One week later. The Metropolitan Museum of Art was glowing under the New York night sky.

Bridget stepped out of a black Lincoln Town Car. She wore a sharp, black haute couture gown that left her shoulders bare. The dress was armor. In her hand, she held a heavy platinum invitation card. It belonged to her mother, but tonight, Bridget was representing the Rostova family.

The moment her heels hit the red carpet, the paparazzi went wild. Camera flashes exploded in her face like lightning. Reporters shouted questions about her broken engagement and her illegitimate status.

Bridget kept her spine perfectly straight. She did not look at the cameras. She walked up the massive stone steps and entered the grand ballroom.

The noise in the room dropped the second she walked in. The wives of the old money families turned their heads. Their eyes dragged up and down Bridget's dress with obvious disgust. They whispered behind their champagne flutes.

Bridget ignored the burning in her stomach. She took a glass of champagne from a passing tray and walked directly toward a group of men near the center exhibit. They were the key investors in her mother's company.

She smiled, her voice steady and professional, as she began to discuss the quarterly projections, desperately trying to project stability.

Just as the conversation was flowing, a voice dripped with poison behind her.

"Looking for a new sugar daddy to fund your mother's failing business, Bridget?"

Bridget turned. David stood there, holding a drink, a nasty smirk on his face.

The investors looked uncomfortable. They quickly made excuses and scattered, leaving Bridget alone with him.

"Stay away from me, David," Bridget said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Unless you want another drink in your face."

"You don't have the guts," David sneered.

Before Bridget could reply, Cheyenne walked up. She was holding the arm of a powerful state senator. She looked at Bridget with fake shock.

"Bridget! How did you sneak past security? This is an exclusive event."

Bridget held up the platinum invitation. "I walked through the front door. Representing my mother's company."

Cheyenne laughed, a high, irritating sound. She leaned in close to Bridget's ear.

"A bastard will always be a bastard. You belong in the gutter."

Bridget did not flinch. She smiled coldly. "At least I don't have to pour wine for men in VIP rooms just to get their attention."

Cheyenne's face turned stark white. She knew exactly what Bridget was talking about. Pure hatred flashed in her eyes. She turned her head and made a very quick, subtle eye contact with David.

David gave a microscopic nod. He raised his glass. "Let's just enjoy the party."

Bridget felt sick looking at them. She turned around and walked toward the open balcony doors at the edge of the ballroom to get some fresh air.

As she turned, a waiter carrying a large silver tray walked directly across her path. The tray temporarily blocked her view of her own hand.

In that split second, David reached out. His finger flicked over the rim of Bridget's champagne flute. A tiny amount of white powder fell into the golden liquid and dissolved instantly.

Bridget stepped onto the dark balcony. The cold wind hit her bare shoulders. She raised the glass to her lips and drank the champagne, desperate to calm her racing heart.

On the second floor of the museum, standing in the shadows of a private viewing box, Damond watched the entire scene.

His eyes were locked on Bridget. His jaw was clenched so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek.

His assistant, Miles, stepped up behind him. "Sir, the waiter just confirmed. David slipped something into her drink."

Damond looked down at the glass in his own hand. The crystal shattered with a loud crack. Blood dripped from his palm, but he did not seem to feel it.

"Lock down every side exit in this building," Damond ordered. His voice was the sound of a nightmare. "No one gets out."

He dropped the broken glass and walked toward the stairs.

Bridget stood by the stone railing of the balcony. Less than ten minutes had passed since she drank the champagne.

A sudden, unnatural heat bloomed in the pit of her stomach. It spread rapidly through her veins, making her skin feel like it was on fire. Her vision blurred. The lights of the city across the park smeared into long yellow streaks.

Her legs felt like water. She dropped her empty glass. It shattered on the stone floor. She grabbed the railing with both hands, trying to hold herself upright. Her breathing became shallow and fast.

Heavy footsteps sounded behind her.

David walked onto the balcony. He closed the heavy glass door behind him and locked it.

He walked up to Bridget, a disgusting smile on his face. He leaned in, smelling her neck.

"You are going to put on a great show for the cameras tonight, Bridget. Let's see how arrogant you are when the drugs kick in."

Bridget bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood, trying to shock her brain awake. She opened her mouth to scream for help, but her throat was paralyzed. Only a weak gasp came out.

David reached out and grabbed the strap of her black dress. He pulled hard, trying to rip it to expose her chest.

Before the fabric could tear, a deafening explosion of sound shattered the night.

The locked glass door of the balcony exploded inward. Thousands of pieces of tempered glass rained down on the stone floor.

Damond stepped through the empty doorframe. He looked like a god of war. His gray eyes were entirely black with rage.

David spun around in terror. Before he could even register who it was, Damond moved.

Damond's leg swung in a brutal arc. His heavy leather shoe connected directly with David's stomach. The impact sounded like a car crash.

David flew backward. He hit the stone pillar of the balcony and collapsed to the floor, gasping for air, unable to scream.

Damond did not look at him again. He ripped off his suit jacket and wrapped it tightly around Bridget's trembling body. He scooped her up into his arms. She felt like a burning furnace against his chest.

He carried her through the shattered door, down the private staff staircase, bypassing the paparazzi entirely.

Ten minutes later, the black Maybach was tearing through the streets of Manhattan.

In the back seat, the drug completely stripped Bridget of her sanity. The heat was unbearable. She twisted in Damond's lap, her hands desperately tearing at the buttons of his shirt, seeking the cool skin underneath.

Damond's face was pale with restrained tension. He grabbed her wrists, holding them still.

"Drive faster," he barked at the driver.

The car pulled into the underground garage of his Billionaires' Row penthouse. Damond carried her straight into the private elevator.

He kicked his bedroom door open and dropped her onto the massive bed. He turned to walk toward the bathroom to turn on the cold shower.

Bridget lunged forward. She wrapped her arms around his waist from behind, pressing her burning face against his spine.

"Please," she whimpered, the sound raw and desperate. "Help me."

The last thread of Damond's control snapped. His left cufflink popped off and rolled across the floor as he turned around.

He pushed her back onto the mattress, his large body trapping hers. He grabbed her chin, forcing her hazy eyes to look at him.

"Look at me. Say my name. Know exactly who is doing this to you."

"Damond," she breathed, her hands pulling his head down.

Damond's mouth crashed onto hers. The kiss was violent, hungry, and entirely possessive. He tore the ruined remnants of her dress away.

The drug made every touch electric. Bridget arched her back, her nails digging deep into the muscles of his shoulders, leaving long red scratches. Damond took complete control, driving the drug out of her system through sheer physical exhaustion.

The city outside the window stayed dark. Inside, there was only the sound of heavy breathing and skin against skin.

It wasn't until the early hours of the morning that the drug finally burned out. Bridget collapsed into a deep, exhausted sleep.

Damond sat against the headboard. He lit a cigarette. He looked down at the red marks he had left on her pale skin. The storm in his eyes had not faded; it had only just begun.