She moved like a ghost.

Down the elevator, through the gleaming, cathedral-like lobby of Franco Enterprises. She clutched her purse, her only possession. HR would have the contents of her desk couriered to her, she'd been told. A neat, sterile amputation.

Colleagues glanced her way, their faces a mixture of curiosity and caution. No one approached her. In Beck Franco's kingdom, the condemned were given a wide berth.

Paige was waiting for her just outside the revolving glass doors, her face etched with worry. "Oh my God, Aubree. What happened? Did he fire you?"

Aubree could only manage a numb nod. The tears she'd been holding back burned at the back of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. Not here.

"That bastard," Paige seethed, her voice a furious whisper. "Over a stupid gift?"

Aubree shook her head. She couldn't tell her the real reason. She couldn't tell anyone. The shame was a physical weight, pressing down on her chest, making it hard to breathe. All she wanted was to disappear, to crawl into her apartment and pull the world in after her.

"Aubree!"

The voice cut through the noise of the street, a sound she had hoped to never hear again.

She stiffened, turning slowly. There, on the sidewalk, looking utterly out of place amongst the sea of bespoke suits, was Jordyn Roth. Her ex-boyfriend.

He wore ripped jeans and a faded band t-shirt, his hair a mess. He rushed toward her, his face a mask of what he probably thought was remorse.

"Babe, I know I messed up," he said, reaching for her hands. "Just give me one more chance. Please."

A wave of revulsion washed over her. She had broken up with him a month ago, after finding texts from another girl on his phone.

"Jordyn, it's over," she said, her voice flat and cold. "Leave me alone."

It was the middle of the afternoon, but the street was still a river of people-executives heading to late lunches, couriers rushing past. Many of her colleagues, lingering outside for a coffee break, recognized Jordyn from the handful of times he'd picked her up. Whispers started to ripple through the crowd.

Jordyn's pleading expression curdled into something ugly. "Over? Just like that? Because I made one little mistake? Did you find someone else? Someone rich from this shiny tower?"

His words were like acid, burning her raw nerves. The irony was so thick she could have choked on it.

Paige stepped between them. "Hey, man, back off. She said to leave."

Jordyn shoved her aside. "This isn't about you." He grabbed Aubree's arm, his grip surprisingly strong. "Aubree, just talk to me. Five minutes." His voice was begging, but his eyes were hard and possessive.

"Let go of me," she hissed, trying to wrench her arm free. His fingers only tightened, like a vise.

The scene was escalating, drawing more and more stares. Aubree's face burned with humiliation. To be suspended by a billionaire and publicly harassed by a deadbeat musician all in the same hour felt like a special kind of hell.

Fifty floors above them, Beck Franco stood at his window, watching the ugly little drama unfold on the street below.

Alex Nash stood a respectful distance behind him. "That's the ex-boyfriend, sir," he reported, his voice neutral. "Jordyn Roth. Drummer in a band that plays dive bars in Brooklyn."

Beck's gaze was fixed, his expression unreadable. He raised a pair of powerful binoculars to his eyes. He couldn't make out every detail in the chaos, but he saw Jordyn's hand clamped around Aubree's arm, her face pale with fear. His jaw tightened, a muscle twitching in his cheek. The air in the office grew heavy, cold.

Down on the sidewalk, Jordyn's desperation was tipping into rage. He lunged for her purse.

"What's in here, huh? A gift from your new sugar daddy?" he snarled, tugging at the leather strap.

"Stop it!" Aubree cried, clutching her bag for dear life. Inside was her wallet, her keys, her life... and secrets she would die before letting him see.

The public spectacle, the shouting, the raw humiliation-it was all playing out on the grand stage of Wall Street. And high above, a pair of stormy gray eyes watched it all, a silent, powerful judge, as the gears of fate began to turn.

Jordyn's strength was fueled by rage. He gave one last, vicious tug, and Aubree stumbled forward, the designer tote bag ripped from her grasp.

He didn't hesitate. He turned the bag upside down and shook it violently.

The contents spilled onto the grimy sidewalk. A tube of red lipstick rolled into the gutter. Her wallet slapped against the concrete. A set of keys, a paperback novel, a small notebook... and a single, small, white cardboard box.

Jordyn's eyes zeroed in on it instantly. He snatched it up.

He stared at the words printed on the side, his face contorting. His head snapped up, his eyes blazing with a wild, accusatory fire. He held the empty box aloft like a prosecutor revealing damning evidence.

"A morning-after pill?!" he roared, his voice cracking loud enough for the entire street to hear. "What is this? Huh? You tell me why the hell you have this!"

The blood drained from Aubree's face. She had completely forgotten the empty box was still tucked into a side pocket of her bag.

A collective gasp went through the crowd of onlookers. Their whispers grew louder, more pointed.

In Jordyn's simple, self-centered world, the equation was brutal and clear: she had taken a morning-after pill, which meant she had slept with someone else.

"Who was it?" he screamed, his face inches from hers. He grabbed her by the shoulders, shaking her hard. "Who is the bastard? Is it your rich boss? The one who just fired you?"

Paige scrambled to her feet and tried to pull him off. "Get your hands off her!"

He shoved Paige away again, sending her stumbling back. He raised his hand, his palm open, ready to strike.

Time seemed to slow down. Aubree flinched, bracing for the impact.

It never came.

A hand, strong and steady, shot out and clamped around Jordyn's wrist, stopping his arm mid-swing.

Jordyn cried out in pain and surprise, twisting to see who had intervened. He found himself staring into a pair of cold, emotionless eyes.

