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.

Her hand trembled as she unlocked the three deadbolts on her apartment door. Beck followed her inside, and the small space seemed to shrink around him.

Her one-bedroom apartment, her cozy sanctuary, suddenly felt cramped and inadequate. His expensive, custom-tailored suit was a stark contrast to her IKEA bookshelf and the worn, comfortable sofa. It was a collision of two different worlds, and she was standing at the epicenter.

He didn't speak, just took in his surroundings. His sharp gaze swept over the stack of novels on her coffee table, the knitted blanket draped over a chair, the framed photo of her and Paige laughing on the kitchen counter. She felt exposed, her entire life laid bare for his silent inspection.

"The first-aid kit is in the bathroom," she mumbled, needing to do something, anything, to break the tension.

She retrieved the plastic box and set it on the coffee table. "There's antiseptic and bandages."

He sat on her sofa, extending his injured hand. He made no move to tend to it himself. The message was clear.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. She knelt on the rug in front of him, her movements stiff. She uncapped the bottle of antiseptic, her fingers fumbling with the cotton ball.

As she carefully cleaned the blood from his knuckles, her fingers brushed against his skin. It was hot, electric. A jolt went through her, and she quickly pulled her hand back.

He was watching her, his gaze intense. She could feel his eyes on her face, her hair, the curve of her neck. The air grew thick, charged with an unspoken energy. The scent of his cologne mingled with the sharp smell of the antiseptic.

After applying a bandage, she scrambled to her feet, desperate to create some distance. "All done," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "Can I... can I get you a glass of water?"

She didn't wait for an answer, practically fleeing to the tiny kitchen alcove. Her hands were shaking so badly she could barely hold the glass steady under the faucet.

She turned, the glass of ice water in her hand, and gasped.

He was standing right behind her. Silent. Imposing.

She jumped, startled, and the glass tilted. The entire contents-ice cubes and cold water-sloshed out, cascading directly down the front of his expensive gray trousers.

A dark, wet patch instantly spread across the fine wool, clinging to his thigh and groin, outlining the hard ridge of his arousal with shocking clarity.

Time stopped.

For three agonizing seconds, Aubree's brain simply ceased to function. Then, a small, horrified squeak escaped her lips.

"Oh my God! I am so, so sorry! I didn't mean to!"

Panic took over. Her only thought was to fix it. She grabbed a handful of paper towels from the holder on the counter. She thrust them toward him, but her hands were trembling so violently that she fumbled, stumbling forward. To catch her balance, she instinctively threw out her free hand, her palm landing flat against his abdomen, just inches from the wet fabric. The paper towels fluttered to the floor.

Her palm, separated by only a thin layer of his shirt, was pressed against the hard muscle of his stomach. A low, guttural sound was torn from his throat. His entire body went rigid.

Aubree realized what she was doing. The heat from his body scorched her palm. A blush so intense it felt like a chemical burn flooded her face, her neck, her entire body.

She tried to snatch her hand back, but his fingers shot out, clamping around her wrist like a manacle.

His grip was iron, his skin burning hot. His gray eyes had darkened to the color of slate, blazing with a raw, undisguised hunger that made the air crackle.

He didn't say a word. He didn't have to. His body's reaction was a confession.

They stood there, frozen in a tableau of excruciating intimacy. Her hand still pressed against him, his hand locking her in place. The small apartment felt like a furnace, the air thick with a dangerous, combustible tension.