The woman was one step away from the second-floor landing. Cora accelerated. Her stilettos sank into the plush carpet, silencing her approach. Just as the woman lifted her foot for the final step, Cora twisted her ankle inward and threw her weight forward.

She slammed into the woman's back.

A sharp gasp echoed in the stairwell. The woman stumbled forward, her arms flailing. The silver tray tipped dangerously, the two glasses of whiskey sliding toward the edge.

Cora's hands shot out. She grabbed the edges of the tray, stabilizing it a split second before the glasses shattered on the floor.

The woman caught the railing and spun around, her face twisted in fury. "Watch where you're going, you stupid-"

The insult died in her throat. Cora stepped into her personal space, her eyes cold and dead.

"I saw the powder," Cora whispered, her voice barely a breath against the woman's ear. "White. Fast-dissolving. You dropped it in the glass on the right."

The woman's face turned the color of chalk. Her eyes darted frantically around the stairwell. She opened her mouth to deny it, but Cora's index finger was already resting on the rim of the spiked glass.

"You have two choices," Cora said, her tone conversational. "You let go of this tray and walk out the front door right now. Or I scream for security, and I let the Bauer legal team bury you in a federal prison for the next twenty years."

The woman swallowed hard. Terror radiated from her in waves. Her hands shook violently as she released the tray. She didn't say a word. She turned and practically ran down the stairs, disappearing into the crowded club.

Cora stood alone in the shadows of the stairwell. She took a deep breath, letting the stale air fill her lungs. She adjusted the straps of her red dress, pasted a flawless, seductive smile onto her lips, and stepped out onto the second-floor landing.

She walked straight toward the semi-private booth.

Gus Bullock was the first to notice her. He was playing with a silver lighter, flipping the lid open and shut. When he saw the red silk and the long dark hair, he stopped. A slow, appreciative smirk spread across his face. He let out a low whistle.

Jace didn't move. He slowly lifted his gaze. His eyes were the color of a stormy ocean, dark and freezing. They locked onto Cora, stripping her down, analyzing her as if she were a hostile asset. The sheer weight of his stare made Cora's lungs seize.

She forced her legs to keep moving. She reached the table and gracefully set the tray down. She picked up the untainted glass of whiskey and slid it across the mahogany table toward Gus.

Gus leaned forward, his eyes dropping to her cleavage. "Well, hello. Did they upgrade the bottle service, or are you a special delivery?"

Cora ignored him completely. She didn't even blink in his direction.

She turned her head and met Jace's eyes.

He was watching her. Waiting. He knew she wanted something.

Cora didn't speak. She picked up the second glass-the one with the powder. She held Jace's gaze, her eyes burning with a silent, reckless challenge.

Then, she tipped her head back and drank it.

She downed the spiked whiskey in three long gulps. The liquid burned a fiery trail down her throat. A single drop escaped the corner of her mouth, tracing a line down her neck and disappearing into the deep V of her red dress.

Jace's jaw tightened. The hand resting on the table twitched, his fingers curling slightly inward. His eyes darkened, the cold indifference fracturing for a fraction of a second.

Cora slammed the empty glass back onto the tray. The sharp clack echoed over the jazz music. She gave Jace a slow, heavy-lidded smile-a promise and a threat all rolled into one.

The drug hit her bloodstream faster than she anticipated. A sudden, violent wave of heat bloomed in her stomach. The edges of her vision blurred. Her knees went weak.

She turned away before she collapsed. She forced herself to walk away from the table, her hips swaying, heading toward the private VIP suites at the back of the floor. Every step was a battle. Her blood felt like it was boiling.

Gus let out a bark of laughter. "Bold strategy. She's practically throwing herself at you, man. Easiest lay of the century."

Jace tossed his unlit cigar onto the table. "Stupidity," he muttered. But he noticed the slight tremor in her hand as she slammed the glass down. It wasn't the confidence of a seductress. It was a gamble. He decided to see the flop. Slowly, deliberately, he stood up.

Gus's jaw dropped as he watched his notoriously ruthless, untouchable friend button his suit jacket and follow the woman in the red dress down the hall.

Cora reached the heavy wooden door of the last suite. She pushed it open and stumbled inside. The room was pitch black and silent. She leaned against the back of the door, her chest heaving as she gasped for air. Her skin was on fire. The drug was tearing through her nervous system.

Footsteps echoed in the hall. Heavy. Deliberate.

The door was shoved open, pushing Cora forward. Jace stepped into the room. His massive frame blocked the light from the hallway. He reached behind him and locked the door with a loud, definitive click.

He looked down at her, his expression a mask of pure disgust. "You're pathetic," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Drugging yourself just to get into my bed? Is your life worth that little?"

Cora couldn't defend herself. She didn't want to. She sank to her knees, her legs finally giving out. She reached up with trembling hands and grabbed the perfectly creased fabric of his suit pants.

Jace flinched. He moved to kick her away, a reflex born of paranoia and disgust. But as his leg brushed against her bare arm, he froze.

