cold metal of the device.

"I promise, Richard," he murmured to the empty room. "I will tear them all apart."

He locked the recorder back in the drawer. He had the proof. He had the motive.