Chandler snatched the phone from the nightstand, his thumb swiping across the screen. The shift in his demeanor was instantaneous. The cold disdain he reserved for her was replaced by the clipped, commanding tone of a CEO.

"Speak."

The voice on the other end was low and professional, but Carolyn's ears, now attuned to every threat, picked it up clearly. It was her security detail. "Sir, there's a situation with Ms. Stewart. She's refusing her meals. Her emotional state is... unstable."

Stewart. The name was a venomous dart, piercing the fragile hope that had begun to form in her chest. Eugenia Stewart.

In her past life, a single cough from Eugenia was a siren call he could never ignore. A fabricated headache was a national emergency.

Chandler's jaw tightened. He turned his back to Carolyn, his voice dropping lower, a deep rumble of concern. "I'm on my way."

He ended the call without a goodbye. He strode toward the massive walk-in closet, his movements sharp, efficient, and utterly devoid of any consideration for the woman he was leaving behind. He didn't even glance at her.

A frigid wave washed over Carolyn, so intense it felt like being plunged into an icy lake. She threw back the covers and her bare feet hit the cold marble floor, the shock of it shooting straight up her spine.

She scrambled out of bed and rushed into the closet. He was already shrugging on a crisp, white dress shirt, his fingers working the buttons with practiced speed. He was in a hurry. For Eugenia.

"Don't go." The words came out small and tight. She stood in the doorway, her hands gripping the frame so hard her knuckles turned white.

Chandler's fingers paused for a fraction of a second on a button before resuming their task. He didn't acknowledge her.

She bit her lip, the sharp pain grounding her. The taste of blood filled her mouth. She surged forward, her hands closing over his, stopping his methodical progress.

His skin was warm beneath her cold palms. His gaze dropped to their joined hands, then lifted to her face. His eyes were glacial.

"Let go," he commanded. The words were flat, empty of all emotion. He could have been speaking to a stranger who had bumped into him on the street.

Carolyn held on, her grip desperate. She tilted her head back, forcing herself to meet his impatient glare. "Eugenia is acting. She's not that fragile."

The air in the closet crackled. His eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. In a movement too fast to track, he twisted his hand, his fingers wrapping around her wrist. His grip was like a steel manacle, the pressure making her wince.

"What right do you have to talk about her?" he snarled, backing her up until her shoulders hit the cold, hard wall. He leaned in, his face inches from hers. "Don't forget, every breath you take in this city is a privilege I allow."

Pain shot up her arm, but the ache in her chest was a thousand times worse. He wouldn't believe her. In her past life, she had screamed, cried, and presented evidence of Eugenia's lies, and he had never, ever believed her.

She looked at the beautiful, cruel man in front of her, the man who held her family's fate and her own life in his hands. A wave of desolate resolve washed over her.

Suddenly, all the fight drained out of her. She relaxed her hand, her body going limp against the wall. She slid down a few inches, her strength completely gone.

Her sudden surrender seemed to surprise him. He froze, his hand still locked around her wrist, his body still pinning her to the wall.

Carolyn let her head fall forward, her hair hiding her face. Her voice was a bare whisper, so quiet it was almost carried away by the air. "Do you really think she can keep you chained to her with that little bit of 'gratitude' forever?"

The question hit him like a physical blow. She felt his body jolt. His grip on her wrist tightened for a painful second before he abruptly let go, snatching his hand back as if she had burned him.

He took a staggering step back, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

"You'll never be worth a single strand of her hair."

He spat the words at her, each one a shard of glass. Then he turned and walked out of the closet, out of the bedroom. She heard the front door of the penthouse open, then close with a soft, final click. The sound of the private elevator whirring to life followed.

He was gone. Without a moment's hesitation.

Carolyn sat on the cold floor of his closet, surrounded by his scent, his clothes, his world. She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing the tears back. Crying was useless. She had shed an ocean of tears in her last life, and all it had done was drown her.

She had to be smarter this time. Fighting him head-on only pushed him further into Eugenia's arms. She had to work from the inside. She had to become the one thing he couldn't get rid of.

She pushed herself to her feet, her legs unsteady. Her gaze landed on the vanity in the bedroom. Specifically, on the single locked drawer. The drawer she had refused to open, the contents of which she had thrown in his face the day he brought her here.

The drawer that held the contract that bound her to him.