She was burning up. Her skin was radiating an unnatural, terrifying heat.

Cora tilted her head back. Her eyes were glazed over, filled with a desperate, feverish haze. She looked up at the man who could destroy her, the man she was trying to destroy.

"Even pathetic women can carry kings," she choked out, her voice a broken rasp, her eyes burning with a defiant challenge that pierced straight through his armor.

Jace stared down at her. The disgust in his eyes warred with something darker, something violent and possessive that flared at her audacity. He didn't just see a broken woman; he saw a wild thing daring to claim a piece of his throne. He cursed under his breath. He bent down, wrapped his arms around her waist, and hoisted her off the floor, carrying her toward the massive bed in the center of the room.

The morning sun pierced through the gap in the heavy blackout curtains, stabbing Cora directly in the eyes. She gasped, her eyes flying open. She was lying in the center of a massive, tangled bed. Every muscle in her body screamed in protest. Her thighs ached. Her skin felt bruised.

She turned her head against the silk pillowcase.

Jace Bauer was asleep beside her. Even in unconsciousness, he looked dangerous. His brow was slightly furrowed, his jaw set. The sheets were pooled around his waist, exposing a chest covered in faint, pale scars.

Cora didn't linger. She didn't feel a spark of romance. She felt a cold, terrifying clarity.

She slid out from under the covers, her bare feet hitting the plush carpet. She gathered her torn red dress from the floor, pulled it over her head, and found her stilettos. She didn't leave a note. She didn't leave a phone number. She walked out of the suite, slipped out the back door of SoHo House, and vanished into the freezing morning air.

One month later.

Cora gripped the edges of the porcelain sink in her cramped Brooklyn apartment. She heaved, her stomach violently expelling nothing but bile and water. She spat into the drain, her hands shaking so hard they rattled against the ceramic.

A knock sounded on the bathroom door.

"Cora? You okay?" Mel called out, her voice laced with worry. "Is it that stomach bug from set again?"

Cora turned on the cold water. She splashed it over her pale face, shocked by the dark circles under her eyes. She stared at her reflection. A terrifying, impossible thought clawed its way into her brain.

"I'm fine," Cora managed to say, her voice raspy. "Just ate something bad."

She grabbed a towel, dried her face, and unlocked the door. She pushed past Mel, grabbed her oversized coat, and pulled a baseball cap low over her eyes.

"I need to go to the pharmacy."

She practically ran down the three flights of stairs. She marched into the CVS on the corner, keeping her head down. She bypassed the cold medicine and went straight to the family planning aisle. Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She grabbed three different boxes of pregnancy tests, threw them on the counter, and paid in cash.

Back in her apartment, she locked the bathroom door again.

She ripped open the boxes. Her fingers were clumsy, tearing the cardboard. She followed the instructions, lining the three plastic sticks up on the edge of the sink.

Five minutes.

She sat on the edge of the bathtub, staring at the peeling paint on the wall. She counted her breaths. In. Out. Her chest felt tight enough to snap.

When the timer on her phone went off, it sounded like a fire alarm in the small room.

Cora stood up. She forced herself to look down at the sink.

One stick. Two pink lines.

Second stick. A solid blue plus sign.

Third stick. The word Pregnant glowing on the digital screen.

The air left her lungs in a rush. Her knees buckled, and she gripped the sink to stay upright. A wave of pure, unadulterated shock washed over her, instantly followed by a dark, twisted surge of triumph.

She was pregnant. With Jace Bauer's child.

She reached out and grabbed the plastic sticks. Her fingernails dug into the plastic. This wasn't just a child. This was a weapon. This was the ultimate leverage.

She wrapped the tests carefully in a paper towel, placed them in a plastic bag, and hid them in the very back of her bottom drawer, buried under old sweaters.

When she walked out into the living room, Mel was flipping through a magazine on the couch.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," Mel said, tossing the magazine aside.

Cora walked to the kitchenette and poured a glass of water. She took a sip. Her hand was completely steady now.

"I didn't see a ghost," Cora said, her voice eerily calm. "I found the ultimate bargaining chip."

Mel frowned. "What are you talking about? Did you get that supporting role?"

Cora's lips curved into a cold, sharp smile. "Better. A million times better."

She didn't elaborate. She pulled out her phone and dialed the billing department at Mount Sinai Hospital.

"This is Cora Nolan. I'm calling about Julian Nolan's account."

The woman on the other end sighed. "Ms. Nolan. The funds Mr. Malone wired last month on your behalf have been depleted. The experimental drugs are expensive. If we don't receive another installment by Friday, we will have to suspend treatment."

"Understood," Cora said, her voice flat. She hung up.

She had three days.

She opened her laptop and typed Jace Bauer's name into the search engine. She bypassed the articles about his ruthless corporate takeovers and clicked on the society pages.

BAUER EMPIRE TO SPONSOR MET GALA CHARITY DINNER TOMORROW NIGHT.

A photo of Jace in a tuxedo filled the screen.

Cora reached out and traced the line of his jaw on the monitor. "Game on," she whispered.