It was Alex Nash. Beck's aide, dressed in his immaculate suit, looked less like an assistant and more like a Secret Service agent.

High above, Beck had watched through the binoculars. He couldn't read the words on the small white box, but he saw Jordyn's face twist in fury as he held it up. He saw Aubree's expression of pure, unadulterated horror. He didn't need to read the label to know it was something that exposed her. And then he saw Jordyn's hand rise to strike her. That was when he'd pressed the button on his desk, a direct line to his security chief, and given a single, clipped order.

Alex applied a slight, almost casual pressure to Jordyn's wrist. "Sir," he said, his voice dangerously calm. "I suggest you release the lady. Now."

Jordyn struggled, but Alex's grip was like steel. With another twist, Jordyn yelped and his hand flew open, releasing Aubree.

"And I suggest you leave," Alex added, his voice dropping a degree colder. "Before the NYPD gets involved in a discussion about public assault."

Jordyn's eyes darted around at the sea of cell phones now recording his every move. Fear finally broke through his rage. He shot Aubree a look of pure venom, spat on the sidewalk, and then scurried away, disappearing into the crowd.

Alex helped Paige to her feet, then turned to Aubree, who was on her hands and knees, frantically gathering her scattered belongings. Her fingers closed around the damning white box, stuffing it deep into her purse.

She thought the nightmare was over. She stood up, ready to thank Alex, to get away from all the staring eyes.

But Alex wasn't looking at her. He was holding out his phone. It was already on an active call. The screen read: Beck Franco. Beck had heard every damning word through the open line.

Her hand trembled as she took it. She pressed it to her ear.

"Get in my car," Beck's voice commanded, leaving no room for argument. "Now."

Aubree looked up. Alex gestured subtly with his head. A black, armored-looking Maybach had pulled up silently to the curb, its tinted windows as dark and impenetrable as its owner's eyes.

Her heart sank. He had seen. He must have seen everything. The fight. The accusation. The box.

And he knew she wasn't engaged.

The door of the Maybach closed with a soft, heavy thud, sealing her inside. The chaotic sounds of New York City vanished, replaced by a silence so complete it was suffocating.

Beck was sitting in the seat opposite her, his long legs crossed, his suit jacket unbuttoned. He didn't speak. He just watched her, his gray eyes as sharp and dissecting as a surgeon's scalpel.

Aubree couldn't meet his gaze. She stared at her own reflection in the darkened window, a pale, disheveled stranger. Her hands were twisted together in her lap, her knuckles white.

The car pulled smoothly into traffic. The silence stretched, each second a new turn of the screw.

Finally, she couldn't take it anymore. "Thank you, sir," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "For what Alex did..."

He cut her off, his voice devoid of any warmth. "Was that man your 'fiancé'?"

The question landed like a punch to the gut. The interrogation had begun.

"No," she said, shaking her head quickly. "No, he's my ex-boyfriend."

A flicker of something-amusement? Contempt?-crossed his face. "Oh? And where was your fiancé while you were being assaulted on a public street?"

Her mind was a blank slate of panic. She grasped for a name, any name. "He's... he's out of the country. On business."

Beck leaned forward slightly, the pressure in the small space intensifying. "Is that so? What's his name?"

Aubree's throat went dry. She couldn't say Julian's name; it was too easily disproven. She needed a wall, not another lie he could tear down. She bit her lip, her chin lifting in a flicker of defiance. "With all due respect, sir, I don't believe my personal life is relevant to my employment, which, as I understand it, is currently suspended." She tried to use professional boundaries as a shield, though her voice trembled on the last word.

The instant the words left her lips, she wanted to die. It was a foolish, desperate gambit.

A knowing, dangerous glint appeared in Beck's eyes. Her refusal was more telling than any lie.

He didn't call her on it. Not directly. He changed tactics, his voice silky and sharp. "Interesting. And the box, Miss Hamilton? The one your ex-boyfriend seemed so upset about?"

He stared directly into her eyes. "Why would a woman with a fiancé need a morning-after pill?"

It was a checkmate. A perfect, inescapable trap. Every possible answer was a lie that would only dig her deeper.

"I... it was..." she stammered, the words dying in her throat.

He watched her flounder for a moment longer, then he lost his patience. He leaned back, his face a mask of cold certainty.

"You're not wearing an engagement ring," he began, ticking off the points like a prosecutor in his closing argument. "You refuse to name your supposed fiancé. And a woman in a committed relationship does not typically carry emergency contraception in her purse."

He paused, letting the weight of his logic crush her. Then, the final blow.

"There is no fiancé. Is there?"

Her defenses crumbled. A hot, shameful wave of humiliation washed over her, and tears welled in her eyes. She felt stripped bare, a fool exposed in front of the one person she couldn't afford to look weak in front of.

She didn't answer. She couldn't. She just bit her lip and turned her head to stare blindly out the window.

Her silence was his confirmation.

He had his answer, but it only seemed to make him more agitated. Why lie? Why go to such lengths to push him away? The rejection, so blatant and desperate, sparked something in him-a possessive, unfamiliar curiosity that he found deeply unsettling.

The car stopped at a red light.

The suffocating atmosphere, the weight of his gaze, the sting of her humiliation-it was too much. In a single, fluid motion, Aubree lunged for the door handle, threw it open, and scrambled out of the car.

She plunged into the stream of pedestrians crossing the street, not looking back.

"Sir?" the driver asked, startled. "Should we go after her?"

Beck watched her small, retreating figure disappear into the Manhattan crowd. A dark, predatory light glinted in his eyes.

"Follow her," he commanded, his voice a low, determined growl.