Hours later, the penthouse was still silent. Carolyn sat on the white leather sofa in the living room, a thick stack of papers spread across the glass coffee table in front of her. The cohabitation agreement.

Her fingers, still trembling slightly, traced the cold, typed words. Clause 7: The party of the second part (Carolyn Lindsey) shall not interfere with the social engagements of the party of the first part (Chandler Finch). Clause 12: The party of the second part must be available upon request, at all times.

It was a contract for a possession, not a person. But it was better than the damp basement she'd been locked in before. It was a start.

The soft chime of the elevator announced his return. Carolyn's heart gave a nervous flutter. She looked up as Chandler strode into the living room. He carried the faint, cloying scent of a hospital-disinfectant mixed with Eugenia's signature gardenia perfume.

His steps faltered when he saw her. He had clearly expected to come home to a scene of destruction. Instead, he found her sitting quietly, bathed in the soft light of a lamp, reading the very document that defined her captivity.

Carolyn raised her head. Her eyes were calm, devoid of the fire he was used to. She didn't ask where he'd been. She didn't scream about Eugenia. She simply stood up.

"I'll sign it."

She picked up the heavy fountain pen from the table. On the final page, below his arrogant, slashing signature, she wrote her own. The strokes were neat, deliberate, and final.

He crossed the room in three long strides and plucked the pen from her fingers. His eyes scanned her face, searching, probing. "So compliant all of a sudden? What's your new angle, Carolyn?"

She let out a small, bitter laugh, dropping her gaze to the floor. "What's the point of having an angle anymore? You wanted a dog on a leash. Fine. I'll be your dog."

The words hung in the air between them. A muscle in his jaw twitched. He hated that. He hated her defeated compliance more than her fiery resistance. It made him feel exactly like the monster she was accusing him of being.

"You'd better mean that," he sneered, turning away from her. He walked toward the open-plan kitchen to get a glass of water, his shoulders tense.

Carolyn's pulse quickened. Her heart leaped into her throat. Earlier that afternoon, she had glimpsed Temperance, Eugenia's ever-watchful personal maid, slipping through the hallway with a small paper bag. The woman was quiet, obedient, and served her mistress's whims without question. Temperance should have planted it by now. Would he see it? Her gaze couldn't help but dart toward the kitchen trash can.

Chandler stopped dead by the stainless-steel trash can. His entire body went rigid. His gaze was fixed on something inside it.

It was a small, torn cardboard box from a pack of birth control pills. A few of the tiny white tablets had spilled out, stark against the dark trash.

The temperature in the room plummeted.

He turned his head slowly, his eyes locking onto hers. They were no longer cold; they were burning with a terrifying, possessive rage.

"What," he began, his voice a low, guttural growl, "is this?"

Carolyn feigned a look of panic. It wasn't hard. The memory of his rage was real enough. This was Eugenia's work, she knew. Her maid, Temperance, must have planted it, a perfect little trap.

"I... that was from before..." she stammered, playing the part of a woman caught in a lie. Her fumbled excuse was all the confirmation he needed.

He stalked toward her, closing the distance in an instant. His hand shot out and clamped around her jaw, forcing her head back. "Whose baby are you trying to have? Vince Kowalski's?"

The name Vince, his business rival and her supposed lover, was the match to the gasoline. The jealousy in his eyes was a raw, wild thing. It was terrifying. It was magnificent.

Tears, real and hot, welled in her eyes. She shook her head frantically. "No! I'm not trying to have anyone's baby!"

"Then you're trying to use a pregnancy to get away from me?" His fingers tightened, his expression murderous. "Dream on."

He released her so abruptly she stumbled. He spun around and kicked a nearby dining chair, sending it crashing against the wall. The sound exploded in the silent apartment.

Carolyn flinched, but her eyes remained fixed on him. This was her chance. She had to use his fury.

He stormed to the trash can and, without a shred of hesitation, plunged his hand inside. He came out with a fistful of the small white pills.

He squeezed his hand shut, his knuckles white. The pills turned to dust, a fine white powder sifting through his fingers and onto the pristine floor.

"As long as you are mine, you will not have anyone's child," he bit out, his voice thick with a chilling possessiveness. "Unless it's mine."

Carolyn watched the powder settle. A cold, triumphant smile touched her heart, but not her lips. Checkmate, Eugenia.