She picked up her phone and called a wardrobe assistant she knew from a low-budget indie film. She needed a dress. Something elegant. Something that looked like it belonged at the Met, even if she had to rent it, costing the last two thousand dollars on her credit card, a debt she had no idea how she'd repay.

That night, Cora sat at her small desk. The single desk lamp cast long shadows across the room. She stared at the drawer where the tests were hidden. She knew the moment she revealed this secret, she would be stepping into a war zone. Jace Bauer would try to destroy her. Axel would try to kill her.

But she thought of Julian, lying in that hospital bed, his skin cold as ice.

She closed her eyes and locked away every ounce of fear, every shred of hesitation.

The November wind howling off Central Park was vicious. It cut through the thin, rented fabric of Cora's emerald green evening gown like a serrated knife. She stood behind the velvet ropes outside the Metropolitan Museum of Art, her teeth chattering so hard her jaw ached.

Camera flashes exploded like lightning on the red carpet. Hollywood A-listers and Wall Street titans glided past the barricades, shielded by umbrellas and walls of security guards. No one looked twice at the shivering woman in the shadows.

A black, armored Maybach glided to a halt at the VIP drop-off zone. The license plate was a single, terrifying word: BAUER.

The crowd surged forward. Security pushed them back. The rear door of the Maybach opened.

Jace Bauer stepped out. He wore a midnight-blue tuxedo that fit his broad shoulders perfectly. His face was a mask of bored arrogance. Gus Bullock slid out from the opposite side, adjusting his bowtie and laughing at something Jace hadn't said.

Cora's heart slammed against her ribs. She gripped her small clutch purse and pushed against the crowd, trying to force her way to the front of the barricade.

"Hey! Watch it, bitch!" A blonde socialite shrieked as Cora's heel caught the edge of her tulle skirt.

The sharp curse cut through the ambient noise. Gus, who was just about to step onto the red carpet, paused. He turned his head, his eyes scanning the crowd behind the velvet rope.

His gaze locked onto Cora.

Gus's smirk vanished. He leaned toward Jace and muttered something, nodding his head toward the barricade.

Jace stopped. He turned slowly. His eyes, cold and dead as winter ice, met Cora's across the sea of photographers.

Cora stopped breathing. She took a step forward, her eyes silently begging him to stop, to let her speak.

Jace looked at her for exactly one second. His expression didn't change. There was no recognition, no curiosity. Only pure, unadulterated contempt. He looked away, turning his back on her, and continued walking up the grand staircase.

"She's Axel Malone's ex-girlfriend," Gus whispered as they walked, his voice low. "My guy checked her out after that stunt at SoHo House. She's an actress on Axel's payroll. It was a setup, Jace. She's a spy."

Jace let out a dark, humorless laugh. "Axel is getting desperate. Sending a cheap whore to do a corporate spy's job."

The heavy glass doors of the Met closed behind them, shutting out the cold and the noise.

Outside, Cora watched the doors close. A wave of nausea hit her, followed by a crushing sense of defeat. Her legs trembled, threatening to give out. She backed away from the crowd, retreating into the dark shadow of a stone pillar. She wrapped her arms around her stomach, trying to preserve whatever body heat she had left.

Click. Click. Click.

A paparazzi stringer, lurking near the bushes, had his lens pointed right at her face. He was grinning, clearly recognizing her from her minor TV roles, ready to sell a photo of her looking like a frozen, rejected groupie.

Cora's head snapped up. The defeat vanished, replaced by a surge of violent anger. She marched up to the photographer, her heels clicking aggressively on the pavement.

"You can publish a photo of me looking pathetic," she ordered, her voice like cracking ice. "Or, you can delete it, and I'll give you an exclusive tip about the real scandal happening inside tonight. Your choice."

The promise of a bigger scoop wiped the smirk off the man's face. He hesitated, weighing the value of a frozen nobody against a billionaire's scandal, then aggressively hit the delete button on his camera, muttering curses under his breath.

Cora turned away. She checked her phone. The gala would last at least three hours. She couldn't wait here.

She knew where Jace went after these events. Gus had mentioned it loudly enough at SoHo House. A private, ultra-exclusive cigar club three blocks away.

Cora started walking. The wind whipped her hair across her face. Her toes were numb. By the time she reached the dark, narrow alley behind the cigar club, she couldn't feel her fingers.

She leaned against the rough brick wall near the unmarked steel door. The alley smelled of garbage and damp earth. She closed her eyes, fighting the urge to sit down. If she sat down, she would freeze to death. She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper, using the pain to stay awake.

Three hours passed. It felt like three lifetimes.

Finally, the low, powerful purr of an engine broke the silence. The black Maybach turned into the alley, its headlights cutting through the darkness.

Cora opened her eyes. She pushed herself off the brick wall. Her joints screamed in agony.

She didn't wave. She didn't shout. She simply stepped out of the shadows and planted herself directly in the center of the alley, right in the path of the two-ton armored vehicle.

She stared blindly into the blinding headlights, waiting for the impact.