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.

Aubree ran.

She didn't stop until her lungs burned and her side ached, putting several blocks between herself and the black Maybach. Leaning against the brick wall of a bookstore, she gasped for air, her body trembling.

A fresh wave of nausea rolled through her, a product of pregnancy, panic, and adrenaline.

She was finally alone. Finally safe. All she wanted was the sanctuary of her small apartment.

Her building was a few blocks away, a pre-war brownstone that was old but well-kept. She walked the rest of the way, her legs feeling like lead. As she reached the front steps, a shadow detached itself from the darkness of the entryway.

It was Jordyn.

He had been waiting for her. Stalking her.

His eyes were bloodshot, his expression a terrifying mix of obsession and fury. "You think you can just run away?" he snarled, blocking her path. "Who was that guy? The one in the Maybach!"

He must have seen Alex, seen the car.

"Jordyn, calm down," she said, her voice shaking as she backed away. "He's just my boss."

"Boss?" He let out a crazed, bitter laugh. "A boss sends his goon to beat me up for you? You're a liar!"

He lunged, grabbing her and slamming her back against the rough brick wall of the building. The impact knocked the wind out of her, and black spots danced in her vision.

"You're going to tell me everything," he hissed, one hand closing around her throat. The pressure wasn't enough to choke her, but it was a clear, brutal threat. "Or else-"

A sudden, blinding glare of headlights washed over them, freezing the scene like a photograph.

The black Maybach had appeared at the curb, as silent and menacing as a shark.

The passenger door opened, and Beck Franco emerged. He had taken off his suit jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt, revealing strong, corded forearms. He didn't look like a CEO. He looked like something far more dangerous.

Jordyn froze for a second, then his bravado returned. "So, you're the one," he sneered.

Beck ignored him. His entire focus was on Jordyn's hand on Aubree's throat. He closed the distance in three long, purposeful strides.

He seized Jordyn's wrist and twisted.

The crack of bone was sickeningly loud, followed by Jordyn's high-pitched scream of agony. His hand flew open, releasing Aubree.

Beck pulled her behind him, shielding her with his body. Then, with a cold, efficient fury, he drove his fist into Jordyn's face.

Jordyn crumpled to the ground, blood pouring from his nose.

Beck stood over him, his chest heaving slightly. "I will say this one last time," he said, his voice a low, chilling whisper. "Stay away from her."

He crouched down, grabbing a fistful of Jordyn's shirt and hauling him close. His next words were for Jordyn's ears alone, a venomous, possessive promise.

"She works for me. You touch one of my employees again, you are making an enemy of me. And I will make you disappear from this city."

The raw menace in his voice, the murderous look in his eyes, did what the punch couldn't. It broke Jordyn completely. He scrambled backward, crab-walking away before getting to his feet and running off into the night like a terrified animal.

The immediate danger was gone. Beck stood, turning to face Aubree. She was still pressed against the wall, her eyes wide with shock.

He looked down at his own hand. The knuckles on his right hand were split and bleeding.

He met her stunned gaze, his expression unreadable. "I need ice," he stated, his voice back to its usual, commanding tone. "And a bandage. We're going upstairs."

It wasn't a request. It was an order, wrapped in an undeniable reason. He had gotten hurt defending her. And with that perfect, unimpeachable excuse, he followed her into the building, into her home, into her life.