She moved toward him, her steps silent. She came up behind his stiff, furious form and wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek between his shoulder blades.

He flinched as if electrocuted, his whole body tensing to throw her off. But she held on tight.

"Then you've destroyed the pills," she whispered, her voice a soft, seductive murmur against his back. "So I won't take them anymore. Okay?"

The next morning, the doorbell chimed, a shrill, unwelcome sound.

Carolyn opened the door to find Brett Richardson standing there, his face a mask of smug hostility. He was Chandler's executive assistant and Eugenia's most loyal attack dog.

He pushed past her without an invitation, his expensive shoes silent on the marble floor. He carried a leather briefcase and an air of ownership.

"Where's Chandler?" he demanded, his eyes sweeping the apartment as if searching for signs of a struggle. "Or did you manage to drive him away again?"

Carolyn closed the door, a newfound calm settling over her. The fearful, trembling girl from yesterday was gone. She leaned against the door, crossing her arms over her chest. "He's at the office. If you have a message, you can give it to me."

Brett let out a short, derisive laugh. He tossed his briefcase onto the coffee table. "Eugenia collapsed last night. The doctor said it was due to extreme emotional distress."

He advanced on her, using his height to loom over her, casting her in his shadow. "What did you say to Chandler yesterday? He was cold to her. He barely stayed an hour."

Carolyn had to hide a smile. Eugenia's theatrics were as predictable as the sunrise.

She didn't back down. She met his glare head-on. "I just asked him to spend more time with me. Is that a crime?"

Her defiant tone seemed to enrage him. He slammed a hand against the wall next to her head, trapping her. His face was inches from hers, his breath smelling of stale coffee and self-importance. "A woman like you doesn't deserve to be in the same room as him."

He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial, venomous hiss. "Eugenia is the future Mrs. Finch. You are just a toy he's using to pay off your family's debt."

A wave of nausea rolled through her, but she fought it down. Now was not the time for weakness.

A slow, mysterious smile spread across her face. The unexpected expression made Brett pause.

"A toy?" she repeated softly. Her gaze traveled over his angry face before she leaned in, closing the distance until her lips were right next to his ear.

Her whisper was for him alone, but it carried the weight of a bombshell. "Then why did he crush my birth control pills last night and demand that I only have his child?"

Brett's eyes widened in shock. The color drained from his face. The anger was replaced by pure, unadulterated disbelief.

Carolyn pressed her advantage, her voice still a silken whisper. "Tell me, Brett, if I'm carrying the Finch heir, how secure is Eugenia's position as the 'future Mrs. Finch'?"

He recoiled as if she'd struck him, stumbling back a step. His face was a ghastly shade of pale. "You... you're lying! Chandler would never let you have his child!"

Carolyn placed a gentle, protective hand over her own flat stomach, her expression softening into a look of maternal bliss. It was a complete fabrication, but it was beautiful. "Is that so? Why don't you go ask him? See if he's willing to make me get rid of it."

Brett's breathing grew ragged. He was panicking. This was Eugenia's greatest fear. A child would solidify Carolyn's position in a way nothing else could.

He pointed a trembling finger at her. "You vicious bitch. You're trying to kill Eugenia!"

Carolyn's smile vanished, her expression turning to ice. "She started this. Tell her to stop playing her pathetic little games. Otherwise, next time, I'll have Chandler deliver the news to her personally."

Brett's jaw worked, his teeth grinding together. For a moment, she saw murder in his eyes, but he reined it in. He knew better than to touch her. It would only prove her point.

He snatched his briefcase from the table. "We'll see about this," he snarled.

He stormed to the door, wrenched it open, and slammed it shut behind him.

The moment he was gone, Carolyn's strength gave out. She slid down the wall, her body trembling. Her palms were slick with cold sweat. It had been a terrifying gamble.

But it was necessary. To make Eugenia panic. A panicked opponent makes mistakes.

She pushed herself up and walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking down at the endless river of traffic flowing through New York City. Her reflection in the glass was pale but resolute.

Suddenly, a brilliant fork of lightning split the sky. A deafening clap of thunder followed almost immediately, rattling the windows. The sky opened up, and a torrential downpour began.

And then, the lights in the penthouse flickered and died. The entire city plunged into darkness.

The power was